He looks up. His face is as unsure as his voice. He looks like someone waiting for applause, though he’s clearly alone with his camera.
I find a clip of Hannah that must have been recorded before the massacre and Schrøder’s betrayal. She’s not wearing any bandages, and her face is full of life. She’s talking about a bell hanging from the ceiling above a giant ramp in Copenhagen Skatepark near Enghave Station. Although it looks like a sprinkler, it has a beautiful delicate sound, which very few have ever heard, because it’s so damn hard to reach the four meters from the top of the ramp to the ceiling. You have to have a lot of speed and complete control over what you’re doing. “That’s what I want to do with my life,” Hannah says into Andreas’s camera. “Make that bell ring. I think of it as one of the world’s rarest musical instruments. It’s waiting for me, and someday I’ll reach it.”
She smiles. She has a beautiful smile, which I’ve never seen before.
I show the clip to Sharif, who’s joined me. I explain what a skate park, rollerblades, and skateboards are. He claims that he’s familiar with the world, but his online expeditions have only involved what he finds useful. He wasn’t guided by curiosity.
I let him hold the camera and show him the different functions. I can see he’s fascinated. He’s knowledgeable about booby traps, and if there were a charger nearby, I’m sure he’d quickly master the video camera, too. Rollerblades, skateboards, video cameras—does he see any alternatives to turning his entire life into an act of vengeance? A dream of freedom? But who will nourish it?
Sharif points up at the mountain rising above us. “The top is called Sulaiman’s Throne,” he says. “The mountains here are named for him. Sulaiman. All that old shit.” He laughs. “You know that Sulaiman means ‘peace,’ right? But here there’s nothing but war.”
I don’t want to leave him, but I need to talk to Hannah. “See you later,” I say, giving him a high five.
Hannah is staying in the women’s cave. Pausing outside the entrance, I signal to her. Fires burn as a defense against the cold, rocky walls, but there must be some form of ventilation since the entire cave isn’t black with soot. The moaning coming from the wounded on the floor is drowned out by the women’s ceaseless lament, which swells with ferocity and then ebbs gently. I hated hearing the women’s cries when I was on that bus after the boys’ father was brutally shot before my eyes. Now I understand how the lament creates room for sorrow in a place where there is only sadness.
The flickering light of the flames brings out the fatigue in Hannah’s face. We walk back to the cave’s entrance.
I’m struck by an unprofessional urge to confide in her. My loneliness is too great. I need to hear someone else’s thoughts on what I’m planning to do once my father and then Schrøder show up. Steffensen and Møller will reject my plan. Once it’s too late, and they can’t back out, I’ll reveal what the situation demands.
There’s something in my plan that most people would find unacceptable. Not my bosses at the secret service, though. To us, the end always justifies the means. A pure end and filthy means. We’re realists when it comes to human nature.
Once I’ve explained what’s going to happen, I ask Hannah if she thinks I’m going too far.
“Everything in me screams no one moment and yes the next. But won’t we be no better than the Taliban?”
“Aren’t we already just like them? Even worse? After what happened yesterday? Wasn’t it our side that killed all these people? The question is—do we nail Schrøder or do we let him go?”
Hannah sits quietly for a moment and then looks me in the eyes. “I think you should do it.”
53
A dozen men step into the cave. With one lone exception, they’re all young, although they carry themselves with great dignity, nodding as they enter. Several of the Taliban greet us by placing a hand on their chest. The man in front looks around, searching, and then heads straight for me.
Even in the flickering light inside the grotto, I immediately recognize my father.
Standing before me, he bows his head slightly in formal greeting. No warmth at all. I don’t know what I was expecting. I have to be realistic and not lose my powers of judgment. His beard is only peppered with gray, and his lined face hasn’t dissolved completely into wrinkles, as it would have on a man his age who lived his entire life in Afghanistan. The twenty years he spent in the West have left him youthful in comparison. Three years have passed since I last saw him, but I can see that he’s a man who exudes power.
His eyes rest on me in a way I can’t interpret.
“You came,” I say, hoping it implies that there’s still a bond between us.
“I want to know what it is you’re doing.”
Is there sadness in his voice? I’m hoping that the sorrow in his eyes doesn’t have anything to do with me, although I fear it does.
We sit by a fire in one of the inner caves, surrounded by emptiness. This conversation only concerns us.
“You’re working for the Danish secret service.”
To my surprise, he’s speaking Danish, and I know why. So I won’t be put at risk by what he’s about to say. Yet there’s something threatening about his words.
It means nothing that I’m a son deferring to his father. We sit there like two opponents making a brief tactical alliance because of a common enemy. Except that he’s taken the wind out of my sails with his chilly greeting.
“You’re working for the enemy. And don’t tell me you’re working for your country. Denmark is not your country. This is your country.”
“I’m working for myself,” I say. “Until I figure out who I am and where I belong.”
“You’re not a boy—you’re a grown man. A grown man knows who he is. And no one works only for himself. Everyone is working for someone, and you’re working for Afghanistan’s enemies.”
“I’m working for the Danes you see here in this cave. Your own people call them the American jihadists. I’m working to get them home alive.”
