The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  “Give them something to do.”

  “Polish their boots one more time, clean their rifles? I doubt it will have the desired effect.”

  “Send them on an offensive.” He can tell that she already had the answer. It came from above. “Give them permission to use their weapons. That’s the reason they’re here, isn’t it? It will give them something else to think about.”

  “So, this is the green light to fire away—for purely therapeutic reasons?” Now it’s his turn to be sarcastic. He tries to hide his relief over having the responsibility finally taken out of his hands.

  “Call it whatever you like.”

  “I’m glad you’re concerned about the soldiers’ well-being, but turning our area into a shooting gallery is not exactly the strategy we’re pursuing at the moment.”

  Armed confrontation. The exact opposite of everything he’s stood for. His project is finally in ruins. He’s at the end of the road, and suddenly he can see an opening. New possibilities are waiting.

  He thinks about Naib Atmar.

  “There are always exceptions.”

  “And you’ll back me up?”

  “We’ll back you up.”

  She speaks with authority. Suddenly he feels safe. He can see why she rose so quickly to the top. He also realizes how he can keep himself afloat now that his ideas have fallen short: he simply has to avoid taking any responsibility for anything. He viewed himself as a strategist, but he was just a pawn in a game. Still, even a pawn in a game can win a little room to maneuver.

  And even a pawn in a game has to have a plan to survive.

  19

  Later he will say it was Amalie Strøm’s fault. She gave them the green light. He can also blame it on the situation—or on that most unassailable reason of all, the war. The necessities of war. I had no choice, he can say.

  One untested possibility still remains.

  It was his fault. He made the decision. He was to blame.

  Naib Atmar is no longer alive. Neither is his family, nor any of the others living in his compound. Steffensen gave the order to attack. The reason was plain and simple: they should have done so a long time ago. Atmar was behind the nightly attacks on the camp, everyone knew it, and no one was doing anything. Exactly what Atmar was counting on. Those are the rules, an endless game, something for something, pacts, feigned friendships, one hand washes the other. He was the one hand and Atmar was the other. Until Atmar outmaneuvered him.

  He could easily say that the warlord offended him, but it sounds too private, as if the attack were a personal act of vengeance. No, he’s not the one Atmar offended. It was the rules of the game. And now he’s paid the price.

  He hopes Atmar had time to think about that when the F-18s were called in to drop their load on his compound. It wasn’t destroyed all at once, so hopefully Atmar wasn’t hit in the first attack. While the missiles were raining down, the warlord must have realized that this was the final round and that he had lost once and for all. Steffensen hopes he died with his mouth hanging open in a large, stupid gape.

  You caught me with my pants down, but as you now realize, I quickly pulled them back up. Now I’m wearing the pants, while you’re lying exposed and dead, you fucking idiot. When it comes to firepower, when it comes to the merciless destruction I can unleash, you have no earthly chance of competing with me. I thought you understood that. Nothing is really sacred to me. Did you really assume I was so weak that I couldn’t speak your language? Did you really believe you had a monopoly on barbarism? Well, now you know better.

  For a moment, Steffensen thinks about Roshaan. You accused me of collaborating with the corrupt. You accused me of being a hypocrite. Now you can see what has happened to the corrupt. He could have continued that line of thinking—I did it all for you, Roshaan—but he knows it’s tasteless. The bombs and missiles weren’t part of some anticorruption campaign. Atmar broke the rules of the game, so he had to pay. That’s all there is to say about any of it.

  The men were elated when he ordered them to go. They weren’t expecting it. Amalie Strøm was right—they needed something to throw themselves into. This time he wasn’t sending them into some deadly mission. They blew a hole in the wall surrounding the compound, and as soon as any fire was returned, they had orders to pull back. He didn’t want any losses. They just had to see to it that Atmar’s men fired, and the Afghans were dumb enough to do so. A surveillance drone sent pictures of a courtyard swarming with armed men. Atmar’s tactical instincts must have failed him. All it took was a call over the radio. “We’re under attack!”

