The Girl in Green

by Derek B. Miller

  ‘The girl,’ Benton says. ‘You know exactly where it happened?’

  ‘The mortar attack? Yeah.’

  ‘They weren’t specific in the news reports. It was between small villages.’

  ‘The coordinates were in the sitrep from the UN,’ Arwood says, pushing two stapled pieces of white paper across the desk. The top reads, ‘UN STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL (File reference: 0009/22-14, Security Information Sensitivity, Classification and Handling) 1600 hrs EST 22 September 2013 DSS-IRAQ Daily Situation Report, Events and information pertaining to UN staff safety and security over the last 24 hours in Iraq …’

  ‘Where’d you get this?’ Benton asks.

  ‘The NGO. It’s not really confidential. Everyone on the mailing list gets one.’

  Benton skims the note and slides it back.

  ‘I used it to get more details, and asked around a bit, and I now have very accurate GPS coordinates. I’m off by metres.’

  ‘Made an impression here?’ Benton asks.

  ‘No. People know about it because it’s on the news, but the internationals aren’t interested. Most people here don’t think the Kurds did it, but they’re so factionalised and unpredictable one never knows. The locals are numb to this stuff. It was one of a dozen attacks this week alone. Only reason it comes up in conversation at all is because it came with art. All eyes are on the Syrian side. Assad’s as much of a fuckin’ psycho as Saddam ever was. Everyone at the camp here is mostly concerned with what’s walking or being dragged across the border. No one understands why we’re bothering to go look. I tried to be convincing but I wasn’t, so you’ll need to come up with an explanation. I can’t think of one. And the truth sounds nuts.’

  ‘The truth is nuts. It’s comforting to know it sounds that way.’

  ‘What little we know is that everyone hauled arse after the attack. Left the bodies behind. The zone’s hot. No one’s been back since. Al-Nusra and ISIL are in the area now. They hate each other. You know these guys? ISIL is al-Qaeda, but apparently even al-Qaeda hates them, because they aren’t following orders and seem to have their own plans. This story is definitely going to develop.’

  There are two empty chairs by the table. Benton imagines the girl in green sitting in one of them, flipping through a fashion magazine while sipping a Coke Light from a clear straw as the scent of the fragrant pages wafts upward, casting a spell of glamour and luxury and permanence. He can’t decide which of the two girls he’s seeing. He doesn’t believe they were the same girl. But he doesn’t know enough about them to tell them apart.

  Charlotte, his daughter, was fourteen once, too. That’s what she did, sitting at the kitchen table in Fowey, at breakfast, as Benton tried to lay down the law about soft drinks. Vanessa was no help. The women ignored him. Why wouldn’t they? Coke Light makes you thinner.

  ‘Kurds didn’t do it,’ Arwood says.

  ‘Video says they did. The world believes the video.’

  ‘Cameras lie.’

  ‘I thought the line was, “The camera never lies,”’ Benton says.

  ‘That’s the line, but it’s not true. Cameras lie because they’re held by people.’

  ‘You’ve changed,’ Benton says.

  ‘It’s the mileage.’

  ‘Whose office is this?’ Benton asks.

  ‘I don’t want to tell you yet,’ Arwood says. ‘There’s not gonna be a lot of fun on this trip. A little. But not much.’

  ‘I’m a little past surprises.’

  ‘Then you’re in the wrong place.’

  ‘Tell me. Please.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hint: FFCs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Flying frozen chickens.’

  ‘That’s your hint?’

  ‘You don’t remember Perdue’s Revenge?’

  ‘Do I remember frozen chickens falling from the sky? Yes.’

  ‘So …What’s your guess?’

  ‘Why are you punishing me?’

  ‘Let me make this more simple. Do you remember getting laid that night?’

  ‘You were gone. How do you know what happened that night?’

  ‘As it happens,’ Arwood says, ‘all those refugees outside who look like props are actually people with eyes and opinions. So … think blondes.’

  ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘Märta Ström. Or however she pronounces it.’

