Chaos in Kabul by Gérard de Villiers Read Free Book Online

pool and music where the expats hung out.
    “Yeah, but it’s fallen off. The chow’s lousy, and not many people go there anymore.”
    Malko suddenly thought of the young South African woman he’d once had a passionate fling with in Kabul. As a fellow South African in the city, maybe Berry knew her.
    “Do you know if Maureen Kieffer is still in Kabul?”
    Berry let out a roar.
    “You know her? Yeah, she’s here, and she’s struggling, just like me. There’s no market for armored cars anymore. Hell of a boss girl, isn’t she?”
    Berry gave Malko a crushing handshake and walked him out to the gray Corolla.
    When Malko walked in, the hotel’s metal detector started to beep, and he quickly pulled out his weapons permit and the magnetic door key that showed he was a hotel guest.
    Once in his room, Malko dialed Maureen Kieffer’s cell number, which he still had.
    Amazingly, she picked up on the third ring.
    “Maureen?”
    “Who’s calling, please?”
    “Malko.”
    There was a long silence, than a joyous shout.
    “Malko! Are you in Kabul?”
    “Yes. What about you?”
    “I’m still here, but I’ll be going home soon. I don’t have as much work as before. Everybody’s leaving.”
    “Can we get together?”
    “Of course! Are you at the Serena?”
    “Yes. Want to have dinner at the Atmosphere?”
    It was the place where they first met.
    “We can do better,” she said. “We’ll go to the Boccaccio. I’ll pick you up around eight. I’ll phone from the car and you cancome down. With the checkpoints, it’s too complicated, otherwise.”
    Maureen Kieffer seemed more mature than the last time they were together. Two deep wrinkles framed her mouth, but she could still fill a sweater. She was wearing black cargo pants and boots. They shared a long hug, and when Malko brushed her large breasts, he felt a stirring of desire. She was as sexy as ever.
    Malko’s foot bumped into a folding AK-47 on the floor of her car.
    “I better get going,” she said. “Otherwise, they’ll start shooting at us. They’re so damned jumpy!”
    “But your car’s bulletproof,” remarked Malko.
    “Yeah, but then you have to touch up the paint.”
    She shifted into first, and the three-ton SUV lurched forward.
    A quarter of an hour later they turned into the rutted alley where the Boccaccio stood. There was virtually no traffic in Kabul at night, except for green police pickups and a few taxis. Also no pedestrians, though the fruit and vegetable sellers kept their stands brightly lit in the faint hope of attracting customers.
    Unlike other Kabul restaurants, which preferred anonymity, the Boccaccio displayed its name on a marble plaque atop a concrete security barrier.
    The dining rooms were full of Afghans and foreigners, including a few Americans who had permission from the embassy. The black stone walls gave the place an exotic look, as did the Russian waitresses, whose skimpy outfits would give a Talib a heart attack. You got the feeling they weren’t here just to wait on tables.
    Maureen and Malko were led to a table in the back room, and a young waitress came to take their order.
    “Champagne!” said Malko.
    Here, alcohol was served.
    A bottle of Roederer Cristal arrived in a few moments.
    “I see that you haven’t forgotten what I like,” Maureen said with a grin. “The restaurants get their supplies from the embassy cooks, who steal from the diplomats.”
    They clinked glasses.
    “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said. “Anyway, I’m heading back to South Africa soon. There’s nothing left to do here.”
    They ordered what turned out to be some very decent carpaccio and pasta.
    People were talking loudly, and the atmosphere was animated.
    Maureen lowered her voice.
    “The boss is a crook,” she said. “He cheated a lot of people, and he did time in Dubai, but at least it feels cheerful here.”
    By the time Maureen and Malko were finished, the room was emptying. Afghans started work very early in