“With your men? They fell into a trap.”
Sara walks over to one of the stalls and opens the shutters. She points at the floor.
“That was where he kept us.”
“A prison?”
She nods.
“Electricity?”
“A generator.”
A generator, I think. Power to charge a laptop. I ask her about the drone. She shakes her head. She didn’t see anything. I’ve grown used to her having an answer for everything, but now her face is blank.
The sun is high—it feels almost hot, although it’s only mid-February. Sara has thrown back her burka, so her face is exposed. She’s still hiding her dull, dirty hair, though. Walking back down the hillside, away from the bazaar, I feel as if we’re returning to a world outside of time. Yet there’s a generator in the passageways beneath the bazaar, and a drone smashed into the mountainside across from us.
We spend another night in the desert, but we still don’t light a fire. We stay close, however, as we did last night. I can’t sleep. I lie awake going over the mission, again and again.
By the time dawn announces its arrival with a blazing red stripe across the horizon, I haven’t had much sleep. We spent the whole night lying right next to each other, but this time we didn’t talk. What is she to me? A human GPS? The system of coordinates she follows has nothing to do with geography. I have no idea what it involves. I only know that I need her. Still, there’s something in her I don’t want to get too close to, and I’m grateful for the distance that resurfaces between us. Am I afraid of her? Maybe.
We get up, as if the morning light were an alarm clock, and immediately turn our backs on each other while straightening out our clothes. She walks into the distance and squats. I do the same and urinate “Afghan style.” I haven’t shit in a few days—the Imodium has seen to that. I’m still paying for that lunch with Halim. Now I’m bloated, although I haven’t eaten anything but unleavened bread for the past two days.
“Aren’t you going to pray?” I ask Sara.
We’ve spent two days together, and I have yet to see her kneel down and rest her forehead against the ground. She doesn’t answer.
“Don’t you ever pray?”
She looks at me. “I am not a believer.”
Her answer puzzles me. It wouldn’t if it came from a young man or woman of Muslim background in Denmark. But out here I can’t understand the answer.
“Are you a believer?”
“I am, yes.”
I’ve always pushed any questions about my faith into the background. If pressed, I’d acknowledge that I was certainly not a believer. I like to drink and I’d like to avoid marrying a virgin. Nor do I consider women who’ve slept with several men to be whores. In my eyes, faith—whatever faith—is nothing more than a self-righteous attempt to limit others’ freedom. At one point I got involved in caliphal circles, but that was more of rebellion against Denmark than my parents. I was eighteen and needed to belong, and I felt no kinship with the Danes. So I went looking for extremes wherever I could find them. I was attracted to gang life, too, and that’s where I wound up when I stopped associating with fundamentalists. As long as I wasn’t alone.
Now, I no longer need to rebel or take a stand to show people who I am. I try to blend in with others and live invisibly. It’s part of my job description. Before, I was desperately trying to be someone; now I act as if I’m no one.
Sara interrupts my train of thought. “You can’t half believe,” she says. “Do you know what I’ve been given instead of a soul? I have my hardness and nothing else. There is no heaven for me.”
“If you had your own place, a place where only you made all the decisions, what would that be like?”
“There would be no road leading to it. And there would be no road leading from it.”
“And your son? Where would he be?”
“He doesn’t exist in that world. There are no men.”
I hesitate before asking the next question. “Was that why you tried to kill him?”
She doesn’t answer; she just stares straight ahead.
21
Shrouded in layers of dust, they sit in a circle behind the qalat’s walls. Their faces are powdery masks with sunken eyes and moist red lips that resemble painted-on clown mouths. If they saw themselves in a mirror, they’d think they were still high.
They’re brooding and withdrawn. They were near the explosion, and then came the hash high, making everything seem at first meaningless and then outlandishly cheerful. Deep down, they feel confused, aching, as if they battled an invisible opponent who struck everywhere, even though they couldn’t fight back. Haunted by the confusion of surviving, they feel both relief and paralysis.
