Death in Kabul: A thrilling Afghan adventure

By Alison Belsham and Nick Higgins

‘Tense, taut and totally authentic’ D. V. Bishop, author of City of Vengeance

‘Fresh and fascinating’ Susi Holliday, author of The Last Resort

A murdered man. A stolen artefact. A search for justice in a city where violence and corruption rule…

2003. Kabul has become a frontier city, Afghanistan’s fledgling democracy struggling with crime and corruption as NATO coalition troops, gangs and warlords jostle for control. A city where justice is an ideal and security means carrying a gun.

When the body of a British serviceman is discovered in the city’s infamous tank graveyard, the Kabul Police reach out for support in their investigation. Alasdair ‘Mac’ MacKenzie, formerly of the Metropolitan Police, is seconded to the team.

Baz Khan, an Afghan-American investigative journalist, is in Kabul researching a story. Precious antiquities, priceless artefacts of the country’s rich history, are disappearing amid the chaos, never to be seen again. Baz is determined to uncover whoever is spiriting them away, to prevent her war-torn country being further denuded for profit. And she has a lead…

The soldier’s death was no accident. Why was he so far from the British base in the middle of the night? And alone? As Baz and Mac investigate, they quickly realise they have each stumbled on something far bigger than they reckoned with, and are tossed into the Kabul underworld, where violence and corruption rule.

A fast-paced, compelling adventure through the streets of Kabul, perfect for Jack Reacher fans.

Praise for Death in Kabul

‘A tense, taut and totally authentic thriller that grips from the first page and doesn’t let go. Death in Kabul immerses you in 2003 Kabul, riven by corruption where danger lurks in every alley. Be careful who you trust’ D. V. Bishop, author of City of Vengeance

‘A vividly portrayed murder mystery in a fresh and fascinating setting. With wonderful characters and a great plot, I hope this is the first of many from this duo’ Susi Holliday, author of The Last Resort

‘Authentic, thrilling and brilliantly plotted, Death in Kabul is a cracking action thriller that brings the city vividly to life – just read it!’ Marion Todd, author of See Them Run

‘Rich and atmospheric, Death in Kabul plunges us directly into the grubby, noisy streets of the capital and to a murder investigation that kept me in its thrall to the end’ Louisa Scarr, author of Under a Dark Cloud

‘It’s a first class police thriller with a big difference. The investigation whips through shady characters and locales at breakneck pace but the setting removes all the familiar procedural techniques, keeping you on the edge of your seat right to the stunning finale. Explosive stuff!’ D. L. Marshall, author of Black Run

‘One of the most authentic thrillers I’ve read for ages. Drags you headfirst into the colourful Kabul underworld, and sends you barrelling down its backstreets at a frenetic pace that just doesn’t let up’ Robert Scragg, author of End of the Line

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo Action
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781800327436

Alison Belsham

Alison is the author of the internationally acclaimed Tattoo Thief trilogy, which has been translated into 15 languages and was a No.1 bestseller in Italy. As well as writing crime, she is collaborating with her brother Nick Higgins on an action thriller series set in Afghanistan. She is a co-founder of the Edinburgh Writers’ Forum, providing professional development and networking for writers.

Book preview

Praise for Death in Kabul

‘A tense, taut and totally authentic thriller that grips from the first page and doesn’t let go. Death in Kabul immerses you in 2003 Kabul, riven by corruption where danger lurks in every alley. Be careful whom you trust in this city without mercy’

D. V. Bishop, author of City of Vengeance

‘A vividly portrayed murder mystery in a fresh and fascinating setting. With wonderful characters and a great plot, I hope this is the first of many from this duo’

Susi Holliday, author of The Last Resort

‘Authentic, thrilling and brilliantly plotted, Death in Kabul is a cracking action thriller that brings the city vividly to life’

Marion Todd, author of See Them Run

‘Rich and atmospheric, Death in Kabul plunges us directly into the grubby, noisy streets of the capital and to a murder investigation that kept me in its thrall to the end. I loved being a part of Mac’s world and only hope I get to see him again’

Louisa Scarr, author of Under a Dark Cloud

‘A rip-roaring, page-turner of a novel with a truly clever and original plot. Death in Kabul is a stunning exploration of life in 2003 Kabul, and a fantastic start to an exciting new series!’

