Steffensen struggles to keep his jaw from dropping, a bad habit he has whenever he’s caught off guard.
Andersen raises a hand as if to stop Steffensen. He has misinterpreted the commander’s disconcerted expression to indicate that Steffensen wants to say something in his own defense.
“I know you’re asking yourself why the hell this is even an issue. Loads of compounds are bombed in this country. Every year thousands of civilians die and only a select few are even counted in any statistics. Why this time? And why you?”
Steffensen makes his voice hard and looks Andersen in the eye. “Yes,” he says. “I’d really like to know.”
“Have you seen an inventory of the dead?”
Steffensen shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”
Andersen and Møgelhøj exchange glances. He realizes that was the wrong answer. But what the hell. He hasn’t seen any list of the dead. He walked around the ruins. He didn’t count every arm and leg sticking out of the rubble. He saw Atmar’s shattered face, which made him feel good. And yes, he put a man on the case, but he’s still waiting for the result. He could have pressed him, but he hasn’t gotten to it yet.
Andersen looks right at him. “Okay, now listen. Atmar had small children. They weren’t in school. They’re dead. He had three wives. Also dead. On top of that there were a lot of family members and relatives, as there always are in these compounds, and they’re all dead, too. In total, fifteen children and twelve women. That’s not counting men. Still, you’re way up there, approaching the numbers the Taliban kill when their suicide bombers strike hardest. Christ, Steffensen, what the hell were you thinking? Atmar was our ally.”
“He was a drug lord.”
“You just said he was a Taliban fighter. Now he’s a drug lord. Yes, they’re all drug lords—we collaborate with drug lords. We even protect them if we need to. This isn’t the Girl Scouts. We’re all realists. We damn well have to be. And it’s better if the drug lords are on our side than on the Taliban’s. We thought you understood that better than anyone else. That’s why you got the job out here, man, because you’re not some foolish idealist who takes all the official bullshit seriously. You could handle the realities. What was really going on in that head of yours? Have you lost your grip?”
“Fifteen children,” says Steffensen.
He already knew what the small piles in the middle of the courtyard were when he saw them from a distance. He knew what the soldier was saying to him when he warned him not to go over there. And he knows exactly why he never pushed for that inventory of the dead. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. The local Afghans wanted to know the number, but that wasn’t important. What mattered was that it never became public knowledge in Denmark. The soldier’s words had already indicated that the number never needed to become official. There were so many obstacles that it seemed extremely unlikely the bad news would ever reach home. Army Operational Command, the Ministry of Defense, the minister himself, the government—no one had any interest in the case going public. Any consequences could be handled internally. He had poked the hornet’s nest with a stick, but he thought that what happened in the hornet’s nest would stay in the hornet’s nest.
He has embarrassed the local powers that be and brought disorder into a delicate balance. When a butterfly flaps its wings in Beijing, it causes a hurricane in the Caribbean. Doesn’t some theory say that? Chaos theory? This is chaos country. A handful of children die in a distant province, and the outraged president in the country’s capital six hundred kilometers away screams abuse of power, because he needs to legitimize himself to a population for whom he has lost all credibility.
Steffensen overlooked that connection—and now the story will travel all around the world and eventually reach Karen. Karen, who understands him but will see him in a different light. It’s not some gossipy neighbor down the street who will whisper some rumor in her ear. The world news will soon be screaming the story in her face. The global village, as they call it. He never thought that small towns in Afghanistan were part of the global village, but he’s not as far away from Karen as he believed. He’s not that far away from anything, not even his own imminent downfall.
He’ll be brought to trial. In Denmark the court-martial has been abolished, so he’ll have to appear in civilian court. And what if the judge is some sensitive thirty-five-year-old woman who donates monthly to Amnesty International? There will be cameras outside the courthouse. Will he have to go in and out with a windbreaker over his head? Is that how his military career will end—with a jacket pulled over his head?
“Yes, fifteen children.” Andersen nods. His face is serious.
