She watched and waited. He was a powerful man, used to being obeyed and he had brought her across for a reason. He was watching her closely.
‘They do it deliberately, you know. They use civilians as shields.’
She narrowed her eyes and kicked up sand with the toe of her boot. Black shards of burnt poppy rose and fell in the dirt. ‘What are you saying? That militants were there? In that house?’
He lowered his voice further. ‘The enemy was in the area. In some numbers. As recently as yesterday.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Satellite images.’
Ellen considered. So this was going to be the official line. That it was justified, in self-defence. Hard to believe. She raised her eyes. ‘Can I see them?’
He grimaced. ‘Difficult, I’m afraid. Operational security.’
‘Of course.’
He sighed and sipped his tea. Even when he looked away from her, she felt his alertness. This is a man, she thought, who is never at rest.
‘This enemy, you see,’ he said, ‘they have no morality.’
She thought of the bodies of the dead children and felt anger rising. He seemed so calm. She wanted to challenge him, to shake him up. ‘Hard to play fair’, she said, ‘when your opponent doesn’t follow the rules.’
He nodded. ‘That’s part of it.’ His tone was even, his hands steady round his mug of tea.
‘So how can you possibly win?’ She heard her voice rise. ‘They keep tying your hands behind your back. Those interfering politicians in London who don’t understand a thing. Those journalists who traipse out here and criticize. It isn’t fair. Right?’
He looked at her quietly and she had the feeling he was absorbing her, reading her feelings. It was disconcerting. He lowered his eyes after a moment, raised the mug to his lips and drank his tea. She watched the ripple of his throat. Her cheeks felt hot.
When he finally lowered his mug, he fixed his eyes on its brim. ‘It’s not a level playing field,’ he said.
They sat in silence. She wondered if she’d overstepped the mark, if she’d offended him. He didn’t look at her. His fingers gently tapped the sides of the mug, rhythmical and thoughtful. Behind them the voices of the young officers rose, erupted into laughter, then became again subdued.
Mack raised his eyes and leaned towards her. ‘What we’re doing here is right. I believe that.’ His voice was intense, giving her the sense he was communicating a truth. ‘But it’s messy. It’s not easy.’
‘Killing children doesn’t help.’
‘It doesn’t. I agree with you. I know how it looks.’
He was speaking seriously, without a trace of humour. He was so close to her, she could smell the milky tea on his breath.
‘We can fight,’ he said. ‘We do it damn well actually. I’ve got good men here. The best.’ He gestured vaguely across the compound at the young soldiers, sitting on the fast-cooling sand in loose groups; eating, smoking, lying back against their packs. ‘We can secure villages and kill the enemy and take ground. But that’s just one battle.’
‘There’s also hearts and minds?’
‘Quite.’
He hesitated, as if he were choosing his words with care. His eyes were bright.
‘People need to think,’ he said. ‘Think who’s got their interests at heart. Who’s building clinics and schools. Cleaning up wells. You know? Who goes out of their way to help civilians, not hurt them.’
‘Not this time.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘We don’t do it on purpose. They do. You know that. Look what they’ve just done.’
‘You mean Nayullah? The suicide bomb?’
He shrugged, lifted a hand, palm upwards, spreading the fingers as if to say: I rest my case.
She thought about the impact of a suicide bomb in a crowded market. The bloodshed, the shock, the fear. ‘It’s effective. I bet it frightened the hell out of people.’
‘A sign of desperation,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’ His chair creaked as he shifted his weight. ‘Suicide bomb? IEDs? Losers’ tactics. They can slow us down. But the fact is, they can’t take us on, man for man. Haven’t got the numbers. Or the kit.’
The words jumped out at her. This then, she thought, was the man who’d fed John his lines. Over a cup of tea, no doubt, just like this one. She looked at him more closely.
‘This suicide bomb,’ she said. ‘Was there nothing from your informers, no warning?’
He was studying her, his expression bemused. ‘Informers? You’ve been reading too much le Carré.’
She tutted. ‘Mack,’ she said, ‘as it happens, I rather like le Carré. But if we’re going to talk, we might as well be frank.’
