12.

THE NEXT MORNING, OSAMA ASKED TO BE TAKEN to Shafakhana Emergency Hospital on his way to the office. There was a massive crowd in the main lobby, even though it was seven thirty in the morning. A bus full of passengers had toppled into a ravine on the outskirts of Kabul; there were dozens dead and more than fifty wounded. A row had erupted between families of the wounded and the medical staff — a male nurse had been beaten with a stick before two security guards dispersed the families with the aid of their truncheons.

Osama noticed a woman lying on a stretcher in a pool of blood. A man, apparently her husband, stood next to her shouting loudly.

‘What’s going on?’ Osama asked a man he’d recognised, a lecturer from the university of Kabul.

‘This woman is losing a lot of blood. She was in the bus. She’s dying, but her husband won’t let the male nurses anywhere near her. Two female nurses were found from a different part of the hospital, but another family stopped them coming in here on account of not being adequately veiled … they went to put on burqas, apparently, but haven’t been seen since. No one knows what’s going to happen.’

Osama looked at the growing pool of blood under the stretcher. He continued on his way. A woman rushed after him.

‘Dokter, Dokter, is my son going to survive?’

He stopped. The woman was wearing a heavy burqa; he could barely hear her voice through the fabric, and couldn’t make out her eyes at all. Three terrified young children were hanging on to her — a rural Pashtun woman who didn’t know the Dari word for doctor.

‘I don’t know. Sorry, bakhena ghuarum, I’m not a doctor.’

He continued walking. This time she didn’t try to follow him. The basement was calmer, despite the wounded laid out on stretchers outside the operating room. Osama made his way to Katoun’s office. It was empty. He waved down a passing nurse and showed him his card.

‘Find me Dr Katoun.’

‘He’s with the director.’

‘I need to see him anyway.’

The nurse obeyed. Osama felt a little ashamed for insisting, in the current circumstances. Katoun appeared a moment later in his surgeon’s gear, with blood on his apron. He took off his mask.

‘Hurry up, Osama. I was in an emergency meeting. We’ve got to look after the wounded from the bus.’

‘Sorry. Did you do the powder test on Wadi’s body?’

‘Yes. It’s negative.’

‘There’s no possible mistake?’

‘No. My report is somewhere on my desk. Take it — it’s for you.’

Osama took his friend’s hand.

‘Tashakor.’

He soon found the report, amid an indescribable mess of documents. It was exactly what he’d hoped for. As he left, he noticed that the stretcher on which the injured woman had been lying a few minutes earlier was now covered with a sheet.

‘What happened?’ he asked a witness, aghast.

‘She lost all her blood; no one could agree on who was allowed to carry her …’

The husband was crying hot tears. Two stretcher-bearers appeared, picked up the body, and took it away.

‘You let men come near her now, then?’ Osama couldn’t help asking, horrified at the man’s attitude.

‘Now she’s dead, it doesn’t matter if a man comes near her,’ he replied between two sobs.

Osama didn’t know what to say to this madness. He left the hospital, wondering what Malalai would have done.

NICK RAN ALONGSIDe the lake, lost in thought, alone. It felt like the world was collapsing around him. His world, in any case.

First, Werner.

Then the discovery of the emails between Joseph and the general. He’d done some research on the Wali Wadi character they mentioned — a few discreet searches through various databases, using Margaret’s log-in. She was still unaware of the cover she was providing. He hadn’t found much, apart from evidence that the fugitive and the middleman had met regularly, almost once a month, in Europe or Pakistan. They worked together, that was for sure, and had done so for at least five years. But what was their business? He still had no idea.

He flopped onto a bench. It was very cold, but he was steaming after a 20k run. Usually, the stunning scenery calmed him down, but not today. When he got home, he’d searched the Internet for information about the suicide bomb that Joseph had referred to: thirty dead, eighty wounded — many of them seriously. These were innocent people crippled and blinded for nothing. Because of the Entity. Because of his colleagues.

