“Forgive? What does that mean?” Sara’s voice is dismissive.
Hannah has no idea what’s driving Sara’s question. Is she asking because the word “forgive” isn’t in her English vocabulary and she wants it explained? Or does she think Hannah’s plea isn’t sincere? It’s easy to fuck up and destroy other people’s lives—and then ask for forgiveness afterward. Is that what she means?
Hannah’s mood shifts again and the aggression returns. She has boundless resources of adrenaline. A whole Kuwaiti oil well of the shit. Fuck honor and dishonor and all these other sick Afghan ideals.
“It’s the madness we’ve come to change,” she says. Even she can hear the hypocrisy in her voice.
Sara stares straight ahead. It’s impossible to read her expression.
“I want to know it—now!” says Hannah firmly. “Do you or don’t you know where Schrøder is?”
“I don’t know where he is. But he was in Sangin. Massoud knows where he is now.”
8
Reaching Highway 1, they stop. Which way? They haven’t slept in almost two days. Maybe they’re worried that the night will steal their resolve, that in the deadly, logical light of dawn they’ll realize how lost they are.
“I need to speak to Massoud,” says Hannah. “Sara can translate—she’s the one who led us into that Taliban rat’s nest. She’ll see right through him if he’s lying.”
First they need to put some distance between themselves and Sangin. They drive about twelve miles down Highway 1 before pulling back off into the desert. They hop out of the APCs and get ready to interrogate Massoud.
“Don’t hit him,” says Steffensen. In his mind’s eye he still sees a hand with a burn mark. “Torture never works—they’ll confess anything just to make it stop.”
“Who’s talking about torture? He just needs to tell us where Schrøder is.”
“And what if he doesn’t know anything?”
“Then we let him go. He’s no better or worse off than all the others.”
Hannah points at Mathias and Sebastian. “You’re helping with the interrogation.”
They both turn to Viktor, who shakes his head. “It’s not for you.”
Dennis raises his hand. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re going to regret it,” says Viktor.
“This voting shit again?” Hannah stares defiantly at the circle of soldiers. “Is that how it’s going to be? We already voted once. Some of you were in the minority—and what did you promise? Steffensen, Viktor, Adam, Mathias, Sebastian, Gustav? Wasn’t it that you’d be loyal to the majority?”
They need to get the truth out of Massoud. It takes a lot of rage to beat a defenseless person. Once you’ve said A, you’re going to have to say B. And they’ve said A. There’s no way out of this situation, and they all know it. They’re going all the way.
No one has any more objections.
The interrogation starts. Steffensen can hear punches and muffled cries of pain, followed by more punches. It’s Dennis who’s working on him. In the pauses he can hear Sara translating. “I know nothing.” Every time she adds her own commentary: “He’s lying!”
At one point Sara appears from behind the APC, her expression wild. And he’s there, too, that mousy, skinny soldier Andreas who rarely opens his mouth but is always holding that video camera. Steffensen is shocked—are they recording what’s happening? Documenting their assault?
Again they hear punches followed by moans. The answer is always the same. “I know nothing.” When Massoud finally appears from behind the APC, his right arm is strangely limp, and he can no longer stand on his own. It’s not hate smoldering in his eyes but a blankness, like someone who has left every pain behind him. Dennis has given up. He looks just as battered as his victim.
Only Hannah seems unfazed. Steffensen wonders what has happened to her. He didn’t know who she was before, and he has no idea who she is now.
The men are sitting around, staring at the ground, clearly depressed. Are they pretending that they don’t know what’s happening?
“Does he have permission to go now?” asks Steffensen.
“Yes,” says Hannah. “He can go wherever he wants.”
“Then you admit he didn’t know anything and you beat him for no reason at all.”
“I have no idea whether he knew anything. We just didn’t get him to reveal anything.” The Afghan is lying limp on the ground where they dropped him. “He’s not going anywhere today.” Hannah’s tone is matter-of-fact. She asks Simon to look after him. “Is he okay?”