Sheila Bugler, author of The Lucky Eight

‘One of the most authentic thrillers I’ve read for ages. Drags you headfirst into the colourful Kabul underworld, and sends you barrelling down its backstreets at a frenetic pace that just doesn’t let up’

Robert Scragg, author of End of the Line

‘It’s a first class police thriller with a big difference. The investigation whips through shady characters and locales at breakneck pace but the setting removes all the familiar procedural techniques, keeping you on the edge of your seat right to the stunning finale. Explosive stuff!’

D. L. Marshall, author of Black Run

‘A fast-paced and gripping thriller that conjures up vivid images of deserts and alleyways, stolen artefacts and bloodied sands, where knowledge is currency and murder is committed behind a mirage of lies’

Ian Skewis, author of A Murder of Crows

‘Superbly plotted – if you like your thrillers brimming with authentic detail and non-stop action, this is for you!’

Margaret Kirk, author of In the Blood

‘A bumpy ride through mystery, lawlessness and betrayal in mountainous Afghanistan that leaves you constantly looking over your shoulder. Death in Kabul throws together an eclectic cast of characters, driven into an unlikely alliance by a shared quest for justice – even if justice means something different for each’

Heleen Kist, author of In Servitude

‘This exciting and compelling crime thriller is like nothing I’ve ever read before. A colourful, visual depiction of life in Kabul coupled with a fast-paced investigation, this book truly transports you to somewhere else entirely. Death in Kabul is 100% one of my books of the year!’

Roxie Key

‘Death in Kabul is a cracker. Authentic, eye-opening, wrought with a wry wit, it grips and rips from the off. A smash-bang whip-smart stellar read’

Rob Parker, author of Far From the Tree

For Baktash, Shariff and many more Afghan friends

Kabul 2003

The Taliban have been overthrown by the NATO-led coalition and Kabul becomes a frontier city where crime and corruption have a stranglehold on the fledgling democracy. Coalition troops, NGO personnel, carpetbaggers and warlords co-exist in an uneasy truce…

Prologue

Davie Marshall looked around and tasted fear at the back of his mouth. The dark silhouette of a Soviet tank loomed before him, and beyond it another and another. Row upon row. The manifestation of superpower aggression, an invading force sent to subjugate. A land grab that would broadcast a message to her enemies, and the wider world: we’ll take what we want.

The moon came out from behind a cloud and its pale light showed the place for what it was – Kabul’s tank graveyard. Metal hulks, abandoned to the ravages of rust, paint stripped away by the grit-laden wind that tore down from the Hindu Kush and raced towards the city across the vast Shomali Plain. Steel carcasses picked over by street kids and beggars for anything that could be sold in the city’s bustling markets. Acres of Soviet detritus stretched as far as the eye could see, telling a story of overconfidence, and of failure. Afghanistan had shown the invaders over ten brutal years that it was not a country to be underestimated. The high hopes of the 1979 invasion had turned to dust, and the Russians had retreated with their tails between their legs in 1989.

Marshall shivered, wondering if this latest incursion would fare any better. By early December, the bitter Afghan winter was already making itself felt. The wind ricocheted through the alleys between the vehicles, rattling broken hatches, moaning through empty gun turrets, disturbing the ghosts of the long-dead Soviet tank crews. He darted behind the nearest wreck, not wanting to reveal himself until he’d got the lay of the land.

He should never have come here alone, and anxiety gnawed at his belly.

But he’d had no choice.

He didn’t believe the man he was here to meet would come by himself, any more than he believed that the name he’d been given was real. But if the bloke was alone, maybe he could make it out alive. If he could be convincing enough…

Clouds scudded across the moon, cloaking the landscape in shadow once more. He ventured deeper into the graveyard, unsure if he was heading in the right direction, listening for the shrill whistle that would signal his contact’s arrival.

