The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  The bike doesn’t have to last long, just until I find the soldiers from Third Platoon. Schrøder offered no hints about where they went. That’s part of his game. I don’t think I need to look all over Afghanistan—they’re probably only a few hours away. Still, I sense that I don’t have much time. The probability of my coming too late is rather great.

  I don’t have a map. What would I do with it? I’m not tracking a group of vanished NATO soldiers—I’m tracking a group of fair-skinned jihadists. The myth surrounding them will pinpoint their location better than any satellite photo.

  If they’re so easy to find, though, then why isn’t the whole world looking for them? Because the Afghans keep their myths to themselves. They live in two worlds: one is open and the other closed. Almost all of them have cell phones, but almost all of them also have secrets they hold on to with a surprising stubbornness. It could be ten thousand, maybe a hundred thousand, sharing a secret, yet they reveal it only to those who understand their codes. You could monitor all cell phone usage, and you still wouldn’t understand what they’re talking about.

  I stop at some teahouses, I walk around bazaars, I listen, and I ask questions. No, not here? The Honda’s drivechain protests loudly against not having already been retired. I choose one road and then another, I’m stopped at checkpoints, and I’m waved on.

  I’m sitting in a little teahouse near the highway. Schrøder confiscated my cell phone and my SIM card. He offered me a rifle and took my cell phone; he knows which weapon is more dangerous. I bought a new one with a prepaid card. Do I risk calling home to file a report? The danger that someone might be listening in is overwhelming. But who?

  I could report Schrøder’s current position—the emphasis on “current.” He would have never let me go if there were any risk that I’d expose him. He has countless connections. He’s involved with the insurgents. He’s also involved with a firm that has a bad reputation yet continues to get contracts from the American army. Is Schrøder playing both sides of a game that will destroy him if it’s exposed yet at the same time makes him almost untouchable as long as no one’s paying attention?

  He sent me off knowing that I could ruin his whole game, or maybe he’s already warned them that I’m on my way. Either is possible. If he’s really the player I think he is, he hasn’t warned anyone. He’s too curious and wants to see what happens. He likes to see the game change unexpectedly, so he’ll have to improvise his next move. As many variables as possible, like he said.

  And I’m one of those variables.

  Still, I have a move that could get us out of this game he thinks is his and into one that’s beyond his control. He wasn’t really listening when I suggested that he also had to take some risk. Words mean something—even the words that go unsaid. He missed it. If I’m going to nab him, I’ll have to play the game alone for a little while longer. I can’t involve anyone else, and I definitely can’t tell anyone back in Copenhagen what I’m doing.

  I glance down again at my cell phone. The display is just waiting for a number beginning with “00 45.” And then I’m out—or I might be so far in that there is no way out. The phone is my constant temptation, a lifeline or just the opposite, a trip wire that sets off an explosion.

  Maybe that’s exactly what Schrøder is banking on: that I’ll just give up the entire mission and run off with my tail between my legs.

  I put the phone back in the pocket of my kirtle.

  A few hours later I’m on the right track. Three days ago someone saw the American jihadists in the back of a truck, wearing the ferengi’s uniform, but they had no doubts about who they were. Foreigners normally move in armored columns that creep along the roads while their engineers are out sweeping the gravel and ditches for roadside bombs.

  I don’t even need to ask. The owner of a shop serving me the day’s tenth cup of green tea offers the information. “Have you heard?” he says. “The American jihadists drove by here.”

  Several of the guests in the dirty little stall with its greasy cushions on the floor nod affirmatively.

  “What do you think they’re doing here?” I ask.

  Information barrels out of him. The huge difference between the amount of information the Afghans know and the pittance they choose to share with our informants never ceases to amaze me. There’s an American camp a few hours down the road, at the foot of the Sulaiman Mountains, an old fort, not some large camp. He even knows the name of the outpost, Patrol Base. The soldiers are terrorizing locals. They’ve taken a handful of hostages from the nearby village of Khan Kala and locked them in the fort. As he says the word “hostages,” he looks away. I can tell that he’s not telling me something. The other guests send each other a dark look, as if they all share a secret that I, a stranger, can’t know.

