The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  The gate opens at the neighboring qalat, which suffered only minor damage in the attack. I can see cracks in the wall surrounding it. A group of armed men steps out onto the square. One of them towers noticeably above the others, not only because of his considerable height but also his fair skin and thick blond beard.

  We’ve never met, but I have no doubts. It’s Schrøder.

  Sara is hidden beneath her burka. I’m an anonymous Afghan man standing with an anonymous Afghan woman. I slowly cross the square, so that our paths will cross purely by chance. I try to make my expression as blank as possible. Sara follows.

  When we’re almost right in front of him, I hear Sara’s burka rustle as if she’s making a sudden movement. I turn around to find her walking quickly toward Schrøder. The guards around him react swiftly, pointing their Kalashnikovs at her. And at me. I only hope she doesn’t attack him. If she does, we’re both dead. I really can’t see how this frail woman could harm Schrøder’s massive person. But Sara has unexpected resources—most importantly her sheer contempt for death.

  Schrøder has also noticed her. He looks in my direction and then back at her, as if trying to decipher the intention behind this unexpected encounter with two foreigners.

  The guards jump when Sara does the unheard of and suddenly throws back her burka, revealing her face. Schrøder raises a hand as if to preempt his men from doing anything rash. After all, he’s been under the impression that the woman standing before him is dead.

  “Sara,” he says. “Back from the dead?” He smiles as he says that last part. He’s already in control of the situation. I notice how fluent his Pashto is.

  “I have come for you,” she says.

  “I can see that. Last time you came with many men—and you can see how that worked out for them. So, who’s with you this time? Him?” He nods in my direction.

  “Yes. Him,” she says. “He is from your country. He has come to bring you back.”

  26

  Schrøder looks at me. His smile is still the same, neither gloating nor malicious. I can’t read it.

  “Well, at least you’re not here to kill me. Right?”

  He addresses me in Danish. Hearing the language I’ve grown up with, I suddenly realize how foreign I am. I don’t belong here. I’m a guest in this country, while Schrøder seems to have adapted much better than I ever could.

  He walks over and offers his hand. His handshake is firm but not intimidating. There’s no power play in it. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess we were two equals introducing ourselves.

  “Schrøder,” he says as he looks me in the eye.

  “Khaiber.” I don’t avert my gaze.

  He stares for a moment as if searching his memory. “Khaiber,” he repeats. “Didn’t you work as an interpreter at Camp Price?”

  “Yes,” I reply, “but you weren’t there then.”

  “No, but I have my sources. And they all said the same thing—that you were too intelligent just to be an interpreter. It wasn’t hard to figure out what you really were. You came from the secret service to recruit informers. I’ve met one of your recruits.”

  “Yes,” I say, “you killed him.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “The burned bills. No Afghan with a family to support burns a whole year’s salary, not even if he’s planning to commit suicide.”

  “None of your colleagues figured that out.”

  “No, that’s why they have me.”

  “A bit late, perhaps.”

  “Better late than never.”

  “We could go on like this forever.” Schrøder turns toward Sara. “What about her? Where did you dig her up?”

  Sara, noticing we’re talking about her, walks over. “I’m going now,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why am I going? Because I have to.”

  For some reason I can’t quite explain, I’m not angry with her. I don’t really feel betrayed by her, though that’s exactly what’s happened. But I need an answer. She owes me that. “Why did you give me away?”

  “You asked me to help you find him. That’s what I’ve done. Now I have to go. You don’t need me any longer.”

  I see Schrøder glance at his guards in a way I can’t interpret.

  “Leave her alone,” I say.

  “I had no other intentions.” Schrøder smiles at Sara and then glances again at his guards, who lower their Kalashnikovs.

  Sara takes a step back and looks right at me. Her voice is earnest. “I know you are afraid,” she says. “You mustn’t be. You will succeed in your goal. And you will return home again.” She turns around and walks toward the miracle tent.

  “Well, those were encouraging words,” says Schrøder. “At least for you.”

  “And for you?”

  “That depends on whether you believe in that kind of thing.”

  “That kind of thing?”

  “Destiny. That everything is predetermined. But you and I certainly don’t. We believe in free will, don’t we? That’s why you’re here. That’s why I’m here. And that’s why the Americans are here. To force the Afghans to recognize the existence of free will.”

  “The Danes,” I say. “Where are they?”

  “One of them is right in front of you.”

  “And the rest?”

  “They’re not here. You’re too late.” He lets that last sentence hang in the air so I’ll have time to digest it.

  “So they’re dead.”

  “I didn’t say that—and no, they aren’t. They just left, two days ago. You missed them.”

  “Who are they with since they’re no longer in your care?”

  “A group of Americans.”

  “You mean the American army?”

  “Not exactly. But just as good.”

  “A security firm—DarkSky?”

  I’ve never thought much of these private security firms making all this money off the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, so it’s an obvious guess. They’re capable of anything—even working with people like Schrøder.