Hannah has returned; they barely noticed her absence. Although Viktor saw her fighting her way across the gate, he was soon lost in a haze of ecstasy.
Steffensen is convinced that the missile that barreled into the neighboring compound was meant for them and their guards. Schrøder was the actual target. It’s a new, humiliating position—someone else’s death is more important than their survival. They’ve risked everything to capture Schrøder, but they’re not the only ones hunting him. The Americans, also on his trail, are far more effective; the Danes feel they’ve been reduced to the status of women, children, and dogs, all the dead bodies you find in the ruins every time an important target has been eliminated.
Except for one thing: Schrøder hasn’t been eliminated. Next time they’ll be wiped out along with him. They don’t mean shit to anyone.
“That was close,” says Schrøder, smiling contemptuously.
“They’ll get you soon enough.” Viktor stares back spitefully.
“I don’t think so,” says Schrøder. “I’m the one who ordered the attack.”
“He’s suffering from delusions of grandeur.” Ignoring Schrøder, Viktor talks to the others. “He thinks he’s in control of the American air forces now.”
“But I am. I’m steering the drones. Me and my Afghan friends.”
Steffensen’s curiosity is aroused. He blinks behind his dirty glasses in the dusty mask that is his face. “What do you mean?”
“I just love it that you’re the one asking that question, Steffensen. Why did you order that attack on Atmar’s compound? Was he a member of the Taliban? Was he an enemy of the Afghan government? No, he just got the better of you and showed you how little you understand about everything going on out here—so he had to pay for it.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Yes, it is. Most targets are hit for exactly the same reason you had when you ordered the attack on Atmar’s compound. The Afghans inform against their local rivals to the Americans—all they have to do is say ‘Taliban’ and the hammer falls.” He points up and laughs. “Punishment from above. You have such bad intelligence that you’ll believe anything your so-called allies tell you. They don’t care about the Taliban. There’s always some personal enemy they want to get rid of, so they label them toxic and you deliver the goods. A large part of the war is actually being run by the Afghans themselves, feeding you false information. And you’re stupid enough to let yourselves be used.
“Our neighbors”—he nods at the destroyed qalat—“had personal enemies here in the city. So the Americans were told they were Taliban. You just witnessed the results. I admit it got a little close for comfort. That was a chance we took. But I believe in the Americans—I believe in their professionalism. I believe in the precision of their missiles and their heroic drone pilots sitting on their fat asses in Nevada. We weren’t the target. No one even knows we’re here. Welcome to Afghanistan!”
One of their guards brings a large bowl of water. “Wash your faces,” says Schrøder. “You look ridiculous.”
22
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Schrøder’s voice is businesslike. He’s had Steffensen brought in, and the Danish commander, now separated from his men, finds himself in one
of the many rooms surrounding the qalat’s inner courtyards. A tall figure steps through the doorway. He’s wearing a turban, and the bottom half of his face is covered with a shawl. Sunglasses hide the rest of his face, so that all Steffensen can see are a pair of high cheekbones. The man is clearly an Afghan.
“Nice to meet you.” The Afghan offers his hand; Steffensen takes it. He might as well—no need to protest.
They sit down across from each other. Between them is a tray with a teapot and cups, along with the usual small bowls filled with sunflower seeds, pistachios, and raisins. The Afghan removes his shawl and then, in one swift movement, unties his turban before placing it on the cushion next to him.
“Good to get out of that nonsense,” he says. Surprised, Steffensen stares at him. The man is sunburned, but his eyebrows are blond—as is the full beard covering the man’s face without hiding his lips, which are unusually red.
“You’re not an Afghan,” says Steffensen, who can hear the hope in his own voice. It’s a knee-jerk response to seeing someone from his own part of the world. He can’t control it, even though the man’s appearance next to Schrøder can only mean one thing. He must be his partner, and just as reckless and corrupt.