“They’re no more jihadists than you are. The Afghan people have a vivid imagination. It might be the only thing keeping us alive in this miserable country.”
“We’ve killed a whole group of mercenaries from DarkSky. And our pursuers. So, how can you say I’m working for the enemy?”
“They’re just maneuvers—they have nothing to do with helping the people of Afghanistan. I want to be honest with you. I’m not here because blood is thicker than water. I’m not here to give you a hug or forgive you.”
I swallow, and for a moment I can’t say anything. I try to catch my father’s gaze. Although he doesn’t turn away, I’m not connecting. He’s looking at me, but he’s not seeing me.
I pull myself together. “Then why are you here?” I ask.
“You’ve made it possible for me to meet an enemy.”
Now he’s looking right at me, but not with the eyes of a father. They’re the eyes of a merciless judge who acquits with the same sternness with which he condemns. There’s no reconciliation in his eyes. No outstretched hand accompanies his words.
“Schrøder?”
“I’ve sent for him. He’s on his way.”
“You called him an enemy, but isn’t he the Taliban’s man?”
I have to be sure. This has been my hypothesis all along, my potentially fatal hypothesis. That in the final analysis, Schrøder isn’t anyone’s ally for very long before turning on everyone. I don’t have any evidence that I was right—he just doesn’t seem like anyone’s man. At least that’s what I sensed.
As if reading my thoughts, my father answers my question. “He’s an individualist from the West, which is why he doesn’t belong here. We’ve just been using him, as he’s been using us. But he’s not as important to us as he thinks. That’s why it has to end now.”
“I’m not so sure he’s the individualist you think he is. No values govern his actions. He seizes whatever opportunities come his way. Life’s just a game to him.”
<
br /> “What’s the difference? My words must have struck a nerve. You’re another individualist.”
“We should talk about something else,” I say, trying yet again to catch his gaze. “What are we going to do when he shows up?”
“You want him to face an Afghan court of law, so that’s what we’ll do. We’ll pass sentence on his Western individualism.”
“What do you know about him?”
“We know everything about him. We know what he did in your camp. He took an interpreter’s life. He let half of his own men be murdered. He deceived you, but he only succeeded because you were all so stupid and knew nothing about Afghanistan. He wasn’t. He was able to take control of the drones and sabotage them.”
“Isn’t that enough for you? Why isn’t he on your side?”
“He collaborated with DarkSky. He doesn’t only have many of your lives on his conscience—he has ours, too. That attack with the firebombs? He was controlling all of it with his network and his information. You were on his screen the whole time. We’re all on his screen.”
“If you’re on his screen, then doesn’t he know what’s going to happen? Or do you have a screen that’s bigger than his?”
“No, we have something better. We have a thousand eyes and a thousand ears and a thousand whispering tongues. You Danes know nothing. Schrøder knows something. But we know everything.”
54
The next day, Schrøder arrives with a dozen men. As he approaches, I recognize the four bodyguards accompanying him from our first meeting in the city. Although it seems like an eternity has passed, it’s only been a week. I know I’m not the same person I was then—nor will I ever be. That’s how it is for all of us—Danes, Afghans, soldiers, villagers, women, children, men, both young and old. We’ve been through the mill, and we’re all the worse for wear.
They’re just a small group of white-robed men in black turbans on this enormous, sloping mountainside with its dark, threatening protrusions, dirty snowdrifts, and long slopes of gray stone. The sky is clear, no echo of rotors overhead. If there’s a drone, it’s so high up that we can’t see it.
I turn to my father. The turban makes him look taller; otherwise we’d be the same height. “Does he know anything about us?” I ask.
“That we’re father and son?” He shakes his head. “As I said yesterday, he knows something but not everything. He doesn’t know that.” He looks at me. “It’s irrelevant anyway. I’m not here as your father.”
“Have you met him before?”
“No. I’ve never met him.”
Soon they’re in hearing range, so our conversation stops.
Schrøder stands before us, his thick blond beard and pale skin glowing beneath his black turban. Standing next to all these Afghans, his height is even more striking. He bows his head reverently and places his hand on his heart to indicate the sincerity of his feelings. The men around him do the same. My father bows his head graciously but doesn’t place his hand on his heart. It’s a sign, but is Schrøder able to read it?
Then he spots me. If he’s surprised, he hides it. He greets me in Pashto, as if he’s never met me before. He must be perplexed right now. If he feels safe among people he considers allies, why isn’t he telling them I work for the Danish secret service? Why is he protecting me? Is he afraid I’ll reveal his collaborations with DarkSky? Does he think the Taliban don’t already know about that? Still, wouldn’t he refute my accusations by claiming that double-dealing was necessary and, besides, Afghanistan’s enemies were eradicated? Wouldn’t he maybe even take credit for it?
I think Schrøder, suddenly unsure about what’s happening, is biding his time. He doesn’t know which Danish soldiers have survived and might even assume none have. I have no idea what he was told when summoned to this meeting. He must not have thought it was a trap and probably doesn’t think so now. Yet the sight of me must make him uncomfortable. A new factor is at work in the game he’s always playing. He told me unexpected factors make things more fun—but it also makes them more dangerous. Maybe he’s realizing that now.
