The Circuit (35 page)

Suicide bombers had been having a field day on the Jalalabad Road in 2006; blowing up NATO military convoys, targeting government officials, the Afghan military and police, and any vehicle that appeared overtly western. Their preferred methods of attack involved either deploying on foot, jumping in front of a target and detonating a bomb vest, or packing a vehicle full of explosives and driving alongside or directly into a target.

I kept checking in a 360-degree arc for anyone who might be marking us. In addition to suicide bombers, I was also worried about insurgents deploying a new type of IED: the ‘magnetic’ explosive device that can stick to any metallic surface in a second. Everything looked clear – a good sign. But we hadn’t yet encountered the most treacherous stretch of the road: the Jalalabad Road roundabout. As a major traffic choke point, this particular roundabout is a suicide bomber’s playground. Even if you have the skills to recognize a potential bomber closing in on your position, it’s almost impossible to escape. The only proactive thing you can do is try and hang back, so if the need arises, you can push through the traffic and get away.

A bottleneck had formed just ahead of the roundabout. I tried to put some distance between our 4x4 and the vehicles in front of us as we merged with the slow-moving traffic. The muscles in my neck tensed as clusters of cars with horns honking closed in around us. I felt like a fish caught in a current. Finally, we reached our turn-off and broke free. I looked at the roundabout in my rear-view mirror and shook the tension from my shoulders.

We continued on towards the Kabul River: a shallow, stinking sludge pool that cuts through the middle of the capital like gangrene on a wounded limb, and headed to our first stop, the Kabul National Stadium. The Taliban once used the stadium as a venue for public executions. When they were ousted, the Afghan people reclaimed it for happier tasks. On any given day, across from the stadium, you can find children playing football or flying kites in large open fields. In the car park, barrow boys sell phone cards, fruits, vegetables or whatever else they can find to scratch out a living.

Children were still playing football outside the stadium in the dark as we pulled into the car park. Qadeer had been told one of Patcha Khan’s representatives would be waiting there to escort us to the warlord’s home. We would recognize the escort by his vehicle: a red car. We spotted it immediately. The escort, a young man with a trimmed, full beard and dressed in traditional Afghan clothing, was standing beside it. I scanned the other vehicles in the parking area to see if anyone was watching us, waiting to follow. The escort smiled, signalled to us to follow and ducked into his car. As we drove off behind him, I continued to keep an eye on the vehicles in the car park. After a few street turns, I was satisfied we weren’t being tailed.

We followed the red car through the south-east of the city and out towards the edge of town. The further we drove, the darker the streets became until the light disappeared entirely. With nothing but the moon and our headlights to illuminate our path, I could barely make out the shadowy figures of armed guards stationed outside houses and compounds. We had entered ‘the dark side’ of Kabul.

The centre of Kabul has decent amounts of electricity and the businesses and wealthy individuals who live there supplement the frequent power-cuts with expensive fuel-fired generators. The dark side of town is a different story. There are no neon signs advertising goods and services or ‘luxury’ guest houses lit up like candles. The only light on the dark side is the ambient glow of hurricane lamps peaking out from behind old wooden doors and window frames.

We drove further into the darkness, snaking our way around potholes so deep they could swallow a motorbike. The odd whiff of human excrement wafted through the car vents. It underscored just how little had changed in Afghanistan. Five years on from the US-led invasion and there was still no reliable electricity in the capital and no sewage system. Shit still flowed onto the streets like fifteenth-century London and many homes had no running water. I had seen children working fourteen-hour days hauling buckets of water up steep hills to supply the houses on top.

What exactly had the legions of aid workers bumping through Kabul in their 4x4s been up to all this time, aside from driving up rents and prices of basic goods such as bread and fruit? One fruit vendor told me he couldn’t afford to eat what he sells. Only rich internationals and Afghans lucky enough to work for them earned enough to buy fruit in Kabul. Rather than elevate average Afghans in the capital, foreigners were making them feel inferior. No wonder the locals referred to the international community as ‘the Toyota Taliban’.