  The Americans also have connections to the local arbakai, he adds. I know that term—it means militia who plunder the population without taking any clear side in the civil war. They’re most often favored by the Americans, who supply them with weapons and money if they’ll just promise to shoot the Taliban.

  “The Americans will get their punishment.” The host’s eyes flash with rage. “Allah’s punishment,” he adds.

  How do I warn the Danes about DarkSky’s plans to use them as scapegoats? And even more importantly, how do I release them from the grip of their traitorous hosts? Can it even be done without wholesale shooting breaking out? I have my reasons for staying away from weapons. Besides, there isn’t much one man can do.

  I’ll have to start by finding Khan Kala, where the hostages come from.

  But first I have to take care of something else. “Is there a place we can talk undisturbed?” I ask the host. He takes me out back behind the shop. “Whom do you trust unconditionally?” I ask.

  “My son,” he replies. I ask him to summon his son, Nasir, who runs the shop with him. I noticed his trustworthy face while he was serving customers and I was speaking to his father. “I need him to deliver a letter for me,” I say, “to an address in Quetta.”

  When Nasir arrives, I show him the money I’ll give him for his courier service, ten thousand afghanis, enough to buy a better motorcycle than the one I just purchased. I promise him that amount again when an answer to my letter confirms it’s gotten there.

  I ask Nasir for paper and a pen, and he waits while I compose a letter to my father. I write in Danish, just in case it falls into any third-party hands. I try to be brutally honest. I’m exposing myself—and I know that might be dangerous. Although my father’s sympathies are predictable, his actions are another matter. I appeal to the love between father and son, the only link between us, though I know he hasn’t always viewed me as a loving son. He has difficulty distinguishing between love and obedience. I’ve rarely played the obedient son—nor am I being one right now—but I’m hoping love wins.

  I ask him to forgive my mistakes; on the other hand, I’m also asking for a favor.

  If he says no, my life is on the line. And not just mine.

  Two hours later I’m staring at the fort where the soldiers from Third Platoon are staying. It sits high on a naked promontory guarding the entrance to a green valley between steep hills. The fort’s walls don’t consist of the usual sun-bleached clay; they’re constructed with the mountain’s own materials, layer upon layer of flat, rough-hewn stones. Originally, it must have protected the valley from invasions. Now the base serves the opposite function: attacks on the villages originate here. A banner waves from one of the guard towers. It doesn’t look like the American flag, but I can’t see what it is. Is DarkSky actually flaunting its presence by replacing the Stars and Stripes with its own logo?

  As I reach the outskirts of the village at the foot of the mountain, the road diverges. I choose to go left toward the valley; to the right the road climbs up toward the fort and DarkSky’s base. What am I going to do if I run into a checkpoint? They’ll ask me what I’m doing in the valley. Who do I know? No one. What do I want? To fuck the whole thing up!
Then they’ll probably let me pass—saluting me, and the whole nine yards. I have to take the chance. I hit the gas and roar down the gravel road. I might as well be as visible as possible.

  I don’t hit any checkpoints. I speed straight ahead and don’t slow down until I’m in Khan Kala with its massive clay walls surrounded by almond trees, melon fields, and windbreaks. As the road narrows, I stand up to get oriented.

  Then I hear gunfire that sounds as if it’s coming from all directions.

  Why haven’t I run into any women or children? They usually flee during a battle. Have they taken cover farther into the valley, where it might be safer? Or is this a surprise ambush with Khan Kala surrounded on all sides, thwarting any possible escape? But who’s attacking—and are the soldiers from Third Platoon involved?

  I stop the motorcycle and hop off. There’s no longer any reason to draw attention to myself. I’m in the middle of it all now, and the important thing is to remain invisible.

