She blinked. She could remember the car!
The thought had drifted out of nowhere as she lay thinking about her mother. She remembered leaving work with Sayeed and Sarah, and going to the car. They’d taken the short walk together, around the corner to where they hid the car in a backstreet.
It was never a good idea to park outside of the clinic. No westerner was truly welcome in Afghanistan. The goal of removing the Taliban and crushing Al-Qaeda might have been the reason, or the excuse—depending on who you asked—but the country had been devastated by a fight that showed no sign of ending. The uniforms and the men holding the guns might change, the factions involved waxed and waned; but the fight was always the same, and the result always seemed to be injured children. Westerners were always going to be resented by some, and the fact she was Australian, not American or European, would be of no help.
Parking outside the clinic just advertised which car was theirs and she’d seen far too many burned-out wrecks to fall into that trap. They’d made their way home the same as many other nights, Sayeed driving and Mackenzie in the front next to him. Sarah was always dropped off first, her place was closer—an ex-embassy property that she shared with four other aid-workers.
“Oh my God!” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but the silence took it and amplified it.
She remembered the water. Sayeed had offered her a bottle of water as they set off after dropping Sarah. She’d only taken a couple of sips.
“It tasted funny.” She mouthed the words, barely giving voice to them.
Sayeed was an Afghan who had been brought in to work as both a translator and a driver. He’d been hired in Kabul but wasn’t local to the city. Like so many, he’d drifted in to Kabul as the fighting wore on, then never quite managed to leave. Working for the Red Cross was easy money. He translated when necessary, did some light carrying and fetching, and drove some of the workers home at the end of the day.
Had he drugged her?
The more she thought about it, the more plausible it became. The bottle had been in a zipped up cool-bag, nestled between the two front seats, but the car had been a furnace when they first got in. Hours in the Kabul sun had superheated the air inside the vehicle and they’d had to open the doors and wait a few minutes before they could climb in. Even after waiting, they were both sweating within seconds. Saving the water until after they dropped Sarah off seemed odd now.
He had drugged her!
She was suddenly sure of it. She remembered going to the car with Sarah clearly. She remembered dropping her off. It was only after that when her memory grew blurry. All she could recall with any clarity was sipping the water, and making a face at the taste. That, and Sayeed urging her to drink more. To stay hydrated in the heat, he told her.
“Bastard!” she spat.
That son of a bitch had drugged her.
“Sayeed!” she screamed, hurling her fury at the black glass windows across the room. “You son of a bitch, let me out of here! Let me out!”
Her only answer was a single red light which blinked into life on the other side of the glass. She frowned as she peered at it. She’d assumed that the glass was tinted, but maybe it was just dark on the other side of it. The light was small, no bigger than the blunt end of a pencil. A power light, she thought. Or a recording light. The slimy bastard was filming her.
“Sayeed, you little shit. You let me out of here right now!”
There was no answer. She hadn’t really expected one.
She sagged back against the frame and her anger slipped away like quicksilver. The temper was her mother’s, too. Her father had always been the calm one. He had to be, she supposed. He was the calm, rational one, thinking a way through a problem whilst her mother raged at it.
She frowned. This couldn’t be Sayeed, she realised. The room she was in was constructed of poured concrete. The sluice and the drainage grate below her were well-made, probably custom fitted. He didn’t have the money for anything like this.
“But the water…” she muttered, trailing off into silence. The answer was obvious. So apparent that it defied any argument, and the truth of it left her cold. He couldn’t possibly afford this place. This wasn’t a kidnapping; he’d drugged her and then passed her on.
He’d sold her.
She’d been bought and sold like a piece of meat.
CHAPTER FIVE
It didn’t take me long to pack. I didn’t own a lot, and most of what I did have wouldn’t be of much use in Afghanistan. I was done in twenty minutes, an entire life bundled into one duffel bag. I’m used to spending most of the day asleep, a life spent in casinos tends to do that to you, so I wasn’t really equipped for killing daylight hours. I passed the time watching daytime television and waiting for the phone I didn’t want to bleep at me. I don’t really recommend either one of them.
McCourt’s phone call naturally waited until I’d been exposed to the full range of low-budget quiz shows and pregnant women hurling abuse at their unfaithful ex-lovers. Jim was good to his word—my flight was booked for Eleven the next morning. Kabul via Istanbul.
I spent the rest of the time cleaning out the flat. If I was going to be gone for six months, I’d rather come back to something that didn’t stink. That was assuming I made it back alive, of course. You can only spend so long cleaning, and I lived a pretty spartan life, so it didn’t take long. Once I’d beaten the bacon-based life-form in the fridge into submission, and removed the toxic milk, it was largely a matter of tidying up; which left entirely too much time for thinking.
I admired the bruises on my face a few times in the bathroom mirror. The swelling was coming down on my lip, but the bruise on my cheek was coming up nicely. I’d look great by the time I got to Kabul.