Instead, he heard a voice.

‘Salaam alaikum.’

The whispered greeting came from nowhere and sounded anything but friendly. He tightened his hold on the grip of his 9mm Browning.

He recognised the voice. A torch shone in his eyes, blinding him, and the man spoke in guttural Pashtu. He didn’t understand what the man was saying.

‘Speak English,’ he said, a tremor in his voice giving too much away. He squinted into the light, angry with himself for having lost the element of surprise.

‘You came alone?’

Of course, he had. Who the hell was he going to let in on this?

He nodded. ‘Yes. You?’

The torch was switched off, but still blinded, he could see nothing.

He heard shuffling on the stony ground. There was more than one of them. That meant trouble. He fought the urge to run, heart pounding.

I should have brought someone to cover my back.

As his eyes grew used to the dark, he stared at the man. He was wearing a black shalwar kameez and had a woollen scarf wrapped around his head and neck. But his eyes glinted in the moonlight and his features were familiar.

‘You’ve got the money?’ said Davie.

‘I’ll get it.’ The man paused. ‘You need to give me more time.’

Davie took a calculated risk. ‘Twenty-four hours. That’s all I’ll give you. After that…’

‘And after that, what will you do?’ The voice dripped scorn.

The veiled threat had been a mistake. He put a hand out to steady himself on the hull of the nearest tank. The metal was so cold it burned his fingers, making him gasp. His grip slipped nervously on the Browning.

There was a flash of silver in the moonlight. He had a split second to understand that he wouldn’t come away from here alive. The man had never had any intention of paying him off.

He knew too much.

Davie felt the sting of the blade slicing across his windpipe. He breathed in and spluttered, choking. His knees went. A jet of his blood arced across the face of the moon, spattering the ground with the sound of soft-falling rain.

Chapter 1

Saturday, 6 December 2003

Alasdair ‘Mac’ MacKenzie clambered from the ladder onto the roof of the shipping container, – the shitty metal box he currently called home. Taking care not to spill the mug of black coffee in his right hand, he straightened up and looked to the north, as he did every morning, with a deep breath. Beyond the grounds of the Kabul police training camp and the ragtag of rooftops and minarets, in the far, far distance, the great wall of the Hindu Kush soared to nearly eight thousand metres. Though at this time, just before dawn, it was simply a black mass that blotted out the stars in the lower portion of the sky.

He cradled his coffee mug, warming his hands. The rungs of the ladder had been freezing to the touch – time to get gloves. There was a dusting of frost on the top of the container, and the rest of the camp’s buildings glistened with it. The air bit his lungs as he breathed. It was a dry cold here, so different to the freezing damp that seeped into the bones at home on the west coast of Scotland. But no matter how cold it got, he wouldn’t stop his morning ritual of coming up here to watch the sun rise.

As faint smudges of light began to show over the east of the city, mosques in every direction started broadcasting the first of the five daily calls to prayer. Most were recorded and blared out of loudspeakers, but some were still sung in the traditional manner by the muezzin.

Mac sat down on a low wooden chair he’d picked up in the Pul-e Khishti bazaar and sipped his coffee, listening to the long, wavering wails calling to the faithful. ‘Allahu akbar… ashadu an la ilaha illa Llah…’ It only lasted a few minutes, but the hypnotic, mournful sound haunted him long after the last note had faded away. Then the sun crept over the horizon, painting the Kush a hundred shades of orange, red and gold as it climbed. Three months here, and he’d seriously fallen in love with the country. Which was just as well, given the employment prospects back home… With the bitter coffee grounds gritty on his tongue, he savoured the fact that he had at least another hour before he was expected in class.

He climbed down the ladder attached to the side of the container, slipped his mug inside his door, grabbed a towel and set off across the small walled compound that kept the expat training staff at Camp Julien separated from the Afghan trainees. The staff offices were in a squat breezeblock building that ran along the north side of the compound. Opposite this, his container was one of several staff accommodation units – the dubious privilege of being provided with free on-base boarding. Home sweet home it certainly bloody wasn’t.