He stared furiously at the landscape. He could understand and even accept that it was sometimes necessary to take violent action against elusive enemies. But exploding a bomb in a café full of civilians? No. His choices were limited now — either fight or flight. Fighting meant finding out the truth. Understanding the relationship between Wali Wadi and the fugitive. Determining the contents of the Mandrake report. And finding the fugitive.

He promised himself he would go all the way, whatever the cost.

OSAMA WAS BACK at police headquarters with Katoun’s report in his pocket. The technical aspect of his investigation was complete; he had all the proof he needed. There was only one thing left unresolved, and it was a big one: why had the Westerners assassinated Wali Wadi? He wrote a brief report, setting out the results of the new powder analysis, along with the bundle of supporting evidence that allowed him to conclude it had been murder disguised as suicide. His principal suspect was a German citizen, Michaël Dortmund, whose fingerprints had been found at the site of the incident. After a moment’s hesitation, he added a paragraph in which he suggested that Michaël Dortmund had also been responsible for the Hamad Café attack, whose main target had been his deputy, a Kabul Murder Squad inspector, and whose only credible motive was to slow down the investigation into Wali Wadi’s death. He was therefore requesting a warrant for the arrest of Michaël Dortmund on charges of murder and plotting a terrorist attack, and also access to the state resources necessary for his capture. Before signing the report, he showed it to Reza. His friend read it quickly, groaning every now and then.

‘You’re not pulling any punches, Osama!’

‘What do you think of the report?’

‘There’s no getting away from the facts.’ He shot his friend an admiring glance. ‘You’ve worked hard, you old bugger. And I happen to share your conclusions regarding the Hamad Café.’

‘Are you prepared to put that in writing?’

‘Hmm. Do you really want me to lose my job?’

‘I’m not joking. Tell me.’

Reza leaned back in his chair.

‘The security minister is powerful. I’m Pashtun, I know, but from a very small clan. What’s more, Durrani has Karzaï’s trust. Your story implicates a Westerner, which will be very awkward for the Coalition. Don’t forget that the Germans assure the security of the airport: hundreds of soldiers, super-modern tanks, electronic countermeasures … The last thing Karzaï wants is to fall out with a big European country like Germany. Since the last “elections”, he has no credibility and no constituency. The Coalition is the only thing keeping him in power — the day they no longer like him, he’ll be out of there, simple as that. If you think that Karzaï is going to support you against Westerners, my dear Osama, you’re more naïve than I thought.’

‘I don’t yet know who is implicated in this business, and who isn’t. If we followed your argument to its logical conclusion, Westerners would be untouchable.’

‘And isn’t that the case?’

‘Dortmund isn’t a state employee — he’s independent. Nothing proves that he was in contact with officials or working to anyone’s orders when he committed the murder.’

‘And my mother’s name is Mullah Omar? Don’t treat me like an idiot, Osama. Your case stinks like a dead dog. You’re being followed and listened to by powerful people. They have access to communications satellites and teams of Russian and Dari translators. They are capable of hiring ex-mujahedeen and destroying a heaving café just to wipe you out. They can obtain C5, and equipment from the former Red Army. Don’t you see what all this means? Dortmund is just a puppet. There’s clearly a large organisation behind all this.’

‘For the moment, only one foreign individual is implicated. I’m just at the start of my investigation,’ said Osama.

‘You’re fighting people more powerful than you. Germans. Swiss. Since when do Swiss individuals intervene in war? It’s a neutral country. These guys work for someone else; it’s obvious. Someone influential. Haven’t you wondered whether it’s the Americans?’

‘No — for the moment I only have something on Dortmund.’

‘Think a little.’

‘I don’t know why Wali Wadi was killed, or why certain people are so determined to stop this investigation. I don’t know what Wali Wadi’s safes contained, either, although I suspect that is the key to everything. I have to find out what was in that safe.’

‘Well, I suspect that this attack on you wasn’t the last, and that you’re going to get yourself killed sooner than you think.’

‘The justice minister will help me finish the investigation. He will protect me.’

‘It wasn’t him who appointed us, plus he’s a Tajik. Look how Karzaï fired Amrullah Saleh. Like a dog. I’m sorry to say so but, in this country, Pashtuns are the only ones who count.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Reza, but I’m going to pursue this, whatever the cost. As for you, you’re only on the fringes of the investigation. And anyway, you can assure your own safety with a protector even more powerful than the justice minister.’