After fifteen minutes, we found ourselves turning down a side street that was clearly different from the rest of the neighbourhoods we’d driven through. Unlike the guards we’d observed on the fringe of the dark side, the armed security men on this street were alert, professional and very strict in their signalling as to what they wanted us to do. These were Patcha Khan’s men and they were in total control.

The guards directed us to a small, secured parking area. In Kabul it’s essential that you park in a well-guarded spot; not so much to deter thieves as to ensure that no one plants an explosive device on your vehicle while you’re away from it (nevertheless, I always check my vehicle thoroughly if it’s been out of my sight, even for a minute).

I was confident that Patcha Khan’s men had the street’s security pretty well sewn up, so I decided to leave my pistol and AK short in the 4x4. Sometimes you have to make what appear to be counter-intuitive calls in hostile environments – decisions that can profoundly affect your next move. Though I always keep my weapons covert, as we were meeting with a warlord, it was pretty much given that we’d be searched by his bodyguards. There was no point in allowing them to see my weapons and assess my capabilities. It’s not that I distrusted Patcha Khan’s men, but in Afghanistan today’s friend can easily become tomorrow’s enemy.

We locked our vehicle and thanked the escort for leading us there. I asked him if he’d waited long at the stadium and he replied, with typical Pashtoon politeness, that he hadn’t been waiting long at all. Qadeer and I were then presented to the guards standing outside Patcha Khan’s residence. As I’d predicted, they searched us both thoroughly. Qadeer and I were then shown to a large room traditionally furnished with a large, red, ornamental rug and big matching cushions lining the walls. Patcha Khan and one of his constituents, a businessman, were sat at one end of the room. His aide and a group of bodyguards were sat at the other.

As soon as we walked in, Patcha Khan sprang to his feet and greeted us with an outstretched hand and a big smile. A tough character, his deeply lined, heavily moustached face somehow didn’t suit a smile. He was dressed nearly the same as he’d been during our first meeting in Zadran – khamis, waistcoat, baggy trousers – only back then he wore a bandolier of ammunition under his waistcoat. I guessed he’d toned down his appearance since becoming an MP. After the usual Muslim greetings, we were invited to take a seat on the floor. A boy came in carrying glasses of green tea and plates full of nuts, sweets and biscuits. I started eating and drinking straight away as it’s customary in Afghanistan for the hosts not to take any food or drink before the guests. The businessman kicked off the meeting with a flattering introduction of Patcha Khan. He explained that the people of Zadran, Paktia, the surrounding provinces and all Pashtoons in Afghanistan regard Patcha Khan as a great chieftain. (Qadeer was translating so I knew whatever was being said was being conveyed accurately.)

I responded by telling Patcha Khan that I was honoured to have an individual audience with him and that I appreciated him taking time away from his parliamentary duties to meet with me – which led straight into my first question. Why did he become an MP?

Patcha Khan explained that his journey to parliament had started where we’d left off, in Zadran two and a half years earlier. Not long after his infamous road closure, American and Afghan forces launched a combined air attack and a ground assault against him in his own territory. Patcha Khan survived the onslaught, but members of his family, including his son and his brother, were killed.

Patcha Khan was convinced that the US had attacked him at the urging of Northern Alliance generals in government who wanted to eliminate him as a historic rival and a potential contender for US favour. He told me that after the attack he’d pleaded with Karzai to intervene so as to prevent more bloodshed. The President, he claimed, refused. Patcha Khan fled to the tribal areas of Pakistan but was quickly detained, flown back to Kabul and put under house arrest. Following an intervention with Karzai by tribal elders, Patcha Khan was allowed to return home to Zadran. In 2005, he said, his people convinced him to run for office and join the government that had tried to kill him.

As he spoke, it was clear from his expression that Patcha Khan was deeply affected by the death of his son. I asked him what he thought of the US, given that its forces had attacked him in his home and killed members of his family. Much to my surprise, rather than curse the Americans, Patcha Khan said he did not see them as the enemy. Though he still had differences with the US-led coalition, he genuinely believed that they were trying to help the Afghan people.