  The rest of the time they were observers, watching the merciless bombing of the compound. Going out to see it up close, Steffensen gained new insight into the psychology of war, which he had always kept at a distance. The black, fire-fed clouds of smoke rising over the clay walls was an unrivaled sight. It shook him to his core. He felt extremely powerful at that moment, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he had ordered the bombing. No, the power in the explosions spread throughout his body. It’s impossible to doubt anything when a thousand-pound bomb does its job and a dust-filled column of smoke rises in the landscape. It’s like watching a volcano erupt with enormous smoke plumes twisting, as if in labor pains, up into the sky. He should have done this a long time ago.

  He’s standing next to Schrøder, who, since Roshaan’s death, sometimes interprets for him. He has mentioned the interpreter’s accusation about the platoon leader. “I have criticized him,” replies Schrøder. “He wasn’t doing his job properly. He was sarcastic and haughty with the local farmers. It doesn’t help anything. I told him to pull it together if he wanted to keep his job. I guess you could perceive that as a threat if you’re in that frame of mind.”

  “How’s the mood among the men?” asks Steffensen. He’s already noticed the soldiers’ newfound enthusiasm; he just wants to have it confirmed. For the first time he feels some solidarity with his men.

  “Good,” says Schrøder. “Their mood is excellent. This is the right thing to do if you want to give them back their courage.” He nods at the clouds of smoke billowing from the bombed-out compound with undiminished force. “Beautiful view. It’ll look good on the soldiers’ websites.”

  Does he detect a hint of sarcasm in the platoon leader’s voice? Steffensen’s not sure, but he forgets about it a moment later.

  Once the bombardment is over, they move in to clear out the compound. They enter through a large hole blown through the outer wall and crawl over the rubble. The first thing they encounter is a mangy fighting dog lying on its side and breathing with difficulty. There’s a gaping wound in its chest and blood covering its dirty white fur. It looks up at Steffensen as he strides over, his rifle hanging over his shoulder. It’s doubtful he would actually use it should the situation call for it—and this situation does not. He sees no reason to call on half-forgotten experiences with firearms to end a dog’s life.

  He hears two rapid shots and turns with a start. A tall, broad-shouldered soldier with a thick chestnut-colored beard stands over the dog and stares at it intensely, as if wondering if they’ve met before. He’s the one who killed it.

  There are no survivors in the compound. Many are presumably buried in the rubble, though Steffensen has no idea how many. A group of Afghans has already gathered outside the shattered walls; as soon as the soldiers pull out, they’ll stream in and start searching for the dead. Steffensen wonders if he should order his men to excavate the bodies, so they can get a realistic idea of their number and gender distribution. The Afghans will surely exaggerate the numbers, especially when it comes to women and children. Later, when the locals are almost finished unearthing the dead, he can send a couple of men in to do an inspection. Then NATO can come up with an official number and offer its regrets, while in the same breath emphasizing that the Taliban uses civilians as shields and that the rebels also kill far more civilians than the NATO forces, who only do so by mistake, while the Taliban do so intentionally.r />
  Several bodies lie among the rocks that scattered across the courtyard when the house took a direct hit. The dead are covered in a white layer of dust that, from a distance, resembles sheets spread over disfigured bodies to protect them from curious stares. Large bloodstains lie all over the courtyard. Among them is a shattered body, a leg, or an arm with a piece of a shoulder. In some places there’s only a dark-red spot, as if the body vaporized in the pressure of the falling bomb, leaving no more trace than a drizzle of blood.

  Steffensen observes the bodies. He feels no disgust or discomfort. Unlike the body of the mayor or poor Roshaan, emptied of blood and leaning against the camp’s outer wall, there’s nothing personal about the death that surrounds him. To him, the bodies reveal nothing more than the effectiveness of bombing. He has won a victory, evident in the pools of blood and the dead.

