The Girl in Green

by Derek B. Miller

  ‘I think about these orphans. No parents. Refugee camps. What will they become?’

  ‘The answer is in the question,’ says Tigger. ‘They will be orphans and refugees. It will go into their hearts. It will become what they are. It is a neglected fact that, in thirty years, Iraq and Syria and Afghanistan, and Congo and Somalia, they will all be run by orphans. By people who never knew a real home. They will be the people who will form the governments. One can only imagine such a world, because such a thing has never been.’

  ‘That’s a dark answer.’

  ‘I didn’t create the answer. It’s true, whether I say it or not.’

  Märta’s giggles have passed, and she becomes nervous again as they leave Tal Afar and make toward Sinjar and then the steep climb up the mountain.

  She hates twisty roads. Such uncertainty. Crazies coming the other way. The Iraqis are terrible drivers, whatever the men think of themselves. The Swedes can drive in the pitch-black of a December night on ice, but these people can’t follow the lines in the sand. It’s as though they have to argue with everything.

  At the outskirts of Tal Afar, Tigger radios in their location to Ahmed again. It is a public channel. Ahmed’s relief and nervousness are broadcast to the skies and the clouds, and the rocks and the sand.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Märta says, lighting a cigarette and opening the window more.

  ‘There’s no smoking in the vehicle. It’s IRSG policy.’

  ‘There’s an exception, subparagraph 2B, which says that when programme managers are meeting with people who cut off other people’s heads, they’re allowed to light up and use the ashtray for its God-given purpose. Besides, the Geneva Conventions say POWs have a right to cigarettes. I figure that applies to us.’

  ‘We’re prisoners of peace. Pas la même chose.’

  ‘I can’t tell the difference anymore.’

  ‘Oh là là. A Scandinavian becomes cynical. A milestone. Perhaps now you are ready to know the truth about Santa Claus?’

  ‘Why are you so quiet?’ she asks, blowing the smoke out the window. ‘You usually start waxing on about philosophy when you’re anxious.’

  Tigger does not turn to Märta, and continues to take one steep turn after another without comment or expression. ‘I am married with two daughters,’ he says. ‘When I was young, I wanted a life filled with travel and girls. Now, as fate would have it, I have achieved exactly that. But my needs have changed. What we are doing today is very risky. I think it is too risky, though I do not think it is wrong. What we are doing is too much like heroics. And I don’t like heroics. I like systems, and structures, and policies, and procedures. Heroics are not for me.’

  ‘What about Herb? He has a son. He wanted to be here more than you did.’

  ‘Herbert believes that one man can change the world.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Herbert is another kind of creature. He is a righteous man. I am not. His righteousness has a fire. He would prefer justice. He would be the hand of God, if only God would ask. He lives as an example to his son. Me? I want to be a father to my daughters, not an example. I love him like a brother, but I am glad he is not here now.’

  Hours earlier, immediately after Tigger and Märta had left, the security guard closed the gate, and Herbert Reston retired to Märta’s living room to make a call he didn’t want his colleagues to hear.

  ‘Are we ready for this conversation?’ Herb asked Clip when he was sure they were alone.

  ‘I’m here,’ Clip said.

  ‘Tigger and Märta are gone. So it’s like this: this is a stupid plan. I don’t have the faith in it they do, and I have no faith in the rationality of the people they’re about to meet. I think there’s every reason to believe they’re walking into a trap. And right now … we’re blind.’

  ‘You want eyes on,’ Clip said.

  ‘Damn straight I want eyes on. They vanish up there, they are gone. These terrorists take our people someplace else, they are as good as dead. We are never going to get as lucky as we are right now with accurate GPS coordinates of our people. Arwood Hobbes must have done some pretty fancy footwork to get us those numbers. I don’t want to waste the small tactical edge we have right now. Here’s my question. With your resources, is there even a scenario where we can get them followed at this late date?’

  ‘We might be able to watch them,’ Clip said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We know some people in Tal Afar. One of them is a blogger, and he’s very good. He goes by the name of Yusuf — no other name. He posts updates in Arabic and English about the state of affairs there. I think he’s in his late twenties, a rebellious young man with a good heart. We follow his feeds to get updates on the Arab street, and we pay him six thousand dollars a year to help him continue the work. That’s a fortune around here. The international media doesn’t have the same access, and they don’t pay consistent attention like he does. We pay people in about a dozen cities, and Tal Afar is one of our target cities. Usually we just leave Yusuf alone and let him do his thing, but sometimes he’ll follow up a question we have to make us happy. He’s a bit of a daredevil, and I think we could get him to tail your people.’

  ‘Fine, do it. But it’s your idea and not ours. I can’t implicate the IRSG in this. Got it?’

  ‘We understand. It would simply be a blogger following a story. There’s no connection to you.’

  ‘And this is between us. I know you’re close with Tigger, but he can’t know.’

  ‘I understand that too,’ Clip said.

  ‘How fast can you make this happen?’

  ‘Very fast. We need to move quickly, or there will be a gap period when your team arrives. And that would be suboptimal.’

