The Road to Afghanistan - George Washington University

“What was the script of the drama? Who was the producer? Why was it necessary toput the ambassador’s life at risk? What kind of terrorists were they? Why was the terroristwho voluntarily turned himself in to the authorities also murdered? What will the next actof the play bring?” The Anarchist was enumerating the questions, trying to imitateStarostin. “I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. I keep thinking about it, and when I thinkinstead of drinking whisky, I get a headache. I fear, my dear curious friend, that I will neverbe able to share this horrible secret with you.”The Anarchist downed his next glass of whisky and poured himself another. Heremained silent for a minute, observing the candle flickering on the table, and touched theedge of the candle top with his thin, shaking finger. Then, grinning, he continued.“Yesterday, right after I learned about the death of Mr. Dubs, I went to our embassy.The atmosphere there was very tense. Nobody paid any attention to me. Some were busy;some simply didn’t want to speak with me. They seemed to be hiding from each other. Ispoke a little bit with Malinowsky. You know him. He works in the Political Section. Hedidn’t seem to me to be terribly sad, but he was very angry.”“Angry at whom?”“At the Afghans. He couldn’t believe that the police rather than security operativeswere in charge of rescuing the ambassador. Marik Warren was the most talkative. He is aconsul—you know him too.”“What did he say?”“Specifically?”“Yes.”321