Steffensen compares their faces. Same hair color, same full beard. The English speaker’s face is more lined; he’s clearly older than Schrøder, maybe around forty. Otherwise, they have the same athletic build.
“You don’t need an interpreter.” Schrøder smiles. “You understand each other. You speak the same language—in more ways than one.”
Schrøder spoke in Danish. The foreigner looks at him for a moment. “Let’s speak English,” he says. He’s obviously an American. He nods obligingly at Steffensen. “Timothy. You can call me Tim.”
“Ove Steffensen.” There’s a slight coldness in Steffensen’s voice, which Tim either chooses to ignore or just didn’t hear.
Tim nods at Schrøder. “Schrøder and I do business together, and I thought it would be advantageous to bring you and your men into the partnership. I have a suggestion.” He smiles and glances at Schrøder, who smiles back. Steffensen recognizes this setup—he’s been part of it often enough. Three politicians entering into a negotiation. Or three businessmen. That’s obviously what this Tim prefers to call it. Steffensen knows exactly what’s being said—he just doesn’t understand anything about the current situation he’s found himself in.
“Mr. Timothy.” He tries to fill his voice with authority. This is about getting his message across. They mustn’t notice his desperation and confusion.
“Tim.”
“Tim,” says Steffensen. “Mr. Timothy.” It might sound strange to address the man as Mr. Timothy when he’s insisting on the more casual Tim, but Steffensen wants to reinforce the distance between them. “Mr. Timothy,” he repeats. “I don’t think you understand who Schrøder is. He’s not just some first lieutenant in the Danish army. He is personally responsible for half of his own men being murdered in an ambush—and he’s holding the rest of the platoon here as prisoners. Only a few days ago, he gunned down another man from the platoon. I don’t know how you understand partnership, but for this so-called partnership to have any meaning, you must help us escape this man’s grip and let us take him back to Denmark where he’ll be brought to trial.”
Mr. Timothy is still smiling. Schrøder is smiling, too.
“None of that is news,” says Mr. Timothy. “I know all about Schrøder. He’s a very open person, and in our line of work, we have to be able to trust each other. There are always costs when you do business, and sometimes they can be difficult to accept. But I don’t need to lecture you about that. Surely you know that already.”
“Yes, but he’s a murderer! He killed his own men!” Steffensen can hear the desperation in his voice. He’s not getting through. He decides to try again. “Don’t you understand? Schrøder is a psychopath!” Steffensen can’t control himself.
“There’s a little bit of a psychopath in all of us,” says Timothy with a disarming smile. “Otherwise life would be boring. I admit that he can get a little unorthodox in his methods. But you’re mistaken. You can definitely negotiate with him.”
“I’m speechless,” says Steffensen.
“Let’s not lose perspective here,” continues Timothy. “I work for a large international firm. Surely you’ve heard of it—DarkSky. We work closely with the American army, who’ve outsourced certain jobs to us. The closest American outpost, which is considerably far from here, is manned by us.”
“You’re working with the American army?” Steffensen is shocked.
Mr. Timothy raises a hand as if he’s asking his agitated guest to hear him out.
“Yes, they’re one of our best customers—but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I just thought it’s important for you to know who you’re entering into an agreement with. Once we fulfill our duties, which are relatively simple, we are free to pursue other interests. Afghanistan is certainly an interesting country right now. Full of possibilities. This is where you and your men come in. I have an offer for you.”
“You’re nothing more than a mercenary!” Steffensen can’t contain his outburst, his voice full of contempt.
“That’s a rather crude way of putting it. The correct word is ‘entrepreneur.’ We’re business partners with the American army. We solve many of the problems the army previously handled. We’re responsible for transport. We operate cafeterias. We make ourselves useful in various ways, and our employees are always chosen carefully. So, no, ‘mercenary’ is not the word I would use. Out here, we also play an important role as entrepreneurs, and if there’s one thing Afghanistan needs right now, it’s to get the economy moving.”