‘Oh yeah? And who is this mysterious treasure? I hope you don’t mean Abdullah Abdullah — he’s nothing since he lost the election.’

‘I’m thinking of the minister of commerce. He’s a Ghilzai,’ said Osama quietly. ‘I know you saved his life last year by warning him of a bomb with his name on it. Without you, he’d be dead. He’s indebted to you.’

‘How do you know that?’ grumbled Reza.

The Ghilzai Pashtun tribe were as powerful as the Durrani, and the minister of commerce was the rising star of the Karzaï government. He wasn’t corrupt. The money that he, like everyone, skimmed off, went to supporting his village, clan, and henchmen. His own lifestyle was simple. Seeing his friend still hesitating, Osama added: ‘Haven’t you wondered what I thought about the fact that your own technical department released a truthful report on how the bomb was detonated?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Come on, tell me.’

‘The security minister’s game is sometimes excessive,’ admitted Reza. ‘There were too many deaths in that attack. My men pretended to hush it up by modifying the autopsy report, but they knew exactly what they were doing when they allowed the technical report to go out uncensored.’

‘”They” doesn’t mean a thing. You’re the boss. You did it on purpose, to help me. Didn’t you?’

‘Hmm. I’m just doing my job. Our friendship has nothing to do with it.’

Osama put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

‘You did the right thing, and I’m grateful. Enough of this cynical-cop persona.’

‘I’m not a good man in this case, Osama. Do I need to remind you that I made sure not to touch a line of the phoney autopsy report on Abdul Hakat, for example?’

‘I don’t give a damn about the autopsy report. All you need to do is specify in your own report that the shahid was wearing a single pair of underpants, and that he hadn’t shaved or washed. Everyone will understand.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Does that mean you’re going to put something in writing for me?’

‘OK, OK,’ sighed his friend. ‘I’ll write what I think: that the shahid wasn’t a shahid. He was just a poor guy manipulated to unwittingly blow himself up. But I’m not mentioning Dortmund.’

‘No need, that’ll be plenty,’ said Osama, delighted.

Reza sat in front of his computer. It didn’t take long. He printed his report, stamped it, signed it, and called an orderly to make several copies.

‘What are you doing now?’ he asked Osama.

‘I’m going to pay a visit to the justice minister. If he’ll help us, they won’t be able to bury the investigation.’

‘And Dortmund?’

‘He must have left the country. I’m going to ask for an international arrest warrant to be issued. I’ll go and see the head of European police cooperation myself.’

‘Hmm.’

Reza seemed suddenly ill at ease. Osama wondered if it was fear of indirectly defying the security minister. He returned to his office with this question unanswered, but satisfied with the meeting. He called the justice minister’s secretary and obtained an appointment for late afternoon. Around 6.00pm he put on a clean shirt — he always kept a few at the office — and a jacket, and left discreetly.

THE MINISTRY OF JUSTICE was one of the few impressive buildings in Kabul. It had been built out of freestone about fifty years before, and then was more or less abandoned by the Taliban, who had their own, more summary notion of justice: stoning for adultery, hand amputation for theft, and additional forms of maiming or simply execution for other crimes and misdemeanours. The sentences were decided by imams, and applied by anti-vice and virtue-protection squads. The new government had struggled to re-establish a justice system worthy of the name, with judges, clerks, police officers, and everything else that makes up a state judiciary. The Americans and Italians had funded a renovation of the ministry, thus giving the legal authorities a place to carry out their work.

Osama left his bodyguards outside and climbed the stairs alone. The central staircase was impressive. There was still a massive red star engraved in the ceiling, along with a stylised hammer and sickle. The designs had been shot at with Kalashnikovs, but the damage was minimal. Osama was shown straight into the minister’s office, without even seeing the waiting room. The minister stood up to greet him and took Osama’s hand in both of his.

‘I’m so glad you escaped that attack, Qomaandaan.’