Meals were provided in the cookhouse in the main part of the camp, where the Afghan cooks had a special way with chicken and rice – the menu varied between chicken and rice, chicken and rice, and sometimes even chicken and rice. Although the camp was ostensibly run by the Canadian Army, they clearly weren’t shelling out for the police trainees’ food. Thankfully, his assistant, Ginger, who bunked in the container next to his, had obtained a two-ring portable gas cooker, and knocked up dubious alternatives when he was able to find lamb or goat meat at the local market.

Mac knocked on Ginger’s door.

‘Any chance of an egg banjo, chum?’

Ten minutes later he was sitting on Ginger’s only chair, balancing a plate with a couple of egg banjos on his lap. A former para sergeant, Chris ‘Ginger’ Jameson had introduced Mac to this food of the gods. If an army marched on its stomach, the British Army marched on egg banjos – two slippery fried eggs jammed between slices of rubbery white bread – and virtually impossible to eat without getting yolk down your chin.

He munched on them as he reviewed the morning’s lesson plan. Ginger sat opposite him on the low truckle bed, also eating his breakfast. Together, they taught Afghan police trainers peacekeeping and counterinsurgency – Mac’s background in anti-terrorism in the Met perfectly complementing Ginger’s experience from a decade in the Parachute Regiment.

‘More caffeine,’ he said, swallowing his final mouthful of yolk-soaked bread.

Ginger obligingly filled his cup from the battered metal espresso pot on the table. The sergeant’s bulk filled the small space between them. He was all brawn, which somehow didn’t sync with the freckled boyish face and red hair that gave rise to his nickname.

‘What are we covering this morning?’ said Ginger.

‘How to search personnel at VCPs,’ said Mac. That stood for vehicle checkpoints, which were generously scattered throughout the city to enable the Afghan police to make any journey take three times longer than it should have. ‘I’ll run through the theory…’ He ignored Ginger’s loud snort at this. ‘Then we’ll demo – you can have a concealed weapon, I’ll search you for it.’

‘After which we get the Joes to search each other, while we try not to laugh.’ Joes was their private shorthand for the students.

‘Or I get them all to have a go at searching you?’ said Mac with a wicked grin.

‘Did I tell you I might have found somewhere that’s selling KitKats, and they’re not out of date or made somewhere weird?’

‘Okay, they search each other.’

---

‘Right, now I’m going to show you how it’s done,’ said Mac, in his clearest classroom English. ‘Ginger, up against the wall, please.’

The interpreter translated, and fifteen Afghan police captains watched as Ginger assumed the position.

‘You get them to lean like this on the side of the vehicle – arms outstretched and legs apart. Then, hook one of your feet behind one of their legs while you search them.’ Mac did this, then frisked Ginger’s arms, legs and torso.

He knew Ginger wouldn’t make it that easy, so when the para made a move for his concealed weapon, Mac was ready for it. This was the point of the hooked foot – he used it to sweep Ginger’s leg out from under him and Ginger crashed to the floor.

‘Oomph! Fucking hell, Mac.’

Mac laughed and so did the students. He put out a hand to help Ginger up, but then thought better of it. He didn’t want to share the indignity of ending up on the floor as well.

One of the Joes stuck up a hand and said something in rapid Dari.

‘Mr Mac,’ said the interpreter, ‘Captain Sadiqi is asking if that’s how you searched people in the London police?’

‘Um…’

‘Yes, do tell us,’ said Ginger with a grin, now back on his feet.

‘Um… not exactly.’ Of course bloody not. Kicking your mark to the ground was strictly against the rules in the Met. But things were different here.

Luckily, he was saved from explaining by a knock on the door. One of the project-management staff stood tentatively on the threshold.

‘Got a minute, Mac?’

‘I’m teaching, Steve.’

‘Yeah, but Phelps wants to see you in his office. Straightaway, he said.’ Steve shrugged apologetically.

Mac wondered what could be so urgent. ‘Any clues?’ He turned to Ginger. ‘You can finish the lesson, right?’

Ginger nodded as Steve backed out of the doorway. ‘No idea. But he wasn’t looking too cheerful.’