Simon examines the figure on the ground. “He’s breathing,” he says. “You’ve gone at him hard. Several of his ribs are broken. We’ll have to see how he’s doing tomorrow.”
Before long, darkness storms down upon them. That’s how it feels here. Darkness doesn’t descend slowly like a curtain; it’s a door that slams, suddenly extinguishing all light. They associate these noisy sunsets with the tropics, but not with frost and winter.
The stars still haven’t come out, but soon they’ll be blinking like stray ice crystals while satellites pass by slowly, as if the universe has only recently exploded, everything moving away from each other at the speed of light. Drones, stars, satellites. The evening sky resembles the universe the soldiers find themselves in when using PlayStation. Everything exists either to emit fire or get shot at. Explosions, not the music of the spheres, are the universe’s way.
They decide to set up camp for the night. They assign sentries, prepare their sleeping bags, and distribute the American field rations before turning in. The temperature has already fallen below zero. The Afghan lies motionless on the ground.
“He’ll freeze to death,” says Viktor. “There are extra sleeping bags in the APCs. I’ll get one.”
Viktor unzips the sleeping bag. Although the Afghan is tall, he feels surprisingly light. Viktor lays him down on his back and zips the bag up all the way, leaving only his bruised face exposed to the cold. Massoud’s irregular breathing rattles. It wasn’t a professional interrogation he went through. Enraged, Dennis struck him in rising desperation. He thought about Lasse, Daniel, and Nikolaj—the ones he knew best. Now they’re all dead. When courage failed him, he thought about Schrøder.
They all wanted this mission, but did they want this? A defenseless man, his head dangling listlessly to one side, as one blow after another strikes . . . breaking his nose, closing his eyes, and leaving his cheeks swollen, when he isn’t lying on the ground doubled up, trying to protect himself against their kicks?
The night is silent. They haven’t built a fire. Sara has been given a sleeping bag, and she wraps herself up in it, ignoring the boy standing next to her. Hannah takes out another sleeping bag and puts Zuy next to his mother. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stares up at the night sky. Half an hour later, his eyes are still open when Hannah looks over at him. Sara isn’t sleeping, either.
“Was it true that his father scalded your son?” asks Hannah, returning to her own sleeping bag. She has observed no sign of love between Sara and the boy. Maybe Steffensen’s accusation was right.
“No, it was a lie,” Sara responds calmly. “I did it.” Hannah waits for her to elaborate. Nothing.
“Why did you do it?” she finally asks. She has to control herself to continue the conversation.
“Do you know what a soul is? Do you believe that women have souls?”
Hannah doesn’t understand what she means. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Do you know why women are cursed? It’s because we have a soul. Our soul is our misfortune. If only we were animals, everything would be good. I gave birth to Zuy, but he is not my child. He belonged to his father, just like the house and the livestock and my body. I don’t regret it. He has nothing to do with me.”
Hannah wishes she hadn’t asked. Is it disgust the woman’s confession evokes within her? Fear? Or both? She’s too full of her own misfortune to give a name to the feelings swirling inside her. Sh
e interrogated a man earlier in the day; now she lets the same routine take over. “Do you have other children?”
“Had. Four. They are all dead. I know what you are thinking. No, I did not kill them. Two died not long after birth, two were stillborn. They were all girls.”
“And the father. Your husband?”
“He is dead. Recently.” She laughs dryly. “He came home with a stomach wound. I was supposed to take care of him. He didn’t survive.”
Not really the time for condolences, thinks Hannah.
“You want to liberate the women in Afghanistan?” It’s the first time Sara has asked a question. “Have you ever been inside a qalat?”
“No . . .” Hannah hesitates. “Yes,” she adds, “but only with a rifle in my hands.”
“Are you married? Do you have children?”
“No, neither.”
“You do not know Afghan women. If the door to their cage opens, they will not leave. They cannot imagine life without relatives and clan. For them, the freedom you talk about is the same as being cast out. If they knew how you live, they would feel sorry for you. No children, no husband. They would look at you as pathetic. They prefer the unhappiness they know to one they don’t know.”