  Herb is silent for a moment. It is deceptively peaceful in Märta’s living room, especially when it’s empty. It feels like a sanctuary rather than an operations centre. The tranquility of the room is contrary to the moment’s urgency and the need for decisiveness, and the distance between his perceptions and his knowledge makes him sit in the thinking chair and pause for a moment.

  ‘Tigger says you were in logistics in the navy.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘How’d you get your name?’

  ‘Clip? I used to carry a clipboard around. Sailors can be pretty literal-minded.’

  ‘I was infantry,’ Herb says quietly. ‘When it came to logistics, we didn’t think you guys really understood it. See, from our point of view, if you sailors want six thousand people to move a mile to the east, the captain shouts an instruction, a guy turns a big steering wheel, and six thousand people on an aircraft carrier move a mile to the east. In the army? We’ve got to mobilise six thousand independent minds, bodies, and souls who have twelve thousand feet among them. And those feet have twelve thousand socks and twelve thousand shoes that have to be found and put on before they can start walking. The navy does not impress me with its logistics. So I need you to take this opportunity to win my confidence about this. Got it?’

  33

  The longer they ride up the mountain, the more nauseous Märta becomes. The Land Cruiser rides high on the road. It prefers straight lines, dips, and rises. It does not perform well in turns, and its body rolls, turning the trip nautical. Tigger has engaged the optional four-wheel-drive system, and stays in second gear as a compromise in having to choose between speed, power, and torque.

  Tigger knows little about the Yezidi who live on Mount Sinjar. All he knows for sure is that they have been there since the time there were gardens hanging here. As he finally rounds the bend at the top and comes into what passes as a village, he is a bit ashamed to wonder what they’ve been doing all that time, seeing as they don’t appear to have made tremendous progress in their standard of living. But, of course, their lives and history are a mystery. Like the Druze, they do not speak to outsiders about themselves.
This strategy, unfortunately, has never worked in their favour. Their mysterious ways have only engendered mistrust and hostility.

  As they roll slowly into the village, Märta feels as though she is being watched. The ride, at least, is over, and that is good, because the randomness of an accident has passed. Now, at least, comes a deliberate and social risk that can be managed. That is the kind she prefers — the kind where experience, relationships, and judgement have a chance to shape the outcome. Physics and engineering alone — the removal of the human element — that’s a nightmare for her.

  The village seems abandoned, though she knows it is not. She should have called around and secured an invitation from the village elders. That way, at least, they would be welcomed here. As it is, she is intruding.

  And, as intruders, she and Tigger will be viewed with suspicion, which only invites challenges she doesn’t need now. It is always best to be invited when entering a dangerous place.

  However, there might still be a way to shut that down before the meeting.

  ‘Pull in over there,’ Märta says to Tigger, pointing at a small market with fruit outside the door.

  ‘You’re going in?’

  ‘I want to introduce myself.’

  ‘The meet is close by. Around the corner,’ Tigger says. ‘We don’t have time for long Arab chitchat sessions.’

  ‘A little respect can go a long way if people haven’t made up their minds yet. Go park the car. And Tigger … they aren’t Arab.’

  Märta opens the door and steps into the warm day. The air is dry. There is a breeze through the hills. The terrain is rocky.

  Märta steps into the market, and finds it empty of patrons. There is a man behind the counter. There is a subtle smell of cigarette smoke that grows more intense the deeper she walks into the dark shop. The shelves are half empty. There are canned goods from Lebanon, Egypt, and India. Lazy bags of lentils and rice droop from the edges of wooden shelves.

  She greets him in Arabic, and he responds in kind. His voice is flat and weak. She asks if he speaks English, and he shakes his head. She explains, in simple Arabic, who she is.

  He nods. She is certain word has travelled here. He knows more than she does at this point, but the most valuable relationships in war zones are among those who share information across party lines. She tried explaining this to the Americans during their civil-military cooperation meetings. They offered money and roads to win hearts and minds, and kept information to themselves. But who needs a road in a year’s time, when the danger is now?

  ‘Time,’ she had said at the CIMIC meetings, ‘does not mean the same thing to you as it does to them. It literally does not work the same way. Until you understand time, you cannot understand any concept of development.’

  They said her comments were academic and intellectual, so they ignored her and continued the planning process.

  What she says next she has never said in Arabic before, so her grammar is awkward. What she intends to say is, My people are here. They want to leave. I am meeting those who have them. I will go as soon as I can.

  What he understands her to be saying is anyone’s guess.

  The man nods. She wishes him peace, and leaves.

  When she walks out of the shop, she is back on the only main road through the town, which is a narrow road. The town grows larger and more populated the farther they travel west, but here, at the eastern edge, there is almost nothing. Across from the shop is a steep and rocky outcrop that rises to a higher summit. Built from boulders and stones, it may be the ruins of an ancient civilisation, or the raw material for the next.

  There is not a soul on the streets. To her right, she can see the back of the white Land Cruiser. Tigger is standing behind it, opening the glass section of the back and removing their bags. Otherwise, nothing.