‘Okay. Let’s go.’

He followed Steve across the open training ground at the centre of the camp and through the gate into the staff compound. Egon Phelps ran the training project on the ground for the American company that had the contract, World Training Providers Inc. He was American too, but the staff he employed were a mixture of Brits, Yanks and a few Europeans. All of them had police anti-terrorist or special-forces experience and their remit was to transform the Kabul City Police into a professional force that could provide high-quality professional security throughout the city.

Steve ducked away into his own office as they entered the block, obviously not invited to the meeting.

Mac knocked on Phelps’s door.

‘Come in.’

He walked in and dropped into a chair in front of the manager’s desk.

‘This better be important.’

‘Mac, I’m going to need you to pass the rest of this course off to your number two,’ said Phelps. ‘Something’s come up.’

Mac wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this, but he waited for Phelps to continue.

‘Kabul City Police HQ have just been in touch, a Major Jananga.’

‘And?’ This still didn’t tell him why he’d been hauled out of his classroom.

‘They think they’ve got a British soldier,’ continued Phelps. Cryptic, as always. The man made need-to-know an artform.

‘Got a soldier?’

‘They’ve found a body.’

‘Where?’ said Mac.

‘They were called out to the tank graveyard at first light. A couple of kids found him. Throat cut, British uniform.’

‘Jesus.’ Mac exhaled. If this was true, it would open a right can of worms. ‘But what’s that got to do with us?’

‘Major Jananga, in a frankly off-the-chart moment of self-awareness, has wisely realised that with a British victim, he might be expected to do things a little differently from… um… standard Afghan police practice.’ Phelps pulled a face. ‘You know as well as I do that the Afghan police are pretty amateur in these things and have no forensic capabilities. Being aware that we use ex-Met police for our training programmes, he’s requested someone with Scotland Yard experience to assist. I’ve volunteered you.’

‘What the…? No way.’ Mac shook his head. ‘Scotland Yard? Is he expecting Sherlock fucking Holmes?’

‘You were in the Met.’

‘Yeah, sure. But I was SO15 – Counter Terrorism.’

‘And before that?’

‘Three months on a Major Incidents Team, before I transferred. I didn’t even see a single murder investigation from end to end. I’m not the guy he’s looking for.’

‘Yes, but you’re the guy we’ve got. Everyone here is Counter Terrorism – it’s what we do, so you’ve got more experience with murder investigations than the rest of us. And more experience of them than Major Jananga.’

‘So just tell ’em it’s not our area of expertise.’ Mac was determined not to get roped into something that would clearly end up being a giant headache. ‘And what about the army? If the victim’s a soldier, surely they’ll do the investigation?’

‘Not their jurisdiction.’ Phelps leaned forward across his desk. ‘Listen, pal. Our contract’s up for renewal in four months. It’s worth eight million dollars to the company. So the message from the top is clear – if the Afghan police say, Jump, we say, How high? Got that? You’re on the job.’

‘What if I fuck it up?’

‘You won’t,’ said Phelps, with a grimace. ‘Not if you value your job with WTP.’

‘You’re kidding? I don’t really take kindly to threats – and that sounded like one.’

‘And I don’t really give a shit. Major Jananga’s got a reputation for being a straight-up guy, one of the few police officers in the city who’s not on the take, so give him the time of day, right?’

‘So no choice?’ said Mac.

‘’Fraid not.’

‘What have you told him?’

‘That you were in the Met for fifteen years and you’ve got the experience he needs.’

‘And nothing about how or why I left the Met?’

‘Of course not.’ Even Phelps didn’t know the full truth of how Mac’s career had blown up, and that’s how Mac intended to keep it.

He heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘When do I start?’

‘Right now. His English is fluent, but take your interrupter with you, just in case.’ Phelps used the camp slang for interpreter. ‘Here’s Jananga’s number.’ He held out a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it.

‘Right.’ Mac took the piece of paper. ‘I’m going to need a vehicle and a driver if I’m going to do this. A weapon – I’ll want to be tooled up at all times. And a budget.’