  He spots Ghuli Khan standing a little ways off. The police commissioner, who has his hands behind his back, looks like a building inspector out to survey a construction site. Spotting Steffensen and Schrøder, he walks directly over to them.

  They say hello. “This was unnecessary,” says the police commissioner. As Schrøder translates, Steffensen feels relief at not having to hear Roshaan’s sarcastic lead-in: “This man says . . .” The platoon leader is right: the interpreter was not doing his job properly.

  “The police commissioner is not happy.” Schrøder nods at Ghuli Khan. The Afghan keeps staring at Steffensen, who can’t decide if the look is supposed to be threatening.

  “I see,” says Steffensen. “So the police commissioner—or should we call him the mob boss—isn’t pleased. Please inform him that what has happened here does not fall under his jurisdiction.”

  Ghuli Khan continues to stare at him. “Here is something you should think about,” he says. “When the turban falls from the head, it always lands on the shoulder. That means the son inherits the father’s problems. You’ll return home. But your successors out here are going to curse you.”

  “Old Pashto saying,” says Schrøder, once he has translated the police commissioner’s words.

  “Colonel!” A soldier waves at Steffensen. “There’s something you should see here!”

  “The police commissioner must excuse me,” says Steffensen. “I have work to do.”

  He walks over to the soldier. A body sticks halfway up out of a pile of stones; like all the others it is covered in white dust. He’s still wearing his black silk turban. The thick black beard is easy to recognize, though it’s also covered in white dust, but the beard is in the wrong place. The dead man had his chin shot off, and now the chin and the beard are hanging halfway down over his chest.

  “I believe you know him,” says the soldier.

  Steffensen nods. It’s Atmar.

  He feels no remorse at the sight of the murdered man. Why should he? Just deserts. Clichés swell within him. Right now they all seem appropriate.

  Turning away from the sight, he looks out over the courtyard. The police commissioner is gone. A little farther off, some small bundles are lying close to each other. He turns to the soldier, who’s still standing next to him. “What is that?” he asks, pointing.

  “Nothing you want to see,” says the soldier. “Trust me, Colonel, nothing you want to see.”

  A strange answer to give a superior—one that could easily be interpreted as insubordinate. Yet the concern in the soldier’s voice makes Steffensen stop just as he’s about to point out the private’s inappropriate tone. The soldier wants to protect him. Does he need protection? No, he can certainly handle the truth, but his moment of triumph needs to be protected just a little longer.

  He has given the city’s power brokers a lesson they won’t forget. He’s already looking forward to their next Saturday meeting. No longer will he be ignored. He knows they’ll all gather around him. Now that they know the price for turning their backs on him, none of them will want to pay it. He hasn’t started a war; on the contrary, he has motivated them to accept his offer to negotiate more seriously.

  He walks over to inspect the bundles that caught his attention.

  Shortly thereafter, he leaves the compound.

  20

  Steffensen knows exactly who the two men are waiting in his office a week after the attack. He has met them before. Thorkild Andersen and Lars Møgelhøj are investigators from the Defense Judge Advocate Corps.

  It’s never a good sign when the two government officials show up. Something has been leaked, some irregularity that should have been easy to overlook. Maybe the media got hold of the story, which fortunately rarely happens, or else pressure is coming down from the ministry itself. Even worse, the visit might mean that someone higher up in the hierarchy has a grudge against you. That’s the worst-case scenario. There might not be any visible blemish on your career, but there’s an invisible one—and your career is over.

  The investigators’ official titles are judge advocates. Regardless of their title—judge advocates, vice advocates, or under-advocates—members of the advocate corps have one problem in common. None of them has any experience in the military. They’re all former policemen. They’ve been assessors or assistant commissioners, and maybe they’re good at staying on track. The problem is that the track always leads the wrong way without a little guidance. They think the unavoidable irregularities of war constitute a breach of some law. They like clean, straight lines and no bending of the facts. Everything is by the book, even when there is no book, like here in Afghanistan.

