He stares intently at Roshaan, who stands there uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Translate everything I say. And I’ll say it again—not what you think I want to hear.”
Roshaan nods. “As I always do.”
The prisoner doesn’t react. “Give him something to drink,” says Steffensen. They both look around, but there’s no water pitcher anywhere in the room. “Tea is fine. Give him one of the used cups. Tell him who I am.”
Roshaan sets a tray with a cup and teapot in front of the prisoner. Steffensen fills the cup and offers the lukewarm yellowish tea. The prisoner sits halfway up so he can free his hands. He moans loudly. With trembling hands, he brings the cup up to his lips. Steffensen notices a small round burn on the back of the man’s hand. “What happened there?” he asks.
For the first time, the prisoner looks right at him. “I’m innocent,” he says. “I swear. You have to let me go.”
“If you’re innocent, nothing will happen to you.”
“I was walking by on the road. I saw a man lying on the ground. I was on the way to the market with my donkey. Suddenly a car stopped, and a group of men jumped out and grabbed me. They pulled me into the car and started to beat me. Now I’m here. I don’t know what I have done.”
“You are accused of murdering the mayor.”
“What mayor? I don’t know any mayor. I just saw a man lying on the ground. I wanted to keep going. I didn’t want to get involved in anything.”
“Your donkey was carrying a sack full of explosives.”
“No, ears of corn. I was on my way to market.”
“What happened to your donkey?”
The man looks down. A tear appears in his one eye and runs down his wrinkled chin. “I don’t know. I know nothing. What will become of me? What will become of my family?” His gaze falls on Steffensen and then Roshaan, and then back again. “They’re going to kill me.”
“If you are innocent, nothing will happen to you.” Steffensen stares again at the burn mark on the prisoner’s hand and at his swollen eye. He feels the meaninglessness of his own words. Something has already happened to him—and Steffensen has been unable to prevent it.
“Innocent? Yes, I am innocent.” The prisoner moans. “Innocent . . . it makes no difference.” His gaze is full of resignation.
Feeling powerless, Steffensen stands up. The prisoner looks at Roshaan. He starts to speak in hushed tones and then abruptly stops again. He places a finger on his swollen lip.
“What’s he saying?” asks Steffensen.
Roshaan shakes his head. “Later. I’ll tell you later. Now is not the time.”
Ghuli Khan appears in the doorway. “Well, has he confessed?”
“He says he is innocent.”
The police commissioner laughs. “Yes, that’s what they all say. Roadside bombs explode, suicide bombers blow up in an overcrowded bazaar, mayors are gunned down. But in Afghanistan, everyone is innocent.”
He stares right into Steffensen’s eyes. There’s an appeal in his gaze that Steffensen doesn’t understand.
“In both of our legal systems, an accused is innocent until proven guilty. I demand that the prisoner be transferred to a cell, with access to a bath and toilet, and that he gets his wounds checked. No one touches him before he appears before a judge.”
“A judge?” Ghuli Khan shakes his head, and once again Steffensen gets the feeling that there’s something unspoken between them, as if the police commissioner is constantly trying to remind him of something. “We caught him in the act,” says Khan.
“I will be personally following this case.” Steffensen tries to sound as firm as possible. He takes a step toward the police commissioner and hopes that the physical proximity between them seems intimidating. Roshaan stands at a respectful distance.
Ghuli Khan is unfazed. “Listen here, Ove jan. Since you’re so concerned about his well-being, why don’t you just take him with you? Then he can be your prisoner. You can treat him like a king, if that’s what you want.”
Steffensen looks down. Ghuli Khan has hit a sore spot. The Danish forces have no mandate to take prisoners. It’s part of the agreement between NATO and the Afghan authorities. The country belongs to the Afghans. They have to show that they can make their own judicial system function.
“You know full well I can’t do that,” he says.
“Yes, Ove jan, that is exactly what I know. I am not the ignorant illiterate you take me for. I’m well aware of how things work. And so I have some good advice for you. You take care of your cases—and I’ll take care of mine.”
The police commissioner is defiant, but his voice is also full of pent-up rage, as if he feels disappointed or flatly rebuffed. What in the world is he thinking? That Steffensen is just like him—that they’re a couple of warlords who need to work together to find the solution to a difficult problem?
Ghuli Khan steps aside so that Steffensen can pass through the doorway. Steffensen doesn’t look back. His soldiers are waiting in the courtyard. Once the metal gate to the warlord’s compound closes behind them, he turns to Roshaan. “What did the prisoner say to you?”
“He told me that they never questioned him at all. They told him that he had to confess to the murder and say he was a member of the Taliban—or they would kill him. If he obeyed, they’d let him go afterward. But he didn’t believe them. He’s convinced that they will kill him, no matter what. And so he refused.”
“Do you believe he’s telling the truth?”
“Yes, I believe he is speaking the truth. He’s just an ordinary, ignorant farmer who tends his land. He would never get involved in something like this.”
“But don’t ordinary, ignorant farmers who tend their land get caught up in the war on the Taliban’s side?”
“Yes, that’s true. But the Taliban hasn’t taken responsibility for the murder. If they’d done it, they would be bragging about it by now.”