“If I’m not mistaken, it wasn’t so long ago that we referred to that kind of thing as unintended consequences.”
“We know that expression well.”
“It doesn’t sound like it. We’re running a war out here. That kind of thing happens. That’s war.”
Steffensen tries to make his voice sound firm. He tries to add a little indignation. He wants to sound as if he’s defending a principle, but what principle? The right to kill children? He just hopes they can’t see how trapped he feels.
“You’re right,” says Møgelhøj. “War is war. We couldn’t agree more. But this isn’t war. It’s politics.”
“Fifteen children,” repeats Steffensen. He can’t let go of the number he just heard. “What do we normally pay in compensation, to show our good will? Isn’t that what we usually say? Fifty thousand Danish crowns per person when we unintentionally kill someone who got in the way or was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, as these children so clearly were. Yeah, yeah, I know the Afghans demand less for girls than for boys, but let’s be generous and stick to fifty thousand. Fifteen times fifty thousand . . .” He hesitates for a moment as if making a quick calculation. “Three-quarters of a million crowns—that’s a lot of money. A lot. Someone will get rich from this. Isn’t that how we handle it?”
He looks encouragingly at the two investigators.
Møgelhøj answers his look. “Stop this.”
Despite the order, his voice is subdued. “I can see what it is you’re trying to do, Steffensen. But don’t make yourself out to be even more cynical than you actually are. It’s not like you to think that way. And most of all”—the investigator’s voice becomes even more insistent—“it’s not the Danish military’s way of thinking.”
“I understand that you haven’t personally seen the bodies of the children,” adds Andersen. “Are you aware of how they were found?”
Steffensen shakes his head. Møgelhøj looks over at Andersen as if prompting him to continue.
“They were lying next to each other in a large pile in the middle of the courtyard. They didn’t take any direct hits, so there wasn’t much damage to them. We assume they died from the shock waves. We have no idea what they were doing in the middle of the courtyard. When they see us in our armored vehicles, they usually gather around expecting to get something—jumping rope, colored markers, or whatever we might have with us. Maybe the adults told them to go out, hoping it would stop the attack. The Afghans have good reason to believe that we see everything on the ground during an attack. Still, we don’t know why they were standing there. We can only speculate. Weren’t there any reports of children in the compound?”
Steffensen shakes his head again. “That’s the usual story. They’re always trying to use civilians as shields.” His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been speaking too long.
“No,” says Møgelhøj. “This is not the usual story. It’s an unusual story. Fortunately, we can say. But unfortunately all signs point to us. We’re the ones who messed up. Or you did, that is. There’s talk of gross negligence.”
“Fifteen children . . .” Steffensen’s voice is no more than a whisper. To his horror, he can feel his lower lip quivering.
Andersen looks over at Møgelhøj and they both stand up. “It’s probably best you have a little time to your
self.”
21
A visit to the survivors’ qalat is in order, says Schrøder. The issue of the shattered family isn’t over yet. They’ve visited the field hospital in Camp Bastion. Now comes their next exercise in penance. According to the rules, compensation must be paid—and Schrøder thinks it’s best if they deliver the money themselves. He briefs them on looking appropriately serious when they sit down cross-legged on the woven carpet laid out on the flat-stomped ground behind the qalat’s protective walls.
“No sunglasses. And under no circumstances should you let them see the soles of your shoes!”
Mads refuses to go.
“You’re the one who did the shooting,” says Schrøder. “I’m not going to discuss this.”
Simon and Hannah don’t have to go. Schrøder points at Adam.
“I’m not going with you, you pig!” The others stare at Adam. No one ever speaks like that to Schrøder. To their surprise, Schrøder ignores him.
“You want to know why?” Something violent is happening in Adam’s usually calm face. There’s spite, but there’s something else, something impossible to read. He’s acting as if he’s lost control of his feelings. But what feelings? What’s happened to him?