The justice minister was small and trim with twinkly eyes. His light hair was starting to go white, and he wore a short beard. He was one of the new government’s token Tajiks, and was often put forward as a symbol of the country’s newfound unity. Osama quickly explained the case, before giving the minister both his report and the one written by the intelligence department. The minister pressed an intercom button.

‘I am not under any circumstances to be disturbed for the next forty-five minutes.’

He put on a pair of small, round glasses and started reading the two documents. Every now and then he jotted a note in his attractive, compact script. Osama noticed that he wrote from left to right, using a non-Arabic alphabet. He’d spent twenty years in exile and had retained the Western style of writing from his years in London and America. When he’d finished, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The look he gave Osama was solemn.

‘First of all, I must congratulate you on this remarkable investigation. What an impressive piece of work.’

Osama scratched his neck uneasily. He always felt suspicious of this kind of compliment.

‘How do you see the continuation of the case?’

‘I’m not sure there is a continuation, qomaandaan.’

Osama paled.

‘Could you explain what you mean by that?’

‘We’ll try to arrest Dortmund, of course. But you’ll agree that he has probably left the country by now. As for issuing an international warrant and officially interrogating the German authorities, I’d have to ask President Karzaï about that, but I can guarantee he would refuse.’

‘Why?’

‘Because this is a sensitive topic, qomaandaan. My colleague in the Ministry of Security is nervous; people close to the president are nervous. This case is making a lot of people nervous. Too many people.’

‘I see,’ said Osama.

‘Actually, I’m not sure that you do, qomaandaan. It’s not in the best interests of anyone for too many government officials to be nervous right now. Not the international community, not NATO, not the UN. Nor, probably, the Afghan people.’

‘The logical conclusion to that argument would be to close down this ministry,’ retorted Osama. ‘The purpose of justice, its raison d’être, is to make criminals “nervous”, as you put it. My job is to continue this investigation to its rightful end, whoever becomes “nervous” as a result.’

‘I didn’t say that your investigation had to stop,’ remarked the minister gently.

Osama thought about what he’d just heard.

‘Let’s imagine that I continue working on the case. Am I to understand that I won’t have official support to investigate foreign nationals?’

‘No official support doesn’t mean no unofficial support.’

‘Will the prosecutor’s office agree to reconsider the investigation as that of a crime?’

‘Not at the moment. But if you obtain more information, then why not?’

‘What kind of information?’

‘What Wali Wadi was up to. For as long as you haven’t found out what he was doing and who with, your intellectual conception of the case will remain weak, despite the impressive body of evidence you have compiled. You need the whole system.’

The minister stood up and shook Osama’s hand.

‘Continue with your investigation. I will make sure you are protected, by reliable men. But there will be no international arrest warrant, and no intervention at the German embassy. Let’s forget Dortmund and anything else that might annoy the Coalition, for the time being. Oh — you’ll need money to see this investigation through. There’ll be people to buy, and possible travel to undertake.’ The minister held out an envelope. ‘This contains five thousand dollars. From the secret funds given to me by the Coalition. Use it well.’

Osama put the envelope in his pocket. The minister walked right up to him, and murmured, almost in his ear: ‘I trust you. Keep working on this, but at the proper pace. Find out Wali Wadi’s secret.’

‘We’ll have to see if my pace and my ways of working can fit with yours,’ said Osama, looking the minister in the eye.

‘I hope so with all my heart, qomaandaan. Most of all, be careful — your life is hanging by a thread.’

Osama thought about this conversation all the way back to the office. The justice minister probably had his own interest in the case. Although he was Tajik, he was known to be favoured by certain Pashtuns because he’d never seen eye to eye with Massoud. He was pro-Western, but had fought for lenient sentencing of the most moderate Taliban, going so far as to argue for dialogue with Mullah Omar. It was even rumoured that he’d helped certain Taliban escape, while demanding the death penalty for those who’d favoured the arrival of the Arab Islamists. His power would increase if leading members of the Karzaï government were dismissed on corruption charges. He might then put forward his candidature at a forthcoming Loya Jirga, aiming for the post of prime minister, or even president. Osama sighed. He’d always hated politics, and here he was, up to his neck in it.