“But you’re not like that. You’ve rebelled.”
It sends a shiver through Hannah to hear herself use the word “rebelled” about Sara’s attack on her own child. She’s humoring her—but she needs her. She can’t just turn away from her in disgust.
“Don’t you understand anything? Everyone thinks I am crazy. The crazy have their own freedom.”
Some time later Hannah falls asleep to the sound of Massoud’s labored breathing. At one point she hears him mumbling to himself. She thinks she can also hear Sara’s voice. She’s in the middle of an unclear dream, but the voices, which seem far away, don’t wake her.
9
In the morning the Afghan is still flat on his back, just as Viktor left him. While sleeping he must have folded his hands over his chest. Frost has gathered in the corners of his mouth and on the backs of his hands. Sometime during the night he stopped breathing.
Sara sits up and stares at the dead man.
Hannah reaches for his wrist. His skin is ice cold. Then she touches the dead man’s face, hesitantly, as if some sign of life might be hiding in the deep wrinkles. Turning around, she calls for Simon.
“He’s dead,” she says.
Kneeling down, Simon sticks his hands under the man’s kirtle. His hands glide up and down the man’s torso. “The broken ribs may have punctured one of his organs, possibly his lungs. Internal bleeding. I’m not sure.”
Hannah can see the impotence in his face. He’s only a medic, and he knows his limitations. There’s nothing he can do here, except to ascertain what everyone can see.
“I sat with him last night,” says Sara unexpectedly. “He spoke. I heard him.”
“He spoke to you?”
“I don’t know who he was talking to. He talked about the man you are hunting for. He knows where he is.”
“He didn’t say a word all day yesterday.” Viktor has come over and is staring angrily at Sara. “He paid for his silence with his life. Why in the world would he reveal anything to you? You’re definitely one of us.”
“He must be killed. All of you have to do it.”
“Do you know where Schrøder is?” Hannah is well aware of the logic in Viktor’s objection, but the storm inside her is brewing again. They can’t give up now—and that’s what will happen if they start thinking like Viktor.
“Before he died, Massoud said that he was in Tangye,” says Sara.
Steffensen has joined the group forming around the dead Afghan, who’s still in the sleeping bag. “So we’re going there to kill more people?” he asks.
“Yes, unless you have a better suggestion.”
Steffensen points west. “I do. That way. Home. Back to camp. This has to stop.”
Sara is still sitting on the ground. She stares straight ahead, as if she couldn’t care less about the discussion’s outcome.
Hannah stands up. “No one asked you to come with us.”
“We’ve beaten a man to death. We’ve shot a whole compound to smithereens. We’ve taken three women as hostages and destroyed their lives for no good reason. Where does it all end?”
“This is war. Schrøder taught us at least that much. It doesn’t end. And definitely not here.” Hannah’s eyes are full of spite.
“And this crazy woman is our only lead? And she’s had a new revelation since the last one didn’t pan out? A dying man in his delirium told her the truth? That is, if she isn’t just hearing voices.”
Steffensen points an accusatory finger at Sara, who’s staring at the dead Afghan as if she’s still communicating with him. “She’s our only source. God only knows what the secret service would say about that.”
Dennis’s eyes wander. The adrenaline has long since gone out of him. He’s taking Massoud’s death hard. Sebastian, Gustav, and Mathias turn to Viktor, who looks resigned. Andreas’s face is blank.
“I can’t believe this!” Hannah has to control herself or she’ll scream. “Are you with us or not?”
The chaplain walks over to one of the APCs and returns with a shovel. “First we need to bury the Afghan,” he says.
“Shouldn’t they be given the chance to find him so they can bury him?” asks Adam.
“Find him? In the middle of the desert? Maybe we should toss him into a ditch off the highway as a special service for the survivors? No, we need to bury the Afghan properly,” he says.