  ‘Märta’s here?’

  ‘She could walk in any minute. She knows you’re here. I talked to that Spanish assistant of hers. In fact, she was supposed to be here when you arrived. But she’s not. If I were you, I’d read something into it.’

  ‘What did she say when you said I’d be here?’

  ‘That’s your first question?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Is she well?’

  ‘Yeah. She seems fine-ish. This lifestyle isn’t the best for Nordic skin — all the sun and all. At least she doesn’t have vitamin D deficiency.’

  ‘You two have stayed in touch all these years?’

  ‘No. I know people in the region, though. She’s got a helluva reputation for being hardcore. Unlike you, she has not taken her foot off the throttle. Could have been director at any number of places, but she still prefers the field. I got in touch through channels. Turns out, she remembers us. I think we made an impression.’

  ‘She probably remembers you for walking through a minefield.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t do that anymore. Not literally, anyway.’

  ‘Did she seem … pleased to hear from you?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s got a better poker face than the Russians.’

  ‘She was reserved on the outside. Maybe she’s still like that.’

  ‘It’s because she’s blonde,’ Arwood says. ‘I think it’s the eyebrows. Harder to track blonde eyebrows in low-light situations. The proof is that you never have to wonder what the Greeks are feeling. Or the Italians. Or the Spanish. Or the Arabs—’

  ‘I get the idea.’

  ‘Japanese. Jews. Jamaicans—’

  ‘Thank you, Arwood.’

  ‘Anyone south of the Rio Grande—’

  ‘I’m going to take one of your cigarettes,’ Benton says.

  ‘Happy, sad, angry, and blank. That’s what blondes give you,’ Arwood says.

  ‘I didn’t know about the dishonourable discharge,’ Benton says.

  ‘They call it other-than-honourable, which is nice, because it lets people guess.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You saw what happened.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘You know what I did to Harvey.’

  ‘They were extraordinary circumstances. If that was the result, then they overreacted.’

  ‘It’s the army, Benton. They overreact for a living.’

  There are no cars at night. No tyres on roads, no teenagers driving too fast, or taxis refusing to let people merge. There is only the hum of the generators. Above, the stars are orderly, and separated by vast distances.

  One sound catches Benton’s attention — a stringed instrument. The player is skilled, and the song is sad. It is coming from a place nearby, out in the night.

  ‘It’s a buzuq,’ says Arwood quietly, guessing Benton’s question. ‘Looks like a mandolin with a long neck. He’s not half bad, this guy. He’s been playing out there for almost a week. Families sometimes go and listen to him.’

  ‘What’s the plan tomorrow?’ Benton asks.

  Arwood reaches down into a drab-green rucksack and takes out a neon-green document holder and an iPad. He places both on the table. He removes a foldout map of Iraq, Syria, and Turkey that already has highlighted routes, destinations, and sticky notes on it.

  ‘When did you do all this?’

  ‘Mostly after I saw the news. Same day I called you.
As soon as I saw her, I knew we were coming. I started calling in favours and moving money around. Isn’t it amazing how much the people in this part of the world remember? When they say they’ll never forget something, they don’t. And kids … they grow up so fast. I feel like I’ve got clarity again. Don’t you think so, too?’

  ‘Kids grow up fast, yes. I have no clarity, no,’ Benton says.

  Arwood points to the border between Syria and Iraq. ‘There’s a pontoon bridge that went up in August last year between Syria and Iraq at Peshkhabour. Way up north. Looks like a road over the Tigris. They’re streaming in from Aleppo, Efrin, Hassakeh, and Qamishli.’ Arwood points to the Syrian cities and villages. ‘The video we saw was taken here,’ he says, pointing to a spot east-south-east of the bridge. ‘It was a humanitarian food convoy. They were dropping off some provisions for a mobile medical unit handing out water and rations to the refugees walking in. There was a lot of food there. Food’s a commodity here.’

  Benton looks at Arwood, and tries to read his face.

  ‘You’re still holding to this fantasy that she’s alive?’

