Iggy looked back at Anthony and smirked in response to the question. “From one day to the next it’s peaceful as a cow farm or deadly as a snake’s nest. All depends on how the Taliban is feeling today.”
Anthony nodded. “How are they feeling today?”
Iggy lit a cigarette, filling the cab with acrid smelling smoke. “Pretty cranky, I guess. With US troops withdrawing, it’s a matter of time. Taliban’s been probing, attacking new areas. Ganging up on the roads around Kabul. It’s like they’s a vulture hovering, waitin’ to dive in the minute the mountain lion is gone.” He winked at Anthony. “Kabul’s the carcass.”
Anthony shuddered. Iggy was almost certainly right. It wasn’t hard to see what was happening in Afghanistan, and from what he’d seen, violent incidents were up nearly twice as much the year before. The main difference was the ongoing withdrawal of US troops. Before long, Afghanistan might be a Taliban stronghold all over again.
“Anyways,” Iggy continued, “we got a pretty good system. We don’t like driving this highway if we can avoid it, but when we do, we usually make it without any losses. That’s our job.”
Usually.
That was reassuring. Anthony decided to go over his notes for his story. If he could keep himself occupied, maybe he wouldn’t have to think about the possibility of getting blown up in the Afghan countryside. The SUVs were moving quickly now, very quickly. But they didn’t have to worry about traffic, because there wasn’t any.
Anthony slid his laptop out of his bag. He had a lot of notes, and a lot of loose ends to track down.
George-Phillip’s interview had lined up perfectly with Adelina Thompson’s, which was incredibly valuable. What it gave him was a clear timeline of when Richard Thompson was out of the country and events surrounding her marriage and Carrie and Andrea’s parentage. He had a copy of the police report, provided by Julia, and a scan of portions of Adelina’s diary, also thanks to Julia. He had their brief interview with Nick Larsden before his death, naming Oz. He had George-Phillip’s
suspicion
that Oz was Oswald O’Leary—his longtime aide and assistant.
He scanned over his notes. George-Phillip’s original investigation report fingered Richard Thompson as the primary mover in the Wakhan massacre, aided by Prince Roshan, Leslie Collins and Vasily Karatygin. Roshan and Collins had everything to lose if the truth came out. But Karatygin might not. He’d once been a major in the Soviet
Spetznaz,
or Special Forces. He’d converted to Islam and joined the mujahideen in the early 1980s, and because of his knowledge of Soviet tactics, training, and equipment he’d quickly moved to the top of Ahmad Shah Massoud’s militia.
Except now, Massoud was a provincial governor. And he’d long since disassociated from his former ally. Karatygin had surfaced after the US invasion in 2001. He now ran an “import-export” operation, which Anthony took to mean smuggling. Probably weapons and heroin. Anthony didn’t think the odds were very good that Karatygin would be willing to talk. But it was a possibility. Maybe he’d been sitting in the desert for the last thirty years as Collins and Thompson and Roshan rose to the top of their nation’s security organizations, while Karatygin hid out in caves from the Taliban. Maybe he was a little bit resentful. Or maybe he was worried about what would happen when and if the Taliban took over again. Anthony didn’t know
what
he might be worried about, but he hoped that by the time he asked Karatygin the operative questions, he’d have figured something out. Karatygin had agreed to meet, but he hadn’t raised the issue of the Wakhan massacre—yet.
Some things just didn’t make sense. Oswald O’Leary might be Oz, but
why?
He’d been George-Phillip’s confidante for thirty years. Why would he betray George-Phillip? What possible reason did he have? Was he somehow linked to Richard Thompson? Or was it something even more insidious?
At the sound of a gunshot, Anthony looked up suddenly. The vehicle swerved, accelerating suddenly.
Iggy turned around, his rifle at the ready and his eyes scanning everywhere. “Sniper fire,” he said. “Probably from the village off to the left. Don’t worry about it; the odds of a hit are pretty slim. The bigger issue is making sure we don’t slow down or panic.”
To Anthony’s eyes, the headlong rush down the twisting highway appeared to be panic. But he wasn’t in a position to say anything at all. He knew little about the country and even less about current on-the-ground conditions.