“So you believe he’s innocent?”
“I am sure that he is innocent.”
“Why didn’t you say so right then? I would have confronted the police commissioner with his own lies.”
“Think about it. I apologize for speaking so directly. You are forced to leave prisoners to the Afghan police. You cannot protect him. If you had revealed what he told us, the police commissioner would have killed him the moment we were out the door. Therefore, I could not say anything.”
“The commissioner is nothing but a criminal,” exclaims Steffensen, immediately hearing how ridiculous his statement sounds. Out here they’re all criminals. That’s his starting point—and his challenge. He has to prove that you can also cooperate with criminals. It’s not about standing on one side of the law or the other. Here the law is at most a distant goal; reality is something else. Still, you have to begin somewhere, and a person’s self-interest is as good a place as any. That has been his experience. There’s always common ground, even for egomaniacs.
Sitting hunched over in the half dark of the APC, Steffensen can still see the prisoner’s bruised lip and the burn mark on the back of his hand. He can see the mayor lying on the floor, and he knows a line has been crossed.
29
The next day, Steffensen sits across from Naib jan, each man on his cushion in the little house outside the entrance to camp. There’s no one else to talk to. It’s not that he needs to share the experience with anyone or get it out of his system; he’s perfectly capable of holding things in when necessary, but he needs to understand what has happened. He feels powerless, yet he knows he must react.
When he finishes speaking, Naib jan looks at him. “We have always been honest with each other,” he says. “I don’t understand why we can’t be now as well.”
Perplexed, Steffensen turns to Roshaan. “I’m translating exactly what he says. He says he doesn’t understand what you are talking about.”
“But I am being honest.” Steffensen looks right at Naib jan. “I mean what I say. I cannot accept
it that absolutely nothing is being done to find Ali Shar’s murderer. Nor can I accept that blame is simply being transferred to some random farmer. That’s what I am trying to say. I need your advice. I feel as though there’s something here I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, Ove jan. Ghuli Khan is trying to do you a favor. He is your friend.”
“My friend? Right now I think he’s the one who murdered Ali Shar. How can he be my friend? How can he even be police commissioner?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Atmar stares down at the ground. Steffensen can’t figure out why. Is the warlord confused? Is he ashamed—and what is he ashamed about?
“Naib jan . . .” He can hear the pleading in his own voice. “What’s going on?”
“This man says that you are the one who ordered Ali Shar’s murder.”
Shocked, Steffensen turns to Roshaan.
“Me? I ordered the murder of a mayor? That’s completely absurd.”
Atmar stares at Steffensen. As usual, Roshaan ignores him.
“This man says that you outmaneuvered the mayor. You kept the politicians and the journalists away from him.”
“That’s not the same thing. It’s completely different. It doesn’t mean that the man should be murdered.” Steffensen looks pleadingly at Roshaan, as if the outrageous accusation came from the interpreter and he’s the one he must convince of his innocence.
“This man says that the mayor was under your protection. You turned your back on him.”
“What does he mean? How did I turn my back on him?”
“Last Saturday. The weekly meeting, where everyone is present. The commander of the local Afghan forces, the district governor, the police commissioner. You saw how everyone ignored Ali Shar. No one wanted to listen to him. Nor did you. He went to you. You are his protector. And you turned your back on him.”
“Tell Atmar that I only wanted to teach the mayor a lesson. He was far too outspoken.”
“This man says that the mayor was under your protection. Now we are rid of him. That’s good. They were all just waiting for you to come to your senses.”
“Come to my senses? By ordering a man’s murder? When did I ever ask someone to kill Ali Shar?”
“This man says that you did not give the order with your words but with your back. Don’t you understand what these meetings are about, he asks. They are never about what is being said. They are about what is being done. As long as you were listening to the mayor, it meant that he was not alone. When Ali Shar left the meeting on Saturday, he was a dead man, and you gave the signal. When we saw you turn your back on him, we knew he was no longer under your protection. We had your permission to get rid of him.”
“How the hell would I know anything about that? I was busy. I just didn’t have the time to talk to him that day.” Steffensen shouts the last few words. He’s still addressing Roshaan. The interpreter’s face remains blank.
Atmar says something in excited tones, and Steffensen gets the impression that the warlord is rebuking Roshaan. Instead, he receives a reprimand. “This man says you should look at him when you speak.
“Ali Shar tried to contact you later. And you said no every time. Is this not true?” The warlord’s voice is as calm as before.
What Atmar says is true. Ali Shar approached him several times, and every time he rejected him. Yes, Ali Shar fell from grace, but sooner or later he would have come to his senses and realized that you can’t get anywhere in politics by being unyielding. And then he would have fallen back into grace. That’s politics, plain and simple. Now he’s dead.
“This man says that the police commissioner is very disappointed about your meeting. He thought you were ungrateful, Ove jan. He thought you were on the same side.”
“Ask him which side that’s supposed to be.”
