The Mandrake File by Cedric Bannel

Author:Cedric Bannel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC031000, FIC037000, FIC006000
Publisher: Scribe Publications Pty Ltd
Published: 2012-07-02T00:00:00+00:00

11.

OSAMA WAS IN ONE OF THE INTERROGATION CELLS, working on a man accused of having killed his neighbour with a pickaxe. The motive? A cart of vegetables, which the murderer coveted so he could start a corner shop of his own. He denied the crime, but blood had been found on him, as well as the pickaxe, which was hidden in his house. He should have thrown it away, but it had cost five hundred afghanis, so he wanted to keep it. Now he would spend thirty years in Pul e Charki — unless the courts decided to hang him instead. Osama let Rangin finish the interrogation: as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. He walked past the holding room. Another two men were waiting in handcuffs — one for having beaten his wife to death; the other, for murdering a peasant by shooting him in the head. Osama took the second man into his office, hands secured behind his back. Jihad sat him down on a chair and slipped out.

‘This man you shot,’ asked Osama, ‘did you know him?’

‘Na.’

‘Never seen him in your life?’

‘Na.’

‘Why did you kill him?’

‘To try out my gun.’

‘Explain,’ said Osama, taken aback.

‘I bet a friend five hundred afghanis that, God willing, I could hit a target from three hundred metres with my old rifle — a 1925 Lee Enfield, a top-quality weapon. This man was standing there on a ridge, not moving. He was three hundred metres away. I couldn’t find any other target at the right distance, so I shot him.’

‘He was a shepherd, looking after his flock.’

‘I didn’t see the sheep, otherwise I would have shot one of them. The shepherd was a difficult target. I hit him right in the head on the first shot,’ said the man proudly.

‘His name was Nuredin Malkiour. He was forty-four years old. Now he’s dead, and his wife is alone, with seven children to feed.’

‘She still has the flock of sheep, so she won’t starve to death, Insha’Allah.’

Osama stared at the accused to see if he was taking the piss, but he was perfectly serious. Osama couldn’t find an ounce of remorse in his eyes. In the end, he called Rangin.

‘Take him back to the cells.’

‘What shall we charge him with?’

‘Voluntary manslaughter. Call the prosecutor’s office.’

The man would be lucky to escape hanging. An orderly appeared at the door.

‘Qomaandaan! Someone at reception is asking for you.’

Osama went, still distressed by the interrogation of the rifleman. Kalkana the public scribe was sitting on a rickety bench in the reception area with a satchel on his lap, looking shy. Osama hugged him.

‘I’m happy to see you. I’ve had a day full of nutters; it feels like the most moronic idiots in all Kabul have been conspiring to give me grief.’

‘I have what you want,’ said his friend, taking a parcel out of his satchel. ‘Two powder tests, made in Turkey. Very reliable, apparently. The expiry date is more than nine months away.’

DORTMUND LAY in a squalid NDS cell, somewhere in the sprawling basement beneath headquarters.

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