‘For what?’

‘Travel, subsistence.’ He paused. ‘Baksheesh.’ He’d been in the country long enough to understand that everything in Afghanistan had its price.

‘Sure. I’ll draw some dollars and some Afs for you. Check out a weapon, and take a Land Cruiser from the pool. You can take Pamir to drive.’

Phelps pushed his chair back and stood up, indicating the meeting was over.

Mac headed for the door.

‘Okay. Get to it and keep me in the loop. And, whatever you do, don’t upset the Brits.’

Now he’s demanding the impossible… thought Mac, heading back to his container to get ready. He ran into Ginger as he crossed the yard, the morning’s lesson having just finished.

‘What was all that about?’ said Ginger.

‘A fucking clusterfuck,’ said Mac. ‘Apparently I’ve got to go play detectives for the Kabul police.’

‘Damn!’ Ginger’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. ‘What’s the crime?’

‘A British squaddie, found with his throat cut.’

It seemed mean of Ginger to laugh, but he did, long and hard. ‘You’ll have your bloody work cut out, then.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it. And chicken and rice to look forward to for lunch.’

Chapter 2

Saturday, 6 December 2003

Kabul City Police Headquarters was on Harsheef Street in the old town, De Afghanan, some five miles north-east of where Camp Julien lay at the southern reaches of the city. It should have taken half an hour to cover the distance along Darulaman Road to the city centre and then straight down Salang Wat Road, but with Kabul’s constant traffic congestion, roadblocks and detours it was closer to an hour’s drive.

Mac sat in the front of the Toyota Land Cruiser he’d signed out from the pool, while Ahmed, his interpreter, sat in the back, leaning forward between the two front seats as he kept up a constant stream of Dari chatter. Pamir, their driver, was monosyllabic with his answers, and Mac sensed that he didn’t have a lot of time for Ahmed’s bluster. The interpreter swore loudly in Mac’s ear as Pamir swerved to avoid a couple of potholes and then ran a red light.

‘If I’m reading this map right,’ said Mac, ‘we should be able to cut through that alley over there and come out on Harsheef Street. Then Police HQ is literally a block along.’

Ahmed gave a hollow laugh and jabbed a finger at the Soviet-era map Mac was consulting and shouted something at Pamir. Even though Mac didn’t understand what he said, it appeared that he was suggesting a different route.

‘Shut it, Ahmed. Let Pamir drive.’

Pamir turned down the alley Mac had suggested, and a minute later they emerged onto Harsheef Street and pushed their way into the traffic, despite shouts of protest and much hooting from an enraged taxi driver they cut up in the process. Acrid clouds of exhaust fumes belched from a truck ahead of them, making Mac cough. The stink of burnt petrol filled the front of the Land Cruiser. At least it covered the stench of the open sewer by the side of the road.

Mac looked around. Harsheef Street was a mixture of cheap office buildings and dismal-looking shops. The traffic was crawling, so Mac was relieved when the truck turned off at the next junction. Pamir closed up the gap before something else could barge in front of them from the side road.

‘Left here,’ said Mac, a moment later.

The police HQ loomed up in front of them – four floors of 1970s Soviet-style brutalism behind a ten-foot wall of crumbling concrete.

The Land Cruiser stopped at a high gate where a handful of armed, uniformed Afghan policemen milled about, smoking cigarettes and watching the passing traffic through narrowed eyes. One of them tossed a stone at a stray dog sniffing litter at the base of the wall.

Ahmed wound down his window and gestured to one of the policemen.

Mac listened to the exchange in rapid-fire Dari, catching only his own name and the name of the Afghan major he was here to see. Dari, similar to Farsi, was the language spoken by Kabul’s non-Pashtun communities, but many of the city’s four million inhabitants spoke both Dari and Pashtu. Mac was no linguist, but after several months here he was reasonably confident he could tell which of the two languages was being spoken at any given time, even if he didn’t understand what was being said.

Ahmed got out of the car so he could gesticulate better, but the head guard was having none of it.

Mac climbed out too. ‘What’s the problem?’