A few minutes later they reached an indefinable moment where Iggy and the driver appeared to relax. In the distance, Anthony could see a cluster of buildings too small to be considered a town and too large to be a village. Buildings made from cinderblocks and tan stone abutted each other in a tangled and unrecognizable jumble. The only color were clotheslines scattered through the village, brilliant greens, reds and blues waving in the air, brightly colored pennants of resistance against the chaos and grim fundamentalism sweeping the nation once again.
Before they reached the village, the small convoy turned on a road slightly to the left then circled around. On a hill a quarter mile from the town was a walled compound.
Iggy pointed. “Karatygin’s camp.”
Anthony stared in fascination. Men—obviously armed—were positioned along the tops of the walls and in a tower overlooking the entire area. It wasn’t a camp; it was a fortification. He felt a chill as he wondered if he’d leave this compound alive. The only thing protecting him was the GPS tracking device he carried and the fact that the
Post
knew exactly where he was.
The convoy pulled to a stop at the gate of the compound. Two guards armed with what appeared to be US military issue M16 rifles guarded the gate. But these men were clearly not Americans. They wore linen trousers and tunics, loosely fitting, with combat boots and no helmets. Both had long unkempt beards. Anthony watched helplessly as the guards questioned the men in the front vehicle of the convoy. There was nothing he could do to influence the situation right now other than sit tight and wait. And hope they didn’t all get shot. There were six armed guards in the convoy, but Anthony didn’t think they’d last long if Karatygin’s compound was full of hostile people.
The gate opened, and the guards waved them in. The driver started the SUV moving, and Anthony stuffed his notebook away.
Iggy turned around in his seat. “Keep your mouth shut until I tell you it’s okay. These guys are dangerous.”
Coming from Iggy and his crew of armed veterans, that was saying something.
Inside the compound were half a dozen small buildings clustered around one larger building in the center. As they pulled to a stop, Anthony could see that armed guards were stationed all around the square, weapons at the ready. Iggy and the driver got out. Anthony followed suit. The ground was uneven rock.
The various guards stirred, then went silent, as a tall Afghani walked out of the center building. He was dressed in traditional Pashtun clothing, loose linen pants and a tunic that hung to his knees. Nothing about his clothing indicated anything unusual about his position. But the guards looked slightly more alert, held their weapons a little higher, and stood a little closer to the convoy.
“Which one of you is the reporter?” the man asked.
Anthony swallowed. “I am.”
The man approached and looked him over. “Anthony Walker.” The words were a statement.
“Yes.”
“Come this way. Vasily would like to meet you.”
This was it. Anthony shrugged his bag higher on his shoulder and followed the man into the darkness of the largest building. They moved through a darkened foyer, down the hall and into a brightly lit whitewashed room. A large window opened into a courtyard, lush with palms and other vegetation. The room had hardwood floors—highly unusual in Afghanistan—and lush Persian rugs. Colorful wall hangings in bright patterns hung from three walls.
A reupholstered couch was against the opposite wall, with two bare wooden chairs facing it. A man lay on the couch, his back propped up on pillows. He was pale and gaunt, with wispy white hair, and held a paperback book with bright red Cyrillic letters across the front. His eyes were sunken, with nearly black circles under them, and one eye was pale with a cataract.
Clearly this was Vasily Karatygin. And just as clearly, he was sick or dying. His obvious illness, however, didn’t reduce the man’s size—he was
extremely
large and muscular, with a lip swollen on one side and a crooked nose. Both clearly the result of a fight probably decades in the past.
The man looked up from his book as Anthony entered. He spoke some words—in Pashto, Anthony presumed—to the man escorting him inside, who answered in a subservient tone.
Finally Karatygin said, in English, “So, you’re the reporter who wishes to question me about Richard Thompson. Have a seat.”
Anthony was jolted by the words. Nowhere in his remote communication with Karatygin’s representatives had he specified the reason for his visit. He swallowed nervously, hoping that Karatygin had no plans to have him murdered.
Then he took a seat and said, “Yes. I’m Anthony Walker with
T
he
Washington Post.
” Anthony took his recorder out of his bag and displayed it for Karatygin.
Karatygin smiled, curling his lower lip back, revealing a long black scar on his lip and several missing teeth. Anthony pressed
record.
“I am Vasily Karatygin.”
