Chaos in Kabul Read Online Free PDF Page B

Taliban’s headquarters. The Ariana was the CIA’s Maginot Line. With Agency numbers melting away and its case officers ordered to keep a low profile, not much was going on here.
    The SUV was now moving at walking pace around Zarnegar Park through a flood of vehicles that included a few yellow taxis. There were no stoplights, just policemen in tattered gray uniforms waving little red disks to direct traffic.
    A dense crowd, nearly all men, flowed along the sidewalks, with the occasional handcart adding to the chaos.
    Despite the apparent calm, Doolittle watched the crowds of people as if they were wild animals. A little girl in rags with enormous eyes approached and extended a dirty little hand, her pleading face pressed against the bulletproof glass.
    Piteous.
    Doolittle gave her an angry glance.
    “You’ve got to be careful, sir,” he said. “A kid will ask you to lower your window to give them money, then toss in a grenade.”
    No risk of that happening with the Land Cruiser. Its windows were two and a half inches thick, and too heavy to be rolled down.
    When Malko spotted the Kabul Serena Hotel, he noticed somethingnew: a high wall had been erected between the hotel and the one-way street in front.
    The Land Cruiser drove up onto the sidewalk, first passing a barrier of black-and-white metal tubes, and continued along the hotel wall. Three more checkpoints followed: the first to make sure the vehicle was authorized to enter the Serena, the second to run a mirror under the chassis. The third checkpoint, for passengers, was behind a pair of heavy sliding gates.
    Driving military vehicles and wearing police uniforms, the Taliban had attacked the Serena in 2008 and killed half a dozen people. An investigation later showed that the head of the commandos, who died in the attack, had regularly enjoyed the hotel spa while scouting the area.
    Passing the last gate, the Land Cruiser pulled up under the awning at the entrance to the hotel. A staffer in a turban greeted them with a broad smile.
    “I’ll wait here, sir,” said Doolittle. “The COS wants to welcome you.”
    Malko had met Chief of Station Warren Michaelis three years earlier. He was a tall, lanky American who must now be near the end of his tour.
    “Okay. I’ll check in and come back out.”
    The hushed Serena lobby didn’t exactly feel like party central. A few guests lounged on red benches around the central fountain. Malko checked in and went up to his room, number 382. He dropped off his things and went downstairs.
    Getting out of the Serena was easier—just one checkpoint—and the Land Cruiser was soon back in the infernal traffic, made worse by the absence of stoplights. Power blackouts had become so common, the lights were simply switched off.
    Eventually, they reached the avenue with the embassies of France and the United Arab Emirates. It was bordered by stonewalls twenty feet high. Doolittle pointed down the street to a building topped by a kind of watchtower with a corrugated iron roof.
    “We’re almost home!” he said.
    To reach the Ariana, they first navigated chicanes of concrete blocks that narrowed traffic to a trickle. These were followed by sandbag emplacements manned by Nepalese soldiers in black uniforms, weapons at the ready. The men were protected in turn by a guard tower with two heavy machine guns.
    The walls around the compound were plastered with signs in English and Dari forbidding taking photographs, slowing down, and getting out of a car unless ordered to do so by the guards. Violators, they warned, would be shot on sight.
    Doolittle zigzagged through the chicanes. The traffic barrier protecting the entrance to the Ariana was lowered, admitting the SUV to the hotel courtyard.
    At the entrance, they again had to show their papers, and Doolittle phoned the CIA station chief from the guard post. He turned to Malko and said, “Mr. Michaelis is expecting you, sir. I’ll accompany you because you don’t have a badge.”
    The