“I don’t trust you! That’s why! Roshaan was afraid of you. And now he’s dead!” He looks around at the others. “You can’t trust him!”
Embarrassed for Adam, they look away. Where’s all this paranoia coming from? Is he on something? Sensing their reaction, Adam immediately withdraws. He looks down at the floor and then over at the tent’s wall. Suddenly he seems like a spurned child.
Schrøder keeps ignoring Adam. Instead, he looks at Hannah, who’s staring angrily in Adam’s direction. “What do you think, Hannah? Don’t you think Adam should come along?”
Hannah hadn’t considered jealousy before, not even when Adam accosted her with his accusations. Now it’s surfacing. Adam is jealous, she thinks. And Schrøder? Why is he asking her what he should do about Adam? Does he think she has something going on with both of them? Two men jealous of each other? It would be entertaining—flattering, even—if it weren’t so stupid. Until Adam’s unforgivable outburst, she thought she had found a real friend. And Schrøder? Schrøder is the most important thing that’s happened to her. They have something together . . . or had. That last time was so strange, and they haven’t spoken since. Maybe the whole thing is ruined now.
“Leave Adam alone,” she says in a defeated tone. Everyone must be able to see that something is going on between the three of them. Can they also tell what it is? “I’ll go.” She knows why she said it: the hope of exchanging a few words with Schrøder. Maybe they can stand next to each other in the APC’s hatch, like before.
Schrøder stares at her for a moment; there’s no warmth in his eyes. “I think it’s better if you stay here.”
Everything inside her sinks. It’s a rejection. She wants to throw herself at his feet and beg. She’s not herself when he’s near, and she realizes how pathetic that is. She looks around at the others. As long as they don’t know anything, as long as Adam doesn’t gossip. She’ll kill him if he does. She hates herself. She hates Schrøder.
Schrøder laughs loudly. “You certainly can’t trust me!” The others laugh along. Adam stands up and leaves.
Årslev volunteers willingly. Clement and Troels respond to the order with the same resistance as always. “You’re coming,” says Schrøder.
Iraq Robert doesn’t exactly look enthusiastic when ordered to go. “Whatever.” They know what he really wants to say: We didn’t waste time on this stuff in Iraq. But Iraq Robert considers himself a professional, so he keeps his mouth shut.
More and more frequently he talks to the others in the platoon about the security firm he worked for, DarkSky. No restrictive rules. No threat of consequences, no talk of negligence. “Free rein,” he says. “Things are just done. Once my contract runs out here, I’ll go back to DarkSky.”
“Take your camera with you,” Schrøder says to Sidekick. “There’s a lot here you’ll be able to use later. It will be interesting.”
“A bunch of old Afghans with dirty towels on their heads,” says Mads.
Mads, Iraq Robert, Sidekick, Årslev, Clement, Troels, Lasse, Nikolaj, and Daniel come along. All of them were in the APC when the shooting incident occurred. Jonas, Aske, Joakim, Jannick, and Tobias go, too. And Schrøder, naturally.
In all, fifteen of them head out.
22
Passing through Girishk, they continue east on Highway 1. A few kilometers outside the city they pull over and hop out. They can see tall clay walls a little distance from the road. Inside the courtyard a watchtower cobbled together from rough boards rises above one of the walls, but there’s no one in it. A few hundred meters away lies another qalat. They leave Joakim, Jannick, and Tobias at the vehicle.
“As we enter the gate, we’ll set aside our rifles,” says the platoon leader.
Mads stares at him. “Are you nuts? We’re not doing that.”
“It’s an important gesture,” says Schrøder in the indulgent tone he has started to use whenever he speaks to Mads.
“I don’t give a shit about your gesture!”
“What if I call this insubordination?” Schrøder smiles, surely trying not to lose face in front of the flock of Afghans who have gathered outside the compound’s gate.
“Call it whatever you want,” says Mads. “I call it common sense.”
The soldiers look from one to the other. Since Schrøder isn’t making it an order, the others decide to keep their weapons, too.