“I never mentioned Richard Thompson,” Anthony said. “Why do you believe he’s the reason I’m here?”
“You obviously would never make much of a spy, Mister Walker. It’s obvious. Thompson is in the news a great deal these days—as is the massacre at Wakhan. I can only presume that you are here to ask me questions about both.”
Anthony stared at Karatygin. Of course he was right, and in retrospect, it
was
obvious. He shrugged and said, “Yes. That’s what I’m here for.”
Karatygin stared at him for a moment. The smile was curving back into a menacing snarl. “At one time I would have simply had you killed for your presumption.”
Anthony looked back. He didn’t want to push right now.
Karatygin’s face softened. “You are a lucky man, Walker. Lucky indeed.”
Anthony didn’t respond. Instead, he simply waited, not knowing what Karatygin was getting at.
He didn’t have to wait long. Karatygin said, “When I was a boy, Walker, it was a different world. I was a good communist, raised in a good communist family. None of that drugged religion for me. But one day I was in a fistfight at school. I was fourteen years old.”
Karatygin’s face looked wistful as he spoke. “My mother was at work, and my father long dead. So when I arrived home our tiny flat was empty. I do not know what was in my head, but I took the opportunity to search through my mother’s things. Perhaps I thought I would learn something of my father. Instead, I found the medal of my namesake.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. Karatygin immediately answered. “Vasily is a Russian form of Basil. She had a Saint Basil medallion in her dresser.”
“I don’t know much about religion,” Anthony said.
Karatygin chuckled. “And you think I did, growing up in the Soviet Union? Hah. It was years before I found out anything. Basil was a father of the Church—a supporter of the Nicene Creed. A man who fed the poor and helped prostitutes and thieves. A saint. This was my mother’s ambition for me.”
“And what now?”
“Now I’m dying. I have a tumor in my lung, and more in my bones, and soon I’ll be more tumor than man.”
“Can you not seek treatment?”
Karatygin gave a short shake of his head. “It’s far too late for that. My mother’s God wishes me to come home, and I am afraid.”
If half the things Anthony had heard about Vasily Karatygin were true, then he
should
be afraid. Anthony didn’t say so, however. Instead, he said, “You had no religion, but you became a defector. How did that happen?”
“The invasion of Afghanistan was
durak
…
ehhh … stupid. Criminal even. We killed civilians on a grand scale, we tortured and murdered. All in the name of winning the Cold War. I was disaffected well before I left. You see not long after I finished school, I found a biography of Basil in an antique store. Hidden. I bought it. I wanted to know what it was my mother had seen in my future. And the more I read, the more vicious the fighting became. The more I learned of this man of peace, the more I watched my country murder. But even
that
wasn’t the end.”
Anthony listened, fascinated. He nodded, encouraging Karatygin to go on.
“In 1979 I was a Major in the
Spetznaz—
what you would call Special Forces or commandos. We were ambushed not far from Fayzabad. I was wounded and left for dead. It took me
one year
to recover.
One year
to regain my health. I was brought back to help thanks to the hospitality of the villagers and the protection of Ahmad Massoud’s
mujahideen.”
Karatygin shrugged. “I regained my health. I converted to Islam. That didn’t take. But it took long enough for me to become the enemy of my country. I fought against them until the Soviets withdrew.”
“And now?”
Karatygin laughed. “Now I try to stay alive. I’m lucky this bunch does not abandon me. Instead, they keep nursing me back to health every time my illness worsens. They won’t do that once your story is told.”
“Why not?”
Karatygin smiled, the dark gaps in his teeth a nightmare. “Because in my zeal to carry the fight to my countrymen, I murdered. Not a few. Not a dozen. Hundreds.”
Anthony swallowed. Then he said, “What was your role in the Wakhan massacre?”
Karatygin grimaced. Then he said, “I was the perpetrator. I organized it. I went to Thompson and asked him to help me procure the weapons.”
“The sarin?”
Karatygin nodded. “They were Soviet stocks. A mujahideen raid near Kandahar captured them, and they ended up in CIA hands. Leslie Collins—I’m certain you are familiar with him—ran the CIA operation out of Pakistan. Thompson was his right hand man.”
“Where does Prince Roshan fit into this?”