I asked him if there was anything about the US presence in Afghanistan that concerned him. Patcha Khan answered that what worried him most about the Americans was that they seemed in such a hurry to leave. He feared that if US and NATO troops were to withdraw from Afghanistan it would trigger a repeat of what happened when the Soviets left; in the absence of a dominating power, Afghanistan would plunge into civil war. Patcha Khan didn’t feel the US-backed Afghan Government could hold the country together. He said he would like to see democracy take root and the Afghan Government prosper but parliament was too corrupt, MPs were interested only in serving themselves and he felt President Karzai was more concerned with pleasing his American masters than serving the best interests of his nation.

In Patcha Khan’s view, Karzai’s unwillingness to stand up to the Americans had already compromised the nation’s future. Patcha Khan said he warned Karzai four years earlier that if America and its allies didn’t send more troops to Afghanistan, the Taliban would regroup in the south, move east and start taking over provinces. Sadly, things were unfolding just as he’d predicted.

In the months leading up to my meeting with Patcha Khan, British forces had fought some fierce battles with the Taliban in the southern province of Helmund. The Brits were greatly undermanned when they assumed control of Helmund from US forces in early 2006 and the Taliban exploited this by taking over small villages one by one across the province. British forces managed to regain the territory, but in order to hold it they had to establish ‘platoon houses’ inside each village, spreading themselves even more thinly on the ground. It was only through sheer bravery and professionalism that the Brits were able to hold out in these places with so few numbers and so little support. But British lives were lost. When senior officers finally realized what a grave strategic error they’d made, they struck a ‘ceasefire’ deal with local tribesmen, who agreed to keep the Taliban away from their villages. As soon as the Brits withdrew, however, the Taliban moved right back in.

I later found out through local sources living in Helmund that most of the tribal leaders who’d struck deals with the British were executed by the Taliban. In addition to punishing the ‘traitors’, the executions served as warnings to others not to do business with the ‘infidels’. Many of the villagers quickly switched loyalties.

By the end of 2006, Helmund wasn’t the only province where the Taliban had regained their footing. They were engaging the Canadian Army in Kandahar and had even penetrated Kabul, where, according to my sources, local cells were very active.

The Taliban’s resurgence begged my final question to Patcha Khan; did he think the Taliban would return to power officially? Patcha Khan took a deep breath and with a pained but wise expression declared that the Taliban would be running Kabul within two to three years. If not, then they would definitely control the south and east of Afghanistan.

‘And the rest of the country?’ I asked.

‘Civil war,’ he replied.

I asked him whether anything could be done to prevent this from happening. The answer, he said, was for the United States and its allies to get serious about their commitment to Afghanistan and send more troops – immediately.

All told, my meeting with Patcha Khan lasted just over an hour. I was extremely grateful to have had so much of his time. I said goodbye to the warlord in the darkened courtyard of his compound. He took my hand in both of his and told me I was welcome to come and see him again anytime.

Before Qadeer and I left, I made a point of saying goodbye to Patcha Khan’s guards – just in case I ran into them again under less hospitable circumstances. I reached out in the dark to take one of their hands to shake it, only to find a stump. The guard withdrew it and offered me his left hand instead.

Scary in the Afghan darkness. These people certainly have been through it over the years.

CHAPTER 35

The timing couldn’t have been better. It was March 2007 and I was just about to wrap a year-long training task in Kabul when an email from Nic Robertson landed in my inbox. He was on his way to Kabul and wanted to know if we could meet. Nic and I had kept in touch since I’d last worked with him two years earlier so he had a rough idea of what I’d been doing. I couldn’t wait to talk to him. My Afghan contacts and my meeting with Patcha Khan a few months earlier had given me a wealth of insights into Afghanistan, but no outlet for sharing them. I knew Nic would put the information to good use.

We managed to link up at Dubai International Airport. Nic was flying into Kabul and I’d just flown out. Over a brew, he told me he was working on stories for an upcoming CNN special focusing on Afghanistan, the Taliban and the War on Terror. Nic wanted to know if I had any story ideas for him.