The military officer examined McGarvey’s passport and CIA-forged visa stamp, looked over at him and then made another brief phone call. When he was finished he came over with the customs inspector. Neither of them smiled, though the military officer didn’t seem as nervous or as belligerent as the inspector, and his British-accented English was much better.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Afghanistan?”
“Business,” McGarvey said. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that one of the soldiers at the turnstiles was watching them.
“This is a diplomatic passport. What sort of business?”
“Actually I’ve been sent over by my government to inspect our old embassy building.”
The officer’s thin lips compressed beneath his luxuriant dark mustache. “Open your bags.”
McGarvey did as he was told, and the officer rifled through the clothes, which included a pair of soft boots and bush jacket. He pulled out a toiletries kit and looked through it, then picked up a small leather pouch.
“What is this?”
“A camera,” McGarvey said.
The officer handed it to the customs inspector. “There are no cameras permitted in Afghanistan.” He turned his attention to the computer. “Switch it on.”
McGarvey did it, and Windows 98 came up on the LCD screen. A few seconds later the icons appeared. He brought up the file manager and clicked on one named: emb-k. A picture of the U.S. embassy in Kabul was displayed.
The officer was impressed despite himself. He gave McGarvey an appraising look. “You will need permission from the Ministry of Security before you can inspect this building.”
McGarvey held his gaze for a beat, then nodded. “I understand.”
“You will also be required to have an escort.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take everything out of your pockets.”
McGarvey complied, laying his ballpoint, wallet, handkerchief, comb, several hundred dollars and change, penknife and satellite phone on the counter.
The officer eyed the money, but picked up the phone which was about the size of a pack of cigarettes. “What is this?”
“A telephone.”
“Portable phones are not permitted in Afghanistan,” he said, and he handed it to the customs inspector.
“In that case I’ll stay right here until the next flight leaves, and I’ll be on it”
“It is the law.” The officer straightened up.
“You have my camera, but I’ll keep my phone.” McGarvey took a hundred dollar bill from the pile and slid it across the counter.
“What is the meaning of this?” the officer said, recoiling.
“It’s for my telephone permit,” McGarvey said with a straight face. “It’s the same in most other countries. The money goes to your Ministry of Communications. It’s a licensing fee, do you understand?”
The military officer motioned sharply for one of the guards to come over. “Search hint.”
McGarvey spread his arms and legs, and the young bearded soldier quickly frisked him. When he was finished he stepped back and shook his head. McGarvey noticed that the hundred dollar bill was gone.
The tension in the hall was very high. Some of the other armed guards, seeing that something was going on, had unslung their rifles. Most of the other passengers had already cleared customs and were gone, but the few who were left behind looked over, then quickly averted then eyes. No one wanted to get involved.
After another few seconds, the officer took the satellite phone from the inspector and laid it down on the counter with McGarvey’s other things. “A car and driver will take you directly to the Inter-Continental, Mr. McGarvey. Do not leave the hotel until you are given permission to do so. It is you who must understand.”
It was the mistake McGarvey had waited for. He’d not mentioned the hotel, nor was it listed on his travel documents. Bin Laden’s reach was still in place with the Taliban religious government.
“Yes, sir.”
The customs inspector filled out an entry permit, inserted it in McGarvey’s passport and laid it on the counter. He and the military officer watched as McGarvey gathered his things, closed his bag and computer and headed for the turnstiles. He could feel every eye on him. But he was here in Kabul at bin Laden’s sufferance, and for the time being no one would interfere with him.
A filthy, battered Mercedes taxi was waiting outside the terminal for him when McGarvey emerged into the glaringly bright sunlight. There wasn’t a cloud in the crystal clear blue sky. The haze he’d seen from the air was not noticeable here on the ground. It was very hot, nearly a hundred degrees, but very dry, and the air smelted like a combination of burned kerojet, diesel exhaust fumes and something else, like burning charcoal in a backyard barbecue. A dusty, ancient, foreign smell with strange undertones.
On the drive into the city, made long because the roads were not very good, and because the young cabbie took his time, McGarvey caught his first good look at Kabul, which had been heavily damaged in the civil war and continued fighting since the Russians had left. The sprawling city, nestled in between rugged, treeless mountains was composed primarily of what looked like adobe huts and other small buildings hidden behind mud walls. They passed over the Kabul River several times, coming into the city center, but at this time of the year it was more like a muddy, dried up creek or open sewer than an actual stream. Nearly everything was old, ramshackle and run- down, even in a part of the city center he was able to see as they passed. Most of the bomb damage had not been repaired, and in some places the rubble hadn’t even been cleared from the streets and the cabbie had to maneuver around it. On either side of Bebe-Maihro Street were rat warrens of kiosks, shops and stalls along narrow dirt streets. It was Sunday afternoon, but traffic was very light, not many people out and about. McGarvey got the impression that people were hiding behind the walls of their compounds, waiting for something, or perhaps simply existing one day to the next. He’d never been to a place that seemed so cheerless, so devoid of life, so filled with dark for boding and the hairs at the nape of his neck bristled.
Coming in he had caught a glimpse of the old U.S. embassy building, but from a block away he could not see any real damage, though he spotted a military jeep and at least two soldiers out front.
Pushunistan Square at the city’s center seemed mostly intact, the four-story government buildings in reasonably good repair, though everything he’d seen so far that wasn’t shot up or broken was in bad need of paint or at least a good cleaning. There was more traffic here, and the parking areas in front of the buildings were filled with battered Russian cars from the seventies, a few older-model American cars and a number of Russian and Chinese jeeps.
A few minutes later the cabbie pulled into the driveway of the Inter-Continental. He turned around and gave McGarvey a shy, warm, toothless smile. “Mista, you will pay in American dollars?”
There was no official exchange rate between the afghani and the dollar, and in fact most of the economy now was based on what little foreign currency there was available. McGarvey handed the kid a twenty dollar bill, which seemed to make him happy. He held out another twenty.
“Is there a decent restaurant somewhere nearby?”
The cabbie took the question very seriously, and after a couple of seconds, he nodded and smiled again, then took the money. “This hotel has very good food. The very best You should stay here. You can get alcohol, and they have television.”
“Right,” McGarvey said, and returned the young man’s smile. An Afghani might slit your throat because you were the enemy, but first he would make sure that you were happy and that he hadn’t offended you. Honor was just as important to them as their pride, which was intense.
The Inter-Continental, which had been one of the only decent hotels by Western standards in Kabul, was now the only hotel for Westerners. Once upon a time it had been among the best public buildings in the city, but despite obvious attempts to keep up, the hotel was run-down and even shabby.
The lobby was deserted, and the only clerk at the long reception desk had a long, sad face behind his thick beard, as if he were getting set at any moment to burst into tears apologizing for the sorry state of the hotel. McGarvey signed the registration slip with his own pen. His gold VISA card was refused and the clerk would only accept two hundred dollars in cash for one night, being vague about payment for the remainder of McGarvey’s stay,