  I hide my motorcycle under some willows and hope it’s still there when I come back. If I come back. This situation has a number of variables, as Schrøder would say. Too bad he’s not here right now, I think. With his penchant for risk-taking and the opportunities provided by the game of chance, he’d be right in his element. I get the sense that he believes in his own immortality, like gamblers who believe in their own luck. I wish I were more like him. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that. To beat Schrøder, I have to become Schrøder.

  I walk along one of the village’s massive clay walls and think about every step I take. I’m not afraid of roadside bombs; it’s unlikely they’d be planted so close to the walls. I need to stay away from corners, where bombs sometimes wait for those curious souls who have crawled along the walls before crossing an open area. I’m afraid of my own steps. How do I look? Watchful, threatening, normal? Although I’d like to appear totally neutral, I’m on my way into a village reverberating with gunfire. So how do I behave as if everything is normal? Gunshots in Afghanistan always indicate that it’s time to choose sides—preferably the strongest.

  Farther ahead lie some fields with green hedges. I’m hoping there’s an irrigation canal nearby—that would be a good place for me to hide. I’ve come to get people out of here, but how can I choose sides when I have no information about the confrontation I’m heading into? Maybe my best chance for survival right now is that I’m unarmed. No one will see me as an enemy. I’m just a defenseless farmer.

  Two boys suddenly appear before me. Barefoot and holding hands, they walk toward me. They aren’t big, maybe six or seven years old, and I can tell from their faces that they’re afraid. Still, they keep walking. Some adult has probably sent them on an errand.

  I stop to see if I’m the one they’re looking for. I am. When they reach me, they stop. “Salam Alaikum,” I say.

  They look around evasively, as if searching for an escape route. “Walaikum Salam,” says one of them eventually. Because he’s a bit taller than the other one, I assume he’s the spokesman for this delegation.

  “Zma noom Khaiber day. Stasso noom sa dai?”

  Embarrassed, they stare down at the ground, as if they know that revealing their names might make them more vulnerable. “Ahmed,” replies the spokesman hesitantly. The little one swallows. “Fazil.”

  “My brother’s name is also Ahmed,” I say. I don’t have any brothers, but I’m hoping I can loosen them up.

  “Do you have a brother named Fazil, too?” The little one looks up inquisitively.

  “No, but I have a cousin named Fazil.” That’s not true, either, but we’re all almost family now.

  The gunfire is getting closer. Suddenly there’s an explosion, and the two boys jump. It makes me jump also. Yes, we all belong to the same family—we’re united by that closest of all familial bonds, fear.

  The smaller one tugs at the sleeve of Ahmed’s kirtle. The conversation needs to move on. “Why are you here? Who are you looking for?” Although Ahmed pronounces the words with great solemnity, he doesn’t look at me as he asks. He seems afraid that the answer might confuse him.

  I hesitate for a moment, and then I take a deep breath and a gamble. They’re only children, but children are never just children in Afghanistan. “I am a friend of the American jihadists. Do you know where they are?”

  Walking over to me, they each take one of my hands. “Come,” says Ahmed. “Come,” echoes Fazil.

  We walk.

  After we’ve walked a little farther down the road, I see something I don’t initially understand. Then I understand it. Then I understand everything.

  A soldier wearing his equipment, flak jacket, and helmet, and holding a rifle in his right hand, is coming toward me. Two boys are leading him, one on each side. We could be reflections of each other, if it weren’t that he’s in uniform and I’m still wearing my dirty kirtle.

  I recognize the uniform.

  “Hello,” I say in Danish. “How’s it going?”

  34

  The soldier in the sand-colored uniform stares at me as if he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. And he doesn’t. My words are recognizable, but the situation is beyond anything he can fathom. I might as well be speaking Chinese.

  “My name is Khaiber. I’m from the Danish secret service and I’m here to help you get home.”

  This time he understands the words, although he still hasn’t quite grasped the meaning. I can’t say I blame him. “Simon,” he says at first, politely introducing himself, and then he adds “what,” as if he’s lost the meaning of my words.

  “You’re the medic,” I say. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m going to help you get home.”