  ‘It’s a big maybe, I admit, but I think she’s there. Waiting for us.’

  ‘Maybe? That’s what’s anchoring our strategy?’

  ‘No. My hunch is what’s anchoring it. My gut. My feeling that we’ve got nothing better to do, so let’s go find out.’

  ‘It was three days ago, Arwood. There are rumours stretching all the way to Lebanon about children being abducted and their organs being harvested for international buyers. They abduct ten-year-olds and strap bombs to their chests, telling them that they’ll be fine and that only the other people will get hurt. The idea that she’s still there and needs us to rescue her is … well, it’s lunacy.’

  Arwood reaches into a bag under the table and takes out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and places it next to the Marlboro Lights. He takes two plastic cups and then pours them both generous portions. He’s clearly done with Nescafé.

  ‘Listen to me, Thomas,’ Arwood says, with an intimacy that pushes away the years. ‘I believe that we were called back here. This one single attack. I’ve checked the numbers, Benton. I’ve become quite good at numbers over the years. The chances of its being filmed at all, of its being shown, of me seeing it and both of us seeing her … chances that low require a poetic kind of maths. The State Department documented over 6,700 separate terrorist attacks worldwide in 2012 alone. Those 6,700 attacks killed over 11,000 people. More than 21,000 injured. Almost 1,300 taken hostage or kidnapped. These aren’t war statistics, man,’ Arwood says. ‘These are peace statistics. Mission accomplished, and all that.’

  Benton sips his blended whiskey, and says nothing.

  ‘I’m not even including state-driven slaughter in Syria or the DRC, or Sudan, or Pick-a-stan. And in this year of tears? 2013? Gonna be even worse by the time we’re done. But the camera eye caught this one. And we saw it. And we alone know what it means. And to ignore that is to turn your back on this big old goofy world and all its mysteries. So you’re coming with me. Because somewhere in that soft belly is that gonzo journalist who once walked into a Shiite stronghold for a story and an ice-cream cone. So let’s go into the desert and find what we find, including the girl. That’s my speech. You want a better one, you call Bill Murray.’

  Outside, the stars shine, the men talk, and the buzuq sings a song for which there will never be any words.

  11

  The interior walls of the prefabricated office are the off-white of a 1970s space station. When the door opens, the whiteness falls away into dead space. The illusion is so complete that Benton is startled not to be pushed into the cosmos.

  Instead of an astronaut stepping in, though, it is a time traveller. She is still blonde and still attractive, both for the qualities she has and those that remind him of the woman he once knew. She is fuller than when Benton last saw her, which is not unpleasing, and her eyes have turned from a glassy blue to a fine lead crystal.

  Benton glances at her eyebrows. ‘Hello, Märta,’ he says.

  ‘Hello, Thomas.’

  Märta settles into one of the visitor chairs in front of her own desk. She looks at Thomas Benton. He has darkened with time. His face is fractured: it has become more delicate, like old pottery.

  She smiles.

  He smiles at her.

  Neither says a word.

  ‘Oh, come on, people,’ Arwood says. ‘The line is, “Of all the refugee camps in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.” It’s sitting there like a penny.’

  ‘I forgot you were a movie buff,’ Märta says.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Arwood asks her, deciding that Benton has passed on his own chance to speak. ‘I thought you’d have been here hours ago.’

  ‘I’ve had a very bad day.’

  ‘Compared to what?’ Arwood asks.

  ‘Every other day for the past few months,’ she says.

  Even Arwood has no reply to that.

  ‘What happened?’ Benton asks.

  Benton’s voice is as soft as she remembered it. It is familiar, but changed. It is lower. It is older. Which is to be expected.

  ‘This is as bad as I’ve ever seen it. The Syrian government is performing summary executions in al-Bayda and Baniyas. They’re aerial-bombing civilian populations. They’re razing entire neighborhoods. Everyone’s focussed on the chemical-weapons attacks, but they weren’t even the worst atrocities. Aleppo is a nightmare. They’re targetting doctors — did you know this? Targetted assassinations of medical personnel, so they can’t help the wounded. They’re using unprecedented kinds of cluster munitions, supplied by the Russians. They’re—’

  ‘We know,’ Benton says quietly.