I’ve become pretty good at lying to myself over the years. I suspect that it’s a skill that anyone in a high-stress situation develops. Yes, you can convince your wife that working late is necessary, and it won’t develop into a screaming row. No, the bank isn’t going to repossess your house if you miss another mortgage payment. Of course that isn’t an IED tucked underneath the front of that car and your squad isn’t about to be blown to bits. It’s something that goes with the territory, and I’d got pretty good at putting my worries about Cresswell and my debts onto a shelf in the back of my mind. With the flat tidy, and nothing else to do, they came back with full force.
The weather beyond the flat’s windows was miserable—grey and wet and unappealing. Definitely a day best spent inside… except I wanted to be out. I’ve never been good at being cooped up. I had a day to kill, and I would have preferred to be outside. I hate nothing more than the feeling of being caged.
Worrying about Cresswell didn’t help. By midmorning I’d caught myself twice, checking the street outside for suspicious cars, or men who might be watching the flat. Both times I managed to give myself a kick and laugh at myself. Cresswell wasn’t watching the flat, and if he was, I wasn’t going to spot him by twitching the curtains.
I forced myself to relax, which was almost as successful as it sounds. I spent a fruitless ten minutes looking for a book I hadn’t read five times or more, then switched the television back on, only to turn it off five minutes later. I even sank so low as to mess around on McCourt’s phone, sending him a couple of texts to arrange for payment of my bills, and to deal with Cresswell when the time came.
I left early the next morning, too early if I’m honest, but I wanted to be gone. I wanted to be out from under Cresswell’s boot. I needed breathing space, even if that meant Kabul. I took the underground to Heathrow and checked in without issue. From there it was just a matter of passing through security and killing more time. At least if any of Cresswell’s thugs had followed me to the airport, they wouldn’t be able to get through security. Once through there, I could relax a bit.
I fed my bag through the x-ray machine, stepped through the scanners whilst ignoring the stares the security staff levelled at my battered face, and set off to find so
me breakfast. Food at Heathrow is expensive. It is in most airports. There’s really nowhere to go, nothing to do, and until you board the plane, there’s nowhere to eat but the over-priced restaurants. Despite this, I always went for the biggest breakfast I could find. I knew, I was a captive audience and I was going to pay through the nose for it, but for some reason I didn’t care.
I ate in a bar that doubled as a restaurant. I ordered coffee and sipped at it while I waited for the food to be ready. The place was busy, but then Heathrow doesn’t ever really get quiet. I amused myself by people-watching for a while, noting the three or four groups who were already drinking beer. They were either on connecting flights, or starting their holidays before they reached the beach, or even the plane.
The food was good; a full English breakfast that I was putting away at speed until the figure sank into the chair opposite me. I stiffened until I realised who it was.
“Fuck, I miss bacon,” Johnson moaned, looking down at my plate as he bled all over the chair.
“Piss off, Johnson,” I muttered around another mouthful. I closed my eyes and sighed as I realised what I’d done. I only have three basic rules in civilian life: don’t drink in the daytime, don’t stay at the table when your luck’s run out, and don’t talk to the visitors.
“Bit rude, mate,” Johnson chided. “Your buddy Cresswell getting to you? You want to relax a bit more. Try meditation, or yoga.” He put his palms together and took a deep breath as he closed his eyes.
I swore under my breath and crammed one last mouthful in before I stood and walked out, leaving Johnson to meditate in peace. The plate was still more than half-full, but no rule is complete unless it comes with a punishment.
I found an empty row of seats at the boarding gate and sat down with my book, glaring at anyone who thought to sit too close or try to start a conversation. My cock-up with Johnson had put me in a foul mood and I sat staring at the pages of the book, chewing over how badly I’d bungled things, until it came time to board.
The plane was almost full, and I slid into my window seat quickly, plugging the headphones in straight away. I liked to fly, but I wasn’t in the mood to get trapped into hours of conversation. The headphones would serve as a visible “piss off” sign to anyone seated next to me. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. That seat was one of the few left empty.
I pulled out my book again and ignored the safety briefing. I’ve flown a lot, and on planes a damned sight more dangerous than this. I looked out the window and watched take off. For some reason I’ve always been fascinated by it. There’s something profoundly unnatural about the way a plane throws itself into the air.
It was about an hour into the flight that I felt a kicking into the back of my seat. Every few minutes; kick, kick, kick. A glance between the seats showed a frazzled-looking mother in her early forties trying to calm a young man, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old.
He stared back at me and then loudly asked his mother about my bruises.
“I’m sorry,” she told me. “Flying always upsets him.”
I gave her a smile to tell her not to worry about it. The kid very obviously had some kind of mental disability.
“Fuck off, Jasmine!” the boy said, looking at me with a smile.
“He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s Tourette’s,” the mother said, wincing her apology. I smiled again. This was going to be a long flight.
I managed to lose myself in an in-flight film for a while. An action movie with a giant ape and some overly-pretty English actor. At least Hollywood seemed to have learned how people hold guns now. I grew up watching the A-Team on Saturday evenings, watching Hannibal fire off fifty rounds from a clip that only holds thirty at best, and managing to be a crack shot despite firing from the hip. I’ve learned differently since then; it’s not that easy to knock someone unconscious with a single blow, you can’t blow a car up by shooting into the back of it, explosions aren’t always a giant ball of fire. Frankly, the A-Team has a lot to answer for.