Schrøder and his men are about to step into the cave when they’re stopped. “Place your weapons here,” commands my father. Surprised, they stare at him. Schrøder turns vigilant. They have no choice, however. Armed men holding Kalashnikovs surround them. They’re asked to line up their weapons against one rocky wall so they can easily grab them when they leave.
“We promise to take good care of you,” says my father.
Schrøder smiles back, but the vigilance remains on his face. He glances at me and then turns away. “I don’t doubt it,” he says.
We step into the dimly lit cave. My father places a hand on Schrøder’s back. “This way,” he says. “The three of us need to talk.”
I walk behind them. Schrøder glances over his shoulder. I can see the wheels turning. He’s slowly realizing that I’m playing some unexpected role here. We move into one of the inner caves. My father sees to it that we don’t come anywhere near the Danes. A group of men stand and make room for us so we can sit there undisturbed. Another group, some armed Taliban, stand in a half circle a little ways off. I can see on his face that Schrøder’s starting to register what’s happening, although he appears indifferent.
We squat across from each other. “You invited me,” Schrøder says. He has decided to act as if the situation is normal.
“Yes,” says my father. “Thank you for taking the time to come.”
“I always come when the Taliban calls.”
My father suddenly shifts from Pashto to Danish. “I understand that you two have made a deal.”
I can’t help but admire Schrøder’s self-control. If he’s shocked, he’s hiding it. He looks at my father the way you’d look at a man who’s misunderstood something. He places his hand solicitously on my father’s, as if he’s trying to rescue him from some confused notion. “Do you know who this man is? He’s an agent for the Danish secret service. I don’t know what he’s told you about himself—but whatever it is, he lied.”
Schrøder’s voice is calm; there’s no sign of panic. He answers in Danish as if it’s only natural that a Taliban leader deep in a cave in the Hindu Kush is speaking his own language.
My father removes his hand. “So you admit you know him?”
“I was in the Danish army, so I know many people. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to manipulate them as well as I did. Yes, I also know Khaiber.” He nods at me, as if referring to me in third person places me firmly outside the conversation. The stage is his. I’ve been discredited. “Whoever he’s passing himself off as, it won’t work. He has his own objectives for being here—and they aren’t yours. Or ours.”
My father speaks slowly, as if he wants each word to penetrate. “My son never lies to me.”
Schrøder looks down at the floor. He realizes he’s committed a serious offense by calling his host’s son a liar, although he could rectify that with an appropriately humble apology. But that’s not the worst offense. He didn’t realize what he was agreeing to when he accepted the invitation to meet my father. He knew nothing about our connection. He glances around the room. He’s considering his possibilities. If he’s thinking of escaping, he can’t. I want to tell him that, but I force myself to stay quiet. Too early to gloat.
“Perhaps my son sometimes hides certain things from me,” continues my father unmoved, “and he’s done things I don’t approve of. But he doesn’t lie.”
“I ask your forgiveness if I’ve insulted your son with an unjust claim.” Schrøder lowers his head to indicate shame and then looks up again. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s working for the Danish secret service. I know it must be hard for a father to hear he’s been betrayed by his own son. I ask for forgiveness for the sorrow that must cause you. But my respect for you compels me to speak the truth.” Schrøder continues to focus on my father. I still don’t exist to him.
Ignoring him, my father turns to me. “You told me that
a week ago you and Schrøder entered into an agreement. Can you describe that agreement?” He turns toward Schrøder. “I take it that you won’t dare to accuse my son of lying.”
As I start speaking, I don’t look at Schrøder. “Schrøder told me that he had left the Danes with DarkSky. They thought it was a simple collaboration and that in payment they’d get to go free. Instead, the plan was to use them as scapegoats. DarkSky was involved in human trafficking with a local militia. Schrøder indicated to me that the Danes’ only chance of survival was to turn against DarkSky. But that would immediately create new enemies, both with DarkSky’s own forces and with the American Special Forces who’d been working closely with the firm. In other words, the Danes’ situation was hopeless, whatever they chose. Schrøder thought that revealing his plans to me gave them a chance. I said that he should have to risk something, too, and he agreed. If, against all odds, the Danes got out of Afghanistan alive, he’d allow himself to be brought before an Afghan court and be sentenced for his crimes.”
“Is that a fair account of what happened?”
“Yes, it’s mostly correct. But your son here”—he nods at me—“seems to have little knowledge about Afghanistan. I pointed out to him that Afghan courts are corrupt and that I’d have no problem buying my freedom, but he persisted with the deal.” He laughs and looks at my father as if expecting him to laugh along at his foolish son.
“I don’t think my son meant the sad parody of justice in this puppet government’s courts. I believe he was thinking about Afghanistan’s true, legitimate courts. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
I search Schrøder’s face. He’s still not looking at me. There’s nothing else to say. He must realize that he’s fallen into a trap. I don’t know if that’s why he loses concentration, but he’s no longer his usual sharp self. “And what court would that be, may I ask?” He feigns sarcasm, but even he must be able to hear how stupid his question sounds.
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