  Andersen and Møgelhøj belong to the corps’ more flexible wing. Before they became investigators in the auditor corps, they were sent to Kabul to learn the finer details of the Afghan police force. They discovered firsthand that truth is the first victim of war and that it would be impossible to run a war if it weren’t. When they encountered corruption, which they did constantly, they realized that what looked like bad habits in their eyes were, in fact, a fundamental part of Afghan culture. You can’t change a people’s culture instantly. Culture is like a house of cards: move even one of the cards, and the whole house falls in on itself.

  Meeting with Andersen and Møgelhøj always involves some element of uncertainty. Who will they be today? Sticklers for the law or more flexible? Steffensen wonders if there isn’t some power struggle going on in the Ministry of Defense or the secret service. Has he fallen accidentally into the line of fire? Was closing down communication in and out of camp a mistake—and are they looking for a scapegoat now? The operation has lasted fourteen days, but the investigations in Denmark still aren’t over. None of that is his fault. The attack on Atmar’s compound? It can’t be Ali Shar’s murder—he’s sure of that.

  There’s enough to worry about, he knows that, but that’s the way it is in every squad. He’s no exception. Something is a mistake. Other things can resemble violations. Still, that’s business as usual. Anyone who understands Afghanistan can teach them about that—and that’s how he views himself now. He has paid his dues, although they were fucking expensive.

  It turns out to be Atmar.

  “It was the Americans,” says Steffensen calmly.

  “Yes, but you’re the one who tipped them off. You’re the one who requested the bombing.”

  “Naib Atmar was providing shelter for the Taliban.”

  “We’ve found no evidence of that. All the dead fighters in the compound belonged to his militia. Several were members of the police force. That has been confirmed by the local authorities. Look, the man was the deputy chief of police.”

  “That’s no guarantee!” Steffensen cannot hide his contempt. “Since when have the local authorities become paragons of truth?”

  “We need to remind you that we are in Afghanistan. It’s their laws that apply here.”

  “It’s the laws of war that apply,” interrupts Steffensen.

  “That may be. We don’t necessarily disagree with you. But we have to at least act like there’s law and order in this country and that we are helping to main
tain it. Otherwise it becomes pretty damned hard to explain our presence here. And then you go and bomb the deputy chief of police.”

  Andersen nods at Møgelhøj, who takes the floor. He stretches one hand out and starts counting on the fingers he’s holding up. “We can deal with the media back home,” he says, touching his little finger. “No problem. They’ve sworn their allegiance and write what we ask them to write. And we can handle the government officials. Actually, they’re better problem solvers than we are.”

  He smiles at Steffensen, who smiles back. He feels relief. They’re on the right track.

  “The defense minister.” Møgelhøj touches his middle finger. “Same thing. On our side.” Now it’s his index finger. “Members of parliament. No problem. Not even the opposition. They’re so afraid of appearing irresponsible that they wouldn’t dare question anything.”

  The four fingers have disappeared into his hand. Only Møgelhøj’s powerful thumb is still sticking up. He’s a big guy, a little overweight, with a bulging waistline and a ruddy face. It looks like he’s giving a thumbs-up: everything’s okay. On Facebook, a definite “Like.”

  Møgelhøj raises his half-clenched fist as if to emphasize his thumb. He studies it for a moment and then looks back at Steffensen. “But there’s one thing we can’t take care of. The story is everywhere. The media in Kabul aren’t writing about anything else. The president has condemned the attack and is demanding an investigation. Yes, it was the Americans who did the bombing, but we were the ones who requested it. The two of us”—Møgelhøj looks over at Andersen—“we’re only the front line. There are going to be American auditors. The Afghans are coming, too. The situation here, Steffensen, is out of our hands. It’s not out yet in the Danish press, but it will be soon. Despite everything, they can’t just ignore what’s all over the American media. The global village and all that. Nor can the defense minister. The same goes for parliament.” He raises all his fingers again, so they can keep his thumb company. “Steffensen,” he says. “You’re up shit’s creek. I’m sorry.”