Ahmed shrugged. ‘He wants us to leave the vehicle out here and hand over any weapons.’

‘Not fucking happening,’ said Mac, making eye contact with the guard. He was treading familiar ground. Nothing ever ran smoothly – despite the fact that Major Jananga had requested their presence, the message didn’t seem to have filtered down to his own men. But there was no way he was handing over the Beretta.

He pulled out his phone. ‘Tell the guard I’m calling Major Jananga.’

Ahmed translated, but all Mac got was an insolent stare in return.

‘Baleh?’ The voice at the other end of the line was deep and gruff. It sounded irritated, as if the major had been interrupted.

Mac wasn’t going to test his limited Dari vocabulary. He went straight into English. ‘Major Jananga? This is Alasdair MacKenzie. We’re having a bit of a problem with your gate detail.’

Jananga let out a deep sigh. ‘A thousand apologies, Mr MacKenzie. I will come down and sort the bastards out.’

A couple of minutes later and the policemen were standing to attention as a short man appeared on the other side of the gate. He had a dark, heavy stubble, and he wasn’t in uniform. The baggy grey trousers and shapeless khaki windcheater gave away nothing, and it was only because the head guard saluted and said his name that Mac realised this was Major Jananga.

The officer barked at the men in Dari, standing in the open gateway. The policeman who’d caused the problem shrank back from him, eyes widening, while his companions gave him sidelong glances, distancing themselves from his bad decision. The man put up a feeble argument for a moment, then sounded contrite.

‘Khar nasho, awlad e knalek.’

‘Stop acting like a donkey, you son of an idiot,’ Ahmed whispered to Mac, translating what the major was saying.

Then Jananga cuffed the man hard across the side of his head, making him stagger and fall to the ground. Bending down to let out another stream of invective, Jananga gave his subordinate a good hard kick in the ribs. The man let out a loud whine.

‘Jesus!’ said Mac under his breath.

The major frowned, rubbing his knuckles, then turned towards Mac, looking at him properly for the first time.

‘Salaam alaikum, chutor asti, Mr MacKenzie?’ He extended a hand and Mac shook it.

‘Alaikum a’salaam,’ replied Mac, exhausting the extent of his language skills with the standard greeting. He needed to act as if he hadn’t just seen the major give one of his men a beating.

‘Please excuse these fools that work here for me.’ He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I told them you were coming but nothing seems to sink in.’ He tapped his forehead with two fingers and glared at the men again. ‘Tell your driver to bring your vehicle into the compound.’ His English, although heavily accented, was fluent.

‘Thank you, Major.’ Mac nodded to Pamir to bring the Land Cruiser through the gate. Then he turned back.

‘My information is that you’ve found the body of a British serviceman?’

Jananga’s face clouded as he nodded. ‘Please, come up to my office. I’m just about to question the boys who found the body.’ He led the way towards the entrance of the building.

Mac quickly turned round. ‘Come on, Ahmed.’ Then he peered into the Land Cruiser. ‘Pamir, stay with the vehicle.’

Another uniformed policeman on the door nodded them in – Jananga obviously didn’t need to identify himself or explain his visitors. Inside, the building was drab and cold. Fading paint peeled off the concrete walls, and the floor evidently hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. Passing an unmanned reception desk, they headed down a long corridor. Mac could hear the shrill sound of the wind buffeting the corners of the building, and there was a sharp draught coming in somewhere. Jananga opened a door and led them into a dingy stairwell.

‘A thousand apologies – the lift isn’t working today, and my office is on the top floor.’

Mac wondered if it worked any day. Ahmed, who was a lazy bastard, scowled at the steep staircase that lay ahead of them. Mac didn’t waste any sympathy on him, but headed up after the major, taking the steps two at a time.

‘Where’s the body now?’ said Mac as he caught up with Jananga.

‘Still where the boys found it, at the tank graveyard. We should go there, before it’s removed to the morgue.’

If it really is a Brit, the army will have something to say about that, Mac thought. There was no chance they’d let the body of one of their own go to the Kabul municipal morgue. But he didn’t say anything – that wasn’t his particular battle to fight.