He let his face relax into a smile.
‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘I get the feeling you’re always frank.’
Dusk was setting in around them, sealing them off from the mud walls and the other soldiers. Beneath the camouflage net, there was movement, a shuffling of boots and chairs as men got to their feet. Time for stand-to, she thought, that old end-of-day ritual of warfare.
He too was preparing to move. He emptied the dregs of tea from his tin cup with a whip of his wrist, splattering thin darklines across the sand. She saw a pattern in it at once, a pattern that disturbed her. The spurt of blood from a wound. She reached forward and put her hand out to delay him.
‘Tell me about the Afghan who was killed. Jalil.’
He looked surprised. ‘The turp?’
‘What happened?’
He sighed. ‘Hard to say.’ He paused. ‘He went out on a routine patrol. Not far from here. Then he left it and struck out on his own.’
‘Why would he do that?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. By the time they found him, it was too late.’
‘Shot?’
‘Through the head.’
‘What weapon?’
‘AK-47, I should think.’ He put his hands flat on his thighs, bracing himself to get up. ‘We didn’t retrieve the bullet. Frankly, it was a mess. And pretty clear what happened.’
‘Which was?’
He pushed his weight forward, his thighs thickening with muscle, and got to his feet. The chair struts creaked.
‘Two theories. Maybe he’d crossed the line and done some deal with the enemy. Drugs. Information. When he went to meet his contact, he got more than he bargained for.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Or?’
‘Or he had a perfectly innocent reason for straying from the group and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. All turps take a big risk working with us. They know that. They’re seen as traitors.’
She looked up at him, a dark shape against the sky, his face in shadow.
‘And what do you think?’
He blew out his cheeks. ‘Hard to know.’ He fiddled with his belt, straightened his shirt, then stooped over her, low enough for her to catch the masculine musk of his skin.
‘I’d like to think: wrong time, wrong place,’ he said. ‘I liked Jalil. He was a bright lad.’
He reached down a hand to her. She looked for a moment at the broad palm and long fingers, then put her hand in his and let him haul her to her feet.
8
Dust. Shifting. Falling. Raining on her cheek. Fine dirt in nose, throat, breathed deep into her lungs. The dry earth penetrating her, turning her to desert. Black shapes above shifting. Light bleeding in, hot drops of sun. Her skin twitched. Her eyes tightened at its sharpness.
She was on her side, pinned. Such weight on her leg. Crushing. Unbearable. She closed herself off from it, trying to disown the damaged leg. If she opened herself to that much hurt, she would suffocate.
But they were getting nearer. They were working towards her, looking for her. She was being unburied. She heard their heavy breath as they heaved and strained. Stones tumbled, crashed, settled. Fresh dust fell, exploded and rose around her face in clouds. She spluttered. They were rocking the weight that pinned her leg. Pain shot through her body in ar
rows of white heat. She tried to cry out but her moan was strangled. A man’s voice gave a short command. It was efficient, bleached of emotion. He used their language. They will kill me, these men, these infidels. Better they do it quickly. End it now. May Allah in His Mercy protect me.
Sun burst over her. The weight was gone. She could smell the foreigners round her, their rich, rancid odour. They were talking. Foreign words. Now they would kill her. She braced herself. She thought of Abdul, of Aref. She told them goodbye.
Cold water shocked her face, splashed her skin, bringing her back to life. A hand was brushing water over her eyes, her mouth. It mixed with the dust. A finger dripped it onto her lips. Praise Allah for the bliss of water. Her lips parted, letting the moisture in. She savoured it in her mouth, down her throat. Someone was touching her leg. Indecent. Tearing her clothes to expose and humiliate her. She could not defend herself. She could not move. She felt their hands on her flesh, examining it, binding it. But here, at her face, cleaning off the dirt, it was a woman. It was a woman’s hand.
She opened her eyes. The pale face of a white woman, shining with sweat, peered down at her. Her head uncovered. Her breath so close she knew it to be warm and slightly sweet. Her eyes were the dull green-blue of river