“Fuck off, Jasmine!” the kid behind me bellowed. Maybe he was yelling at the giant ape.
Yeah, I thought. Fuck off, Jasmine.
I joined the army as young as they’d let me in, learned the basics and did my time until I’d worked out which end of the gun was the dangerous one, then I ended up doing something I would never have predicted.
Most people have heard of the SAS, Britain’s elite special forces. These are the guys you call in to get the job done. Soldiers who appear out of nowhere, zip-lining down from a helicopter. We didn’t even admit they existed until after that business with the Iranian embassy in 1980. The SAS walk softly and carry a big stick, going behind enemy lines to take out vital targets on ops that will never really be admitted to.
I ended up in the SRR, the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, and that’s something different entirely. The SRR are ghosts. We’re smoke on the wind. We pass through without leaving a trace, and leave you thinking our footprints are your own—or dead.
I must have fallen asleep at some point. I dream often, though I rarely remember them, and I woke as we were on final approach into Istanbul with the taste of dust in my mouth, and the imprints of my fingernails in my palms. I blinked myself awake as we landed and taxied to the terminal. I stayed in my seat while everyone else rushed to stand up and queue for the door. I’ll never understand why people do this, it’s not as if there was anywhere to go until the doors opened.
Istanbul Ataturk Airport is a decompression point. For many, it’s the first time they step outside their comfort zone and realise that not everyone in the world speaks English and eats at Burger King. The ubiquitous Starbucks and Cafe Nero were still there, along with the standard western fast-food places; but intermingled with them were Turkish cafes and restaurants selling everything from elaborate pastries, to menemen and kofti. I grabbed a sandwich and a Coke, fully embracing the culture, and made my way to my next gate.
It was another four-hour flight to Kabul. This plane was quieter, and I got some more sleep before we touched down on the sun-blasted runway. The heat hit me as I made my way down the steps and followed the other passengers into the terminal. Hot, loud, and dirty sums up my lasting memories of Hamid Karzai airport. I doubted the place had changed much and I wasn’t wrong. Baggage collection was fast today for some reason, so that was something, and I grabbed my pack and headed to immigration.
Passport control was a mess. It usually was. The lines were long and slow-moving. Bored soldiers from the Afghan National Security Forces wandered aimlessly in pairs, hands on their weapons. I scanned the hall and spotted the man I wanted, holding a card with “Thompson” written on it. I wove through the lines towards him, nodding a greeting as I approached.
“Mr Thompson?” he asked as I drew closer.
I nodded again.
“My name is Mujib. I am Mr Gharfour’s head of security.” His greeting was friendly enough, but his eyes were calculating as he took my measure. To his credit they passed over my bruises without pause. I was almost impressed.
I smiled and reached to shake his hand. He was a shorter man, slightly over-weight, and dressed in a strange semblance of a uniform; plain trousers and a shirt, with combat boots and a cap. Take the boots and cap away and he would have looked like everyone else. Apparently boots and a cap were all it took. Put a gun in his hand and that made him private security.
“Nice to meet you, Mujib. Have you made arrangements?” I asked with a look at the immigration officers.
Mujib followed my gaze. “It will not be a problem, sir. This way, please.”
Immigration in Afghanistan can be a nightmare. Most foreigners need to register their presence in the country, a requirement that goes over and above the need for a visa. Mujib led me past the lines of frustrated travellers, to the officials in their kiosks. A nod and a smile were all that my immigration process involved. I looked across to the other lines as we passed through, where a German reporter was arguing at another kiosk in
thickly accented English. My passport never even left my bag. I smiled at the reporter and held my hand up, rubbing my thumb and fingers together. He’d know better for next time, I guess. Kabul works on a system of bribes. It’s not so much the grease that keeps the cogs turning, but rather the grime that stops the machine falling apart entirely.
Mujib escorted me out of the airport and into the heat. I knew from the pilot’s announcement that it was going to be hot. Thirty degrees Celsius is about eighty-six in Fahrenheit. It’s silly but I’ve always used Fahrenheit for the higher temperatures, I have done since I was a kid. It’s probably because it sounds more extreme at either end of the spectrum. Some things we never grow out of, I suppose.
The car sat baking in the steady heat. Already the dust was getting to me. It was like walking into a dream, or a nightmare. The smells of dust and hot plastic had followed me home. They’d haunted me, accompanying every hallucinated visitor, every flashback. Now I’d walked willingly into that smell. It was like I was welcoming a nightmare with open arms. I paused for a moment beside the car as Mujib climbed in. It would be all too easy to just go back into the airport, book myself a flight and go home. In hindsight, maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had.
Mujib drove a white Toyota Corolla, like just about everyone else in Afghanistan. About eight out of every ten cars in this place were Corollas. It’s like they came here to die. Except the Afghans don’t let them die. Servicing and repairing them was a cottage industry here. They kept going until they fell apart. Or until they were blown up, of course.
The Lore of Prometheus Page 4