They reached a doorway – Mac assumed it was to Jananga’s office – and the major paused, his hand on the handle.

‘I should be addressing you as Detective Inspector, right? That’s what your Mr Phelps told me.’

Mac cleared his throat. ‘That was my rank when I was in the police, but now I’m a civilian.’ He shrugged. ‘Just call me Mac.’

Jananga gazed at him without saying anything. Mac hoped there wouldn’t be any more questions about his time in the Met. He wasn’t quite comfortable being here under false pretences – and if Phelps had told the Kabul police that he was some sort of crack murder detective, they might be in for a disappointment.

They went into a small, square room, which was already crowded with people. In front of a chaotic desk sat two scruffy street kids, maybe nine or ten years old, clearly nervous and unhappy to be at the police headquarters. One was picking at a scab on his elbow, while the other stared fixedly out of the window, determined not to cry. The room smelled of dirty boy and Mac wondered when they’d last had a bath. A bearded man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a grimy shalwar kameez, stood behind them, while a uniformed officer was leaning on a filing cabinet in the corner, picking his teeth with a wooden toothpick. He hastily stood to attention when the major entered. The office felt hot compared with the stairwell and corridors – a small gas heater stood purring behind the desk.

There was a quick exchange between the major and his officer, and the officer went to the opposite corner of the room where a large, brass samovar stood on a low table. He started filling small glasses from it, releasing an outpouring of steam which made the hot room feel positively tropical.

Finally, Jananga explained what had happened.

‘These two boys, Baktash and Shariff,’ he said, pointing to them in turn, ‘discovered the body of a man early this morning at the tank graveyard out by the Jalalabad Road. Shariff’s father brought them here when they told him about it.’

‘I’ve heard of the place,’ said Mac, with a nod. ‘What were they doing there?’

Jananga shrugged and spoke to the boys in Pashtu, his voice low and the tone gentle. They’d obviously had a fright and were reluctant to answer. The smaller boy said a few words, staring intently at the threadbare kilim on the floor.

‘Just playing,’ Jananga translated.

The older of the two boys spoke.

‘Pretending to be soldiers in the tanks,’ said Jananga.

The national pastime of Afghan boys – playing at being the soldiers they would grow up to become.

The man standing behind them, the father, spoke and Jananga translated. ‘They were hunting for copper wire that they could sell. They found the body lying behind a burned-out tank and ran home.’

‘What made them think he was British?’ said Mac.

Jananga spoke to them again. There was a moment’s silence. The father grasped one of the boys on the shoulder and said something that Mac took to be a prompt. The boy touched his upper arm and said a few words, amid which Mac heard a reference to ‘Englishstan’.

Jananga translated. ‘The body was in uniform. He saw the flag of Englandstan on the sleeve of the man’s jacket.’

The man spoke again and held out his open hand. On his palm lay a heavy metal disk, about three centimetres in diameter. It was heavily tarnished, almost black, but there was some sort of relief design on the visible face. A metal loop had been soldered to the rim, and a length

Reviews for Death in Kabul

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

law-enforcement, action-adventure, Afghanistan, adversity, ex-cop, ex-military, journalist, antiquities-trade, murder-investigation, theft, thriller, mercenaries*****Former Met homicide cop in London Mac is now working with a mercenary company in Afghanistan when he gets tagged to work with Kabul police to investigate the murder of a British man in uniform. Things in Kabul are worlds different from the tidy compartmentalized workings of Scotland Yard and it gets positively insane when the British army gets involved and tries to take over. But it's not their jurisdiction. And Mac is only there to assist.Baz Khan is an investigative journalist whose father had been curator of the Kabul Museum which has been bleeding artifacts in recent times. Her work is more than difficult because she was born in the US but has to conform to Afghani norms in public.Mac and friends cross paths with Baz when it turns out that the murder victim was in the antiquities trade! Great realistic characters and likely events.Fast paced thriller set in a world apart. Loved it!I requested and received a free e-book copy from Canelo via NetGalley. Thank you!