Steffensen hears the echo of many political speeches in Mr. Timothy’s words; he can even hear the echo of his own words. There was a point in the past—a past that now seems quite distant—when he would have said something similar. It makes him even more agitated. “I don’t care about all that shit,” he says. “My only concern is me and my men getting out of here!”
“Exactly,” says Mr. Timothy. “That’s been my point all along. You have a legitimate interest in coming home again. This is where I, and the firm I represent, come in. We can help you. I’m a businessman. We enter into a contract, and when you’ve fulfilled your part of the agreement, we will fulfill ours. Then I’ll see to it that you’re allowed to go. To return home.” He speaks the final words as if they’re a magical incantation. He looks over at Schrøder, who has been following the entire conversation attentively. “That part of the agreement is already in place with Mr. Schrøder.”
Schrøder nods.
Against his will, Steffensen feels ensnared by Mr. Timothy’s words. He knows this situation only too well: something for something. That’s how the world works. A deal is a deal—he’s an expert on the subject—but this time he’s entering into one with two men, one of whom is an insane murderer. And the other, Mr. Timothy? Can he trust him? Hardly. Yet, what are his alternatives? Maybe his men can keep hanging on to their fantasies of killing Schrøder, but what are their chances? None. Steffensen is their leader. It’s his duty not to leave any stone unturned.
“What’s our part of the contract?” he asks. “What do we have to do to fulfill our obligations?”
“You go with us to our base and help with our daily duties. And once you’ve done so, you’ll be allowed to leave.”
“Will we get weapons?”
“You’ll get weapons.”
Schrøder speaks for the first time. “If I were you, I’d accept this offer. To be honest, I don’t think you’ll get anything better.”
“I’m sure Mr. Steffensen appreciates your advice,” says Mr. Timothy, “but I don’t really think he needs it. He’s a businessman like me. He knows how the world works.”
Steffensen turns to Schrøder. “What’s in this for you?”
“Good question. But you’re not getting an answer.”
“Yo
u don’t really need an answer.” Mr. Timothy reaches out his hand. “You’re not entering into this agreement with Mr. Schrøder but with me, a representative of a reputable international company.”
Steffensen knows he has no choice. He reaches out his hand. The agreement is sealed.
He suddenly feels a little freer of Schrøder, as if they’ve already escaped his grasp. Their destiny is no longer dependent on his murderous whims. “We also have a boy in our care,” he continues. “His mother is dead, but he belongs in Girishk, which is under Danish authority, so he stays with us.” He can feel the leader in him reawaken. He’s back at the negotiating table, familiar terrain for him.
Mr. Timothy nods. “As you wish.”
23
“I have good news,” says Steffensen, having returned to his squad. “We’re going home.”
Their first reaction is shock. Clearly the words haven’t registered. The exhausted, dour expression they’ve worn since the missile attack remains unchanged. Viktor’s face suddenly lights up. “No way!”
“It’s true.” Steffensen nods affirmatively. He feels a newfound optimism he hasn’t felt in a long time.
The others stand up. Arms fly into the air. “Yes!” screams Simon. Camper gives a thumbs-up. Hannah remains seated and doesn’t react. The chaplain’s face reveals nothing.
“You can finally say goodbye to Schrøder! And to your prison guards. We’ll be picked up soon.”
Steffensen notices the hesitation in their faces. Goodbye to Schrøder? No revenge, no punishment for the man who betrayed them? Maybe the thought of Schrøder’s death is what’s kept them going until now. They had nothing else left. But they’ve been battered for too long, and once they hear of their freedom, they have no doubts. They can settle scores later. Something inside them is damaged, maybe forever. He knows that—but that’s for another time, and there’s no reason to think about it now. Others will have to deal with Schrøder. For now, they’re going home!
Still, there’s a but. They have to take a little detour before they reach their destination.
The First Stone Page 42