  Schrøder nods. “Good guess.”

  He puts his arm around my shoulder. Normally I’d never allow that kind of patronizing, pseudocamaraderie from anyone I didn’t know—not even from those I do know—but you tolerate quite a bit when four men with Kalashnikovs are standing there.

  “Come,” says Schrøder. “There’s something you need to know.”

  “Wait. There’s something I want to ask you first. Your video game—how did you see it ending?”

  “It never went into production, as you probably know. I never finished writing it. What happens now is up to you and me.”

  “You must have had some ideas.”

  “Maybe I did . . . but this isn’t a game. This is reality, and there’s no playbook. You’re a man with your own free will.”

  “Free will—that again? Let me remind you that free will doesn’t exist in a vacuum. We can’t just do anything we want. Our free will doesn’t always get the green light.”

  “So let me put it another way. It’s you against me now. I’m doing what I can to prevent you from reaching your goal. You’re doing what you can to prevent me from reaching mine.”

  “That’s not fair. You know what I want—to bring you home to stand trial. But I don’t know what you want. What do you want, Schrøder?”

  “That’s exactly what I want to show you. That’s why you’re still alive.”

  27

  I give Schrøder an arrogant look, as if I’m the one who has him backed into a corner. What else can I do?

  “I don’t think you planned much of this in advance. I think you grab whatever chance comes along. I don’t even think you side with the insurgents.”

  “I’m just like the people in this country. I switch to whatever side pays best.”

  “Not everyone here is like that.”

  “No,” he says. “That’s true. Some are too slow on the uptake to switch sides. They always end up in troub
le. Perhaps ‘dead’ is a better word for it.” He stares at me inquisitively. “Why are you really here? I mean, what do you get out of it? Personally.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He laughs loudly. “Well, that’s obvious—I’m here to have fun. To see how far I can take it.” His eyes brighten cheerfully. “Are you aware that a number of scientists are studying the concept of fun? Entire faculties are dedicated to the study of fun. I’m just a field-worker, out in the field studying fun.”

  “Fun?” I ask. “Is that what you think this is—fun?” I try to sound sarcastic, but I can hear the contempt in my voice.

  Schrøder is unfazed. “Fun is being able to activate your most basic instincts without any risk of dying. Here’s a good question. Is the entertainment industry a by-product of the war industry—or vice versa? You know yourself how many video games developed by the military for training purposes are later sold as entertainment. How many young people volunteer to go to war expecting it to be like a video game? Is this the ultimate breakdown in our ability to distinguish between symbols and reality? Is our instinct for survival falling apart?”

  Pausing, Schrøder grins at me. “Shit,” he says. “I talk too much. But that’s me. Rasmus Schrøder. Game designer. Field-worker in the study of fun. It’s less obvious why you’re here. Don’t give me all this nonsense about justice.”

  “I don’t have anything else to give you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then you’re not as intelligent as I thought you were.”

  “Intelligence has nothing to do with it. It’s about getting you home so you can be punished.”

  “And that would necessitate a whole lot of intelligence.” He takes a step back and looks at me appraisingly. “Not to mention something you don’t have at the moment—control over the situation.”

  “We’re back where we started—splitting hairs. Instead, tell me what you’ve done with the Danes.”

  “Let’s make a deal. You get to bring them home, but not me. What do you say?”

  “I don’t think my superiors back home in Denmark would be satisfied with that. I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to enter into such a bargain.”

  “Fourteen lives for one—and you’re not sure? Wow! Such big demands from such a little country.”

  “Fourteen?” I say. “I thought there were fifteen?”

  “And there were. Were. Ten little soldier boys. And then there were nine. Adam died. You really should get moving if you want any of them to still be alive by the time you get your ass in gear. I thought agents like you were trained to make their own decisions. After all, it’s not like you can just call home.”

  We move away from the open square with the miracle tent and down the steep, half-eroded road I just came up on. I look out over the expansive desert landscape at the foot of the mountain; it spreads out and doesn’t stop until it meets a ridge of mountains in the far distance. It’s a dizzying view, as if I’m looking at half of Afghanistan. Still, I know it’s only one little distant corner. A little distant corner in chaos, with Schrøder sitting in the eye of the storm. Not that I believe he’s in control of anything, at least no more than a surfer controls the wave he’s riding. But that’s what Schrøder is, a surfer. And I’m the swimmer the wave is about to engulf.

  I look at the four armed men who’ve been following us all this time. They’ve never taken their eyes off me. They’re well trained. Many of those passing by stare at Schrøder, but I can’t read their expressions. Is he part of the myth of the American jihadists spreading like wildfire from bazaar to bazaar?

  “This story going around about the Danish soldiers who’ve converted to Islam and are fighting for the Afghan people—I take it you’re the one who started it?”

  “I just made sure the guys converted,” says Schrøder. “That’s where my part ends. I was hoping it would set things in motion in the Afghans’ heads.” He smiles at me, as if I could use some encouragement. “And I was right. It went just as I had hoped.”