  “Why are you alone?” Simon stares at me skeptically.

  “Sometimes it’s better to be alone.” I’m not quite sure even I believe that.

  We walk next to each other, two men surrounded by four small boys. The noise from the gunfire is getting closer.

  “What’s happening here?” I ask. Right at that moment the boys pull us sharply to the left. The reason soon becomes clear: we’re walking around a buried roadside bomb. That’s why they were sent to fetch us—to lead us unscathed through the village.

  “I’m totally confused,” says Simon. “I lost the others. We were with the local militia.” He stops abruptly. “A group of girls . . . they were massacred.” He stops again. “The guys from DarkSky . . . they were shooting at us . . . fuck man, we were just drinking beer with them yesterday.”

  The boys tug at me again. Ahmed points at a green metal gate that suddenly opens. As we step inside, a group of Afghan men gather around Simon. They’re all holding Kalashnikovs, and a few of them have rocket launchers on their shoulders. One after another, they step in front of Simon and place their hands on their hearts, after which, in an intimate gesture, they place their hands on his chest as well. They all bow their heads. Shocked, Simon stares at me. “You’re their ally now,” I say.

  One of the villagers asks who I am. “A friend of the American jihadists,” I reply. I’m accepted.

  “There’s something I need to explain to you,” I say to Simon, “and you’ll probably be somewhat surprised.” He obviously doesn’t understand what’s happening. “At some point all of you converted to Islam, in the middle of a courtyard, in front of a lot of eyewitnesses. Is that right?” Simon nods. “These men—and not just them, but all the people in this province, and maybe the neighboring provinces, too—believe that you voluntarily converted and that now you’re fighting with the insurgents. That’s why the village is backing you up.”

  Simon stares at me. “That’s not true.” He points at the men who look as if they’re waiting for orders from him. “Them—are you telling me they’re Taliban?”

  “I wouldn’t speculate too much about that. They’re on your side now, and if you want to get out of here alive, you’ll fight alongside them. Every so often say ‘Allahu Akbar.’ It’ll make them happy.”

  “Can I trust you?”
He’s abandoned trying to understand any of it and is focusing instead on my person, as if my sudden appearance and ability to speak Danish guarantee my credibility.

  “Yes,” I reply. “You can trust me.”

  “We have to get out of here,” says one of the men.

  “We’ll go with you,” I say. “He doesn’t understand Pashto.”

  The man hands me a Kalashnikov, which I accept. I don’t have the energy to say no or explain my relationship to weapons. Also, I’ll be far too conspicuous without a weapon in the middle of all these armed men.

  I turn to Simon. “Ready?”

  He nods stiffly.

  I avoid releasing the safety on my rifle. One of the Afghans notices, walks over, and does it for me. Baffled, he looks at me. I smile apologetically, as if I just forgot. “Thank you,” I say.

  I haven’t even thought about shooting, but what am I going to do if I find myself in one of these him-or-me situations popular with the I-want-to-see-what-it-feels-like-to-kill-someone crowd? Throw the rifle at his head and hope I knock him out? Where does my morality end—at the trigger? I have enough experience to know I have a moral limit. I’ve reached it before. Now I’ll be tested again.

  We exit the gate in one long row. I’m glad they don’t ask Simon to go first. We don’t need to worry about roadside bombs, because we’re traveling with the men who plant them.

  We reach an open stretch of land. The road crosses clay fields and then through a grove of almond trees before disappearing between the qalats’ discouraging walls. I can tell from the flashes of gunfire that the shooting is coming from three different places—from a windbreak of weeping willows and from two qalats on either side of a rugged field. As we run out into the open, I have no idea who’s friend or foe. We’re heading for the willows, so I figure that two of the fatal triangle’s angles are allied against the third: the windbreak of willows and the qalat on the field’s right side against the qalat to the left.

  I notice that we’re keeping to one side of the gravel road. A little farther on, I realize why. A crater suddenly appears, with two bloody bodies in the American army’s uniforms lying a few meters from the crater’s edge.