Carpets have been laid out on the courtyard inside the gate. They’re still carrying their weapons as they step inside and sit down. It’s cold, although the ground isn’t frozen.
It’s not a courtroom they’ve entered but a marketplace where they can bargain about the price on the dead. Anger can be settled with money, as can sorrow. Should they be accommodating and smile, or should they look guilt-ridden?
Schrøder orders Sidekick to sit a little ways off, so he has a view of the entire gathering. His camera pans the faces, all of which are equally blank. He keeps filming. It’s his way of dealing with the embarrassment.
There are a number of children and men, although the women stay inside. Mads was wrong when scornfully predicting that they’d be confronted with a bunch of old men. Instead, the courtyard is teeming with young men, most of them in full beards. The younger ones stand respectfully behind the old, who are sitting with their legs crossed. The soldiers face a massive crowd, forty or fifty people, a wall of men draped in heavy woolen shawls as protection against the cold. Some of them talk among themselves in excited voices while glancing constantly at their guests.
“I hate all these smiling children,” says Mads. “They should be crying. Their lives are so shitty. At least that’d be honest. Then maybe they’d pull it together and do something about things.”
The older boys are pouring green tea. Teapots sit in front of them on metal trays, along with bowls filled with raisins and sunflower seeds. No one eats anything. The mood is depressed.
One of the men stands up and throws his shawl over his shoulder. He crosses the courtyard and disappears into a doorway as he signals the children to follow. The excited voices continue.
Schrøder steps away from his men and starts speaking Pashto loudly. It’s a relief to have somewhere to focus your eyes. The Afghans immediately quiet down. He strikes out into the air with a clenched fist. He points toward the Danes and then down toward the ground. He looks like a commander firing up his troops before a battle.
They’ve seen him play the role of interpreter before—but they’ve never seen him like this. They realize that he has power over the Afghans. Their eyes are glued to him. They straighten up, their bodies charged with the electricity emanating from Schrøder.
Schrøder takes off his helmet and holds it in one hand. Is he giving yet another speech about reconciliation, or is he talking about
the money that must be paid as compensation? His arms fly around excitedly; his voice gets stronger. Then his voice calms down, as if he has reached a conclusion. He bows his head. The Afghans rapidly turn their gaze from him to their guests.
You can see it on Sidekick’s recording.
“We were all staring at their faces. We all wanted to know what they were thinking,” says Sidekick. “But we should have been looking at their hands.”
As if choreographed, the young men standing behind the old ones suddenly throw their shawls over their shoulders in one coordinated movement to reveal that they’re all holding Kalashnikovs. They aim their weapons at their guests and fire. Flapping shawls, rifle barrels, gunfire. And then that noise, a piercing, cracking sound that drowns out everything else, and the soldiers’ cries as the bullets slam into them.
From here on in, the screen shakes. Instinctively, Sidekick turns his head to follow in the direction of the bullets, and then the Danish soldiers come into focus. No impulse to flee compels Sidekick to run. He stays where he is. Other than Schrøder, he’s the only one with no weapon aimed at him. He could have grabbed his rifle from his shoulder and returned fire, but he doesn’t. He holds on to the camera.
There’s blood everywhere. The soldiers lie in bloody piles next to each other and on top of each other, collapsed like empty piles of clothes, as if the bodies that once filled them have suddenly vaporized. Årslev’s face has been shot off. Clement is lying on his back, his flak jacket ripped apart by the shots. The vest protects against shrapnel but not against shots fired at close range. Troels is crumpled up next to him. Responding swiftly, Mads fell flat on his stomach and managed to grab his weapon, but he was hit before he could do anything. The ground beneath him is already dark. Iraq Robert is the only one who managed to stand up with his rifle in hand, but he never fired a shot before being hurled backward. He’s resting on one elbow and shaking his head while scratching his forehead as if he just woke up. His eye socket is more pronounced than ever. And then his skull explodes in a cloud of blood.
The First Stone Page 23