  She feels, though, more strongly than ever, that she is being watched. The empty hills feel alive. They feel dangerous. Orcs and trolls and other creatures from Middle-earth threaten to spring from their hiding places and descend on her, tearing her limb from limb, and dining on her entrails.

  As she starts to walk toward Tigger — who glances up and sees her — she catches a glimpse of a figure in the hills to her left. She is afraid to turn, and yet she does. There, only twenty metres away, stands a man in a hooded cloak. The sunlight illuminates half his face. A living statue, he looks about thirty years old, with dark and brooding eyes. He has no beard. There is a scar that runs down his face from his left eye, all the way to his chin.

  Too shocked to speak, she stands still and exposed. The man smiles at her, and steps backward into the rocky wilderness to disappear like dust passing out of a sunbeam.

  She stares at the space in which he once stood. He does not reappear.

  ‘Märta?’ Tigger calls out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ça va?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  Märta walks backward, and turns to Tigger when she draws close to him. ‘Did you see that man?’ she asks.

  Tigger looks to where she points. ‘No. You think it was our contact?’

  ‘He smiled at me.’

  ‘In that case, I doubt it.’

  ‘He did. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘The shop with the tables is over there,’ he says. ‘It is time to go.’

  The street runs south to north, and the Land Cruiser sits on it like a magnetic needle. The high hills cast a thick shadow over the road, but there is a gap in the rocks above, and that sliver of light makes the café glow in the midst of shadows all around.

  Märta and Tigger sit down together on the same side of a small, plastic, rectangular table. There are small squares on the table that feel like plastic, but claim to be napkins. There is a plastic ashtray with slots for four cigarettes. There are three tables in all. A bright-blue door opens into a black and unlit room of an adjoining concrete building. Thus far, no one has come out of it.

  Tigger radios in their location to Ahmed. He deliberately turns the volume up so the crackle and hiss of the handset unmistakably echoes and travels down the street. He shares his call signs and Märta’s. He notes their arrival time at this new site — now dubbed Romeo 5 — that Ahmed has added to the maps. No one from the UN ever comes here. No NGOs have passed through here, according to the records. It is terra incognita.

  ‘We didn’t set a time,’ Märta says. ‘How will they know we’re here?’

  ‘They already know.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Maybe you should make sure your phone works. Phones are all different. What’s true for one—’

  ‘I have a damn signal, Tigger, OK?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He reaches into his bag to remove a cigarette, but thinks better of it, so returns the pack. ‘There really is nothing to do now but sit here and hope we don’t get shot. Should we do that in silence, or would you like to chat?’

  ‘Herb would have said something reassuring,’ Märta says.

  ‘I suspect that’s true.’

  That is when they hear the first helicopters. They are distant. There are several of them, from the sound of the rotors, but their sound is impossible to track in the rock and concrete surrounding them. Wherever they are going, they will be carrying ordnance and orders.

  A man steps out of the dark doorway of the market in a dirty robe that hangs to his feet. He wears a blue Western-style blazer that is fitted for a stranger. He does not look at his two patrons. Without acknowledging them, he unfurls the awning so it extends well beyond the three tables and blocks them from the view of whoever might pass or linger above. He walks to their table, and wordlessly takes a wet and filthy rag from his pocket and rubs it across the surface of the table, leaving a grey streak of droplets behind that immediately evaporate into the hot day, leaving the table identical to the way he found it. He then leaves.

&
nbsp; Tigger, ignoring the man, has turned his closed eyes to the sun, and washes his face in the light. Märta envies how much it refreshes him.

  The man returns to them with tea for three. He retreats into the building quickly, and closes the blue sheet-metal door behind him.

  ‘Three cups. Here we go,’ Tigger says.

  Tigger folds his fingers together. He has walked into many different conversations and spoken to many hostile leaders — youth leaders, elders, tribesmen, angry military staff. Like stage fright, it can be managed. This feels untamed, though. Colder.

  ‘I’m having some tea. You want some?’ he says to Märta.

  ‘It’s a diuretic. It makes no sense to drink tea in this circumstance.’

  ‘It’s calming. And it is a diuretic only if you consume three hundred milligrams of caffeine in the same sitting. An average cup has fifty milligrams. That means it produces a diuretic effect only if you drink six cups. Personally, I think it’s the six cups of water doing it, not the caffeine, but I am no doctor.’

  They come — three men, two of them armed with eastern-bloc assault rifles that Russia has been pumping into the region since 1955. The third one carries no weapon. They approach from the main road, and walk toward them with the sun at their backs.

  ‘Game on,’ Tigger says, sipping his tea.

  And then, behind those three men, come three others. Two of them, with weapons, are pulling along a third man in the middle. His head is covered in a black hood. There is a halo of sunlight behind him, turning the hood blacker.

  The unarmed leader takes the seat across from Märta and Tigger. His eyes are set. Märta senses that what passes before those eyes will not affect their vision of the world.

  Märta pours tea into the man’s cup. He does not pick it up.

  The leader is the first one to speak.

  ‘You know this man?’

  One of the hostage-takers yanks the hood from the captive’s head. He is a young man in his twenties, has a ponytail, and is clean shaven. He has been badly beaten. His stylish clothes are dirty.