  ‘It bears repeating, though, doesn’t it? The World Food Programme is demanding access to get food into areas where the Assad regime is actually besieging and starving to death the local population as a means of warfare. They’re collecting people — thousands — and murdering them, documenting it, and lying to the families about their fates. The Guardian is reporting on ten-year-olds having their teeth pulled out with pliers. And then Assad says, on US national television, no less, “No government in the world kills its people unless it’s led by a crazy person.” They seem to suffer no cognitive dissonance when they say this.’

  ‘We know,’ Benton says.

  ‘And meanwhile, these people calling themselves ISIS, or ISIL, or whatever it is—’

  ‘Märta. We really do know.’

  ‘Do we really?’

  This wasn’t the first conversation Benton wanted to have.

  ‘A few months ago,’ he says, trying to regain ground, ‘one of my colleagues got sick, and they asked me to go to Syria. I had to report on the beheading of a Syrian soldier. I was metres away from it. I was invited. I was there with an Al Jazeera journalist who had witnessed four of them that same day. Maybe he was one of the soldiers you described. Maybe it was an innocent boy. I don’t know. What I know is that the crowds were cheering around us, women ululating, children clapping, as a man murdered another man with a small knife and then carved his head off. I couldn’t sleep for days. The journalist from Al Jazeera — I called him. He’s not the same. We really do know—’

  ‘I had to help one of them today,’ she says, interrupting him. ‘This morning. Our medical team saved one of their regional commanders.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Arwood asks.

  ‘A commander of ISIL. It was near the Syrian border, but on the Iraqi side, where we have a mobile surgical unit. They limped across. His name is Abu Malik al-Almani.’

  ‘Always Abu,’ Arwood says, sipping some booze. ‘Abu Abu Abu.’

  ‘What happened?’ Benton says.

  ‘A lot of the fighting is in the Syrian north-west. But they come back to Iraq for supplies and recruits, and to stir thi
ngs up here, too. They know we have medical units on this side of the border but not in Syria, because we’re not allowed in, so they bring people to us and other NGOs when they’re shot up.’

  ‘Why don’t you turn them away?’ Arwood asks.

  ‘Well … three reasons. We’re obligated by international humanitarian law to treat all non-combatants equally. Their wounded qualify. Also, we can’t have access to non-combatants unless we’re allowed access by the belligerents. Humanitarian space is negotiated and maintained through relationships with people like this — people who hold territory. And the third reason is that if we don’t treat them, they’ll kill us.’

  ‘It’s nice when things line up, isn’t it?’ Arwood says.

  ‘The word from some of the refugees here,’ Märta says, ignoring Arwood, ‘is that al-Almani’s group went into a village near the border, gathered up over a hundred women who they said weren’t dressed appropriately, and murdered them in front of their families. There was some local resistance, and this one — Abu Malik—’

  ‘Abu Abu Abu,’ Arwood says.

  ‘—we patched him up,’ Märta continues. ‘Before he left, he thanked me. I had to shake his hand. He extended it, and his men outside were armed and fresh from killing people. I had no choice. I’ve been in situations like that before, in Afghanistan with the Taliban. But this was worse. This girl of yours, the one you’re both so keen to find — we suspect that her group was coming from a village east of the one that was slaughtered. They must have gotten word of what happened, and decided to risk the walk to Iraq. She survived that, only to die in the mortar attack on this side. So, yeah, sorry I’m late.’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ Arwood says, kicking back the last of the Johnnie Walker. ‘I don’t know why everyone keeps saying that. What’s that thing with the cat in the box and the nuclear vial of quantum stuff? If that fucking cat isn’t actually dead, our girl’s not dead.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Benton says, ‘whether everyone should be drinking a little more or a little less.’