The Afghan National Police HQ in Lashkar Gah didn’t formally advertise itself with any signage, but the phalanx of blue-uniformed men, smoking and gossiping just outside the gate, was something of a giveaway. They stared insolently as the Well Diggers Land Rover pulled up in front of the compound gate, and none of them seemed keen to take on the responsibility of finding out why the two westerners and a Sikh might be expecting to gain entrance.
It reminded Mac of the first time he visited the Police HQ in Kabul, when a row had broken out at the gate. Some things were the same up and down the country – stray dogs pissing against your vehicle, scorpions lurking at the bottom of your bed, and lazy policemen throwing their weight around.
Nagpal, who was driving, opened his window and let rip a stream of invective.
The policeman nearest to the gate came over to them at a slow stroll, cradling his AK in a way that Mac could only interpret as menacing. He replied to Nagpal just as aggressively.
‘You’ve told him we’ve got an appointment with Commander Gulwal, have you?’ said Ginger.
When the policeman heard the name Gulwal, his attitude suddenly changed.
Two minutes later, the steel gates in front of them swung open and they were allowed to drive into the compound. Nagpal parked the Land Rover at the end of a row of police Hiluxes and they got out. Mac looked around. The compound comprised two single-storey, cream-coloured buildings. Between them was a small patch of garden, incongruously planted with rows of scrubby rose bushes. There was a young police cadet watering them. He watched them sullenly, but carried on with his chore.
‘Hello, hello, Mr Ginger,’ came a shout from one of the office doorways, as Commander Gulwal emerged. This was the full extent of his English, but he beckoned them over and they followed him into his office. It was a large room, but cluttered with furniture – there were two battered desks, half a dozen plain wooden chairs and stacks of cardboard boxes that seemed to serve as filing cabinets. On Gulwal’s desk there was a small blue-and-white vase of faded and drooping rose heads, no doubt from the garden outside.
‘Salaam alaikum.’
‘Salaam alaikum, chutor asti?’
‘Alaikum a’salaam.’
Once the interminable round of greetings was done with, and Nagpal and Gulwal had asked each other about the health of their families, they were able to get to the point of the meeting.
‘Can you ask the commander if the search has turned anything up yet?’ said Mac.
Nagpal translated the question, and Mac could see from Gulwal’s body language when he answered that he was obfuscating.
‘His men have searched the streets around the Well Diggers house and questioned all the neighbours who might have heard anything.’
‘And?’ prompted Mac.
‘Nobody saw a thing,’ said Nagpal.
‘Does he believe this, or does he think that people are frightened to talk?’
The commander looked affronted.
‘His men are trusted in the community and if anyone knew anything, they would find out about it.’
Somehow Mac had no doubt of that, but it had nothing to do with how much the people of Lash trusted their police force.
Gulwal carried on talking.
‘Although he understands how distressing this is for you, to have a man missing, he also has to point out that tying up his men in a door-to-door enquiry is costing him money he doesn’t have,’ said Nagpal.
‘What happened to the money we gave him? That’s what it was for,’ said Ginger, his cheeks reddening.
Nagpal gave him a pained look. He was quite right – they didn’t need this to turn into a confrontation. Mac held up a placatory hand.
‘Tell him we think he is better placed to help us find our man than the governor or the NSD. His men have stronger ties to the community here, and they are more likely to hear some gossip that would give us a lead.’
Nagpal translated, and Gulwal shifted in his chair to face Mac. The flattery had worked. He asked Nagpal a question, and Mac heard his own name in the answer as Nagpal explained who he was and what he was doing here. Gulwal nodded along with the answer and then spoke.
Nagpal said, ‘The commander thinks that a sum of money put up as a reward would perhaps draw out the information you need.’
Of course it would. With most of it ending up in Gulwal’s pocket when one of his cousins came in with a spurious story. It was something Mac had been expecting, and he’d had Ginger call Anholts on the way over to get approval for a reward to be offered. They’d agreed to put forward half the amount Anholts had approved to test the water.
Gulwal looked put out when Nagpal translated the offer for him. He shrugged, then spoke at length.
‘He would like to know when you will deliver the money.’
‘When he delivers some useful information,’ said Ginger.
‘Please thank him for all the help he’s given us so far,’ said Mac quickly, privately reflecting it had been next to nothing. Perhaps a meeting with the governor would yield better results. After all, time was running out for Bakker, and so far they didn’t have a single bloody clue as to where he was or who was holding him.
Nagpal was clearly a consummate diplomat in his translations. By the time they left Gulwal’s office, the commander was all smiles and promises, assuring them that it would only be a matter of hours before his men would recover the missing westerner. Mac doubted it.
It was nearly dark by the time he and Ginger got back to the house Ginger had been billeted in. It was two streets away from the house Vinke and Bakker had shared. When Ginger had first arrived, there had been a Belgian and an Italian engineer already living there, but they were back in Kabul for the time being, so there was plenty of room for Mac to stay.
Mac felt like it had been one hell of a long day. He’d woken up thinking he was going to Dubai, having never even heard of Tomas Bakker or Lars Vinke. Now Vinke was dead, and Bakker had been missing for almost twenty-four hours. And he was here in Lash, while Baz sat fuming back in Kabul.
‘Next move?’ said Ginger, putting a very welcome bottle of Corona on the table in front of him. It came from the case Mac had brought down with him on the flight.
Mac was tired.
‘Fucked if I know – all out of options.’ He took a swig of the beer. Cold, crisp, reviving. ‘We’ll speak to your staff tomorrow. If they have nothing, we wait – for a demand from the kidnappers or for a lead. Then we fucking go for it.’