Naib Atmar shakes his head disappointedly. “The side that wants things to function. The police commissioner has an offer for you. He understands that you are very interested in the question of justice. It hurts you to see an innocent man be sentenced for something he hasn’t done. He is willing to let the man he has arrested go free. He cannot guarantee that he will be able to discover the real murderer. But there is one thing he can guarantee—”
“And what is that?”
The words fly out of Steffensen. He thought he had found a trusting and understanding partner in Atmar. Instead, the warlord has leveled the most unbelievable charges against him. Now a door opens.
Atmar looks directly at him. “Ghuli Khan says that if the man he has arrested goes free, the story about Ali Shar will come out. The whole story. You are a clever man, says Ghuli Khan. No one heard you say the words, but everyone knows that you closed your door to the mayor. He became too difficult and that is why you got rid of him.”
As he translates, Roshaan’s voice struggles to remain neutral. He clearly doesn’t know what to do with his eyes. Choosing not to look at either man, he stares instead at the darkened television screen.
“This man says that honest men are destroying everything here in Afghanistan. Ali Shar exposed the amateurish way you are running this war. He pointed out that all kinds of abuses of power are thriving because, according to him, you have allied yourselves with the wrong people. You had every possible reason to want him gone. From now on, things will go smoothly, and that is what we all want, not least of all you. You can choose for yourself. Either it comes out that you ordered the mayor’s murder, or we can all agree that the Taliban was behind it. An ignorant farmer who no one will miss is sentenced, and we can continue our good working relationship.”
“His family will miss him.” Steffensen’s voice is meek, almost inaudible. He feels an overwhelming urge to cry.
“You simply have to pay the family a certain amount of money and they will get over it. Isn’t that already your philosophy? You shoot a cow by accident, a little girl, a woman or two, and you pay reparations to the family. Isn’t that what you military people call unintended consequences? Here, it’s not a bomb that fell on the wrong place. Here, it’s only justice that struck a little off the mark. But the payment must be the same. This man says you can afford it.”
Steffensen sits hunched over, hiding his head in his hands.
Suddenly he feels Naib jan’s hand on his shoulder.
He looks up.
“Ove jan,” says the warlord.
Roshaan stands off a bit, outside of Steffensen’s vision. His voice seems as if it’s coming from a tape recording or the dubbing in a foreign film.
“Don’t feel ashamed. I know how it feels. Not everything we have to do is pleasant. Believe me. I’ve been there myself.”
Perhaps Atmar’s unexpected expression of sympathy determines the conversation’s outcome. Steffensen has wanted it so intensely, and now it has come when he least expects it. He feels like a child being comforted. At this moment there’s an intimacy between the two men, as if the interpreter isn’t even there.
“Do what you need to do.” Steffensen looks up into the warlord’s eyes as he hears his own words repeated in Pashto.
Naib jan, whose hand is still resting on his shoulder, nods.
His eyes are full of warmth as he speaks.
Steffensen waits for the translation.
“We did it yesterday,” says Roshaan. “We knew you would make the right decision.”
RED ZONE
1
Mads’s girlfriend, Helene, is knifed down while standing in line outside a nightclub in Copenhagen. In the commotion at the door, everyone starts pushing, trying to come in out of a cold, rainy night. A down jacket is not the best protection against a knife. The crowd is packed so tightly that she doesn’t fall down. Her wet blond hair clings to her face as the first drops of blood hit the pavement; she leans on whatever back happens to be in front of her. She hasn’t screamed. She might have let out a slight moan the moment the knife goes in, but no one noticed. She’s shoved hard as those in the chaotic queue around her tr
y to slip past her. She falls without grabbing on to anyone and hits the pavement with a wet splash, her blood mingling with the rain. Someone screams, but it’s not her. Someone else calls an ambulance. There’s no need for doctors or trauma counseling. She’s dead on arrival at the hospital.
Although she was surrounded by at least twenty people, no one saw anything. All the summoned witnesses shake their heads. Was she alone? Did they notice anyone behind her? Again, they all shake their heads.
“Someone had a hoodie pulled down over his head,” says one witness, who hesitates before adding, “but it was raining.”
“She hated to go out with wet hair,” says Mads while having tea with the chaplain. He keeps photographs of Helene on his cell phone, and her hair looks fluffy in all of them. They’ve all seen them, just as they’ve seen pictures of the other girls.
“She’s dead,” says Møller. “That’s what we need to talk about.”
“She died with wet hair,” says Mads. “She died standing in line in front of a club. What was she doing there?”
“She was probably there with a friend.”
“No, she definitely wasn’t. She was alone. What was she doing there?”
“Sorrow can often masquerade as jealousy,” says the chaplain in his particularly soothing voice. “You can’t understand why she’s gone. But you must look your loss in the eye. I know it’s hard, but it’s pointless to stick your head in the sand and give in to these petty feelings. Has she ever been unfaithful?”
“No, Chaplain. That’s just the problem. Never. So what was she doing all alone at a nightclub on a Saturday evening?”
“Have you been unfaithful to her?”
“We’re not exactly swimming in pussy out here, are we? So how am I going to screw around?”
“I’m thinking about back home, Mads. Were you ever unfaithful to Helene?”
“Yeah, okay—I was. A couple times. It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything.”
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