  “What is it you’re trying to achieve?”

  “I want to give your friends a chance.”

  “A chance for what?”

  He’s playing with me again.

  “Maybe not just one. Different chances. A chance to survive. A chance to become wiser. About Afghanistan. About themselves. The two things are undeniably connected.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I didn’t think you would. I’ll explain it. I made a deal with that pushover Steffensen. He’s a thinker—he just doesn’t know anything about life. At least not about life out here. So I don’t know if he can see through the deal I proposed.”

  “And what was this deal?”

  “Once the guys have performed their tasks for DarkSky, they’ll be allowed to go home to mommy and daddy. They’ll think of me as a good guy.”

  “I doubt that.” I shake my head. “We’re standing here talking to each other as if everything is normal. But you’ve killed half of your comrades—and God knows what else you’ve been up to.”

  We’ve reached the tier with the city’s sprawling bazaar. “May I offer you a cup of tea?” Schrøder’s tone is totally unaffected.

  We sit down beneath a tattered canvas. Although painted green at one time, the wall that is the house’s facade has turned completely black from grease and smoke. The pots over the glowing charcoals are also sooty. Schrøder orders green tea. Before the cups are placed on the table, the host washes them in a bowl of dirty water. Schrøder’s escorts sit down next to us.

  “Of course there’s a trap built into the deal you’ve made on the Danes’ behalf,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t call it a trap. It’s more of a test of their intelligence. They’ve received uniforms and weapons. If they ask themselves why, they’ll probably realize that it’s to make them easy to identify. They’re predetermined to be scapegoats. DarkSky is involved in a lot of stuff that’s not exactly regulation—on the other side of the law, including the laws that apply in war. It’s always good to have someone you can pawn that type of thing off on. That’s your friends’ role in all this. They’re the dirty laundry that will soon be hung out for everyone to see.”

  28

  “If our friends realize fast enough that they’ve been duped, they have a chance to pull out.” Schrøder laughs disarmingly, as if to convince me that he’s not as bad as I think.

  “Pull out? You’re seeing to it that they’ll be set up publicly as war criminals, and yet you want to give them a chance to escape?”

  “Yes, to solve the problem. Just like in a video game. By taking them out.”

  “You mean killing their coworkers—the mercenaries from DarkSky?”

  “That would be the smart thing to do.”

  “But they’re working for the American army.”

  “They’re working for the American army—and they’re working for themselves. But because they’re not part of the American army, they have broader parameters. Think about Fallujah in Iraq. The local population killed four employees from Blackwater. Then the American army moved in and leveled the city. So, if our Danish boys pass the intelligence test and shoot their coworkers, they’ll have both DarkSky and the American army on their tails. They’ll be hunted down.”

  “So that’s your experiment. There’s no way out. Whatever they do, it ends badly for them.”

  “You’re wrong. They have two chances.”

  “Two chances? That’s hard to see.”

  “Chance number one. They already have a reputation as being the American jihadists, so if they kill a bunch of psychopathic hired hands, their status as heroes is ensured. If they also get the American Special Forces hunting them, there’s no limit to what the Afghans will do for them. And you mustn’t underestimate that. When it comes to resisting foreign invaders, the population’s resources are quite significant.”

  “I see what you’re testing. Their only chance of saving their lives is to join the enemy.”

 
“Exactly! Well done!” Schrøder’s face lights up. He looks at me appreciatively, as if he’s about to declare his undying friendship.

  “You mentioned two chances. What’s the other one?”

  His smile widens. “It’s you,” he says. “You’re their other great chance.”

  “Me?” I can hear how stupid I sound. I feel stupid.

  “Yes, you! Now you know my plans—so you can warn them.”

  “You’re going to let me go?”

  “Of course I’m going to let you go. I could just let the men here kill you, or even do it myself, but what fun would there be in that? Every time something new and unexpected pops up, the story takes a new direction. The outcome becomes less predictable, just like in a video game. If the game hasn’t been programmed imaginatively, the story has too few variables, and you get tired of it fast. It’s like seeing a movie twice. You already know the plot in advance. That’s why I never watch the same movie twice.”

  “Honestly, what is this really about? What is it that you want?”

  “They need to see what it’s like to kill someone they’ve worked with and know really well.”

  “You mean they have to become like you? Traitors?”

  “Survival has nothing to do with psychology. It’s an instinct. You’ll do anything. Afterward, other more complicated feelings might arise. Think about those who survived the concentration camps. Guilt.”

  “Your own actions have nothing to do with survival.”

  “No, but you mustn’t ask about motives. With me, you’ll need a different key.”

  And I believe I know what that key is. It involves Schrøder’s view of life as a game, but I’m not about to say that out loud. Right now this is about my own survival.

  I’ve drunk my tea. “You can leave now,” says Schrøder. His tone is dismissive, as if his thoughts are already somewhere else.

  “And what if I say no?”

  “Then I can just kill you.”