They leave a mound in the ground above the dead man. Zuy is staring at it when Steffensen lays a hand on his shoulder and leads him over to the nearest APC. They hop in. The three gunners, Dennis, Mathias, and Sebastian, take up their positions. Gustav, Sylvester, and Sørensen are in the driver’s seats; they’ve had to replace Jannick and Joakim. They’re a platoon full of holes, so roles suddenly shift. They’ve been away for a whole night, a day, and yet another night. The entire time they’ve felt a sense of urgency.
Irritated with the low speed the terrain necessitates, they cross the desert until they reach the highway. There are few cars on this stretch, and the ones they encounter immediately pull to the side and stop when the APCs move to the center of the road. Behind them traffic picks up again; in front of them it veers to both sides. They drive quickly and deliberately.
Suddenly there’s a loud bang, and a blast wave sends the lead APC tumbling over.
10
Hannah has no idea where she is. She’s stretched out on a hard surface. Her mouth and eyes are full of dust, and a violent pain in her head compels her to reach up, instinctively, searching for the sore spot. She can’t find it. Her whole head must be throbbing. There’s no blood, which she assumes is a good sign, but one of her shoulders aches as if something struck her—hard. When she tries to open her eyes, they immediately start to water. Sand crunches between her teeth. Wherever she looks, everything undulates, as if the world has become fluid and is starting to dissolve. The people standing around her sway as if they’re seasick. She can’t hear a thing. Drying her tears, she tries to take another look. Slowly the world around her starts to gather and take shape.
Simon is kneeling next to Steffensen. Sylvester, Karlsen, and Camper stand with their backs toward her, in a protective half circle, their rifles aimed at a group of Afghan men who’ve gathered at the scene. Up in the APCs, Dennis and Mathias are aiming the matte-black barrels of their 12.7s. The Afghans yell excitedly, although she still can’t hear anything. Behind them is a line of cars. They’ve struck a roadside bomb, and the traffic in both directions has come to a standstill.
The armored vehicle she was in just a moment ago now leans lopsided on the side of the road. The belt, which has been blown off, is hanging loosely on top of the small road wheels. Otherwise, it doesn’t look damaged. This stretch of road is unpaved, so it wasn’t a hard landing. That’s why she’s
still alive. And she is alive. She realizes that suddenly, and her body trembles, making her feel weightless. She tries to stand up but gets dizzy. As she reaches out a hand to break her fall, Adam grabs hold of her. She can see by the movements of his mouth that he’s asking her something. She points at her ears and he nods. Softly pressing her shoulder, he gets her to sit back down and then hands her a bottle of water and two pills. With stiff, numb fingers, she pops the pills in her mouth and then swallows them. The water tastes glorious, and she takes another sip.
She looks around for the others who were in the APC with her. Steffensen has taken off his Kevlar helmet, as if he’s too hot. Nervously, he wipes the white dust off his face; it’s in his brows, his small mustache, and the lines around his mouth. Sara, who’s sitting a ways off, is staring straight ahead with the same stiff expression as always. That’s how she was sitting before they hit the roadside bomb; it’s as if she never moved. Hannah thinks, comically, that someone has just moved her, like another piece of inventory, from the crashed APC’s interior and out onto the highway. Zuy is walking around her and holding his ears, as if the world has become too much for him and he doesn’t want any more to do with it.
Now that the initial fear has passed, the explosion has actually elated them. Their luck, the knowledge that they’re still alive, makes them euphoric. They’re on their way to nail Schrøder, and their adrenaline transforms even the blast from a roadside bomb into a narcotic exhilaration.
They solve the problem of the disabled APC in the way Hannah would have suggested. Viktor, Mathias, Gustav, and Sebastian walk down along the line of cars, and when they come to a four-wheel-drive Suzuki truck, painted white, they open the door and order the driver to get out. He refuses. Viktor grabs hold of him and heaves him out onto the road. The Afghan steps angrily toward the sergeant, who gives him a hard shove with the mouth of his rifle. Shocked, the driver takes a few steps back, his turban crooked. He doesn’t make any attempt to walk back to his vehicle. A group of women and children who were sitting in the bed of the truck crawl down and place themselves behind his massive figure as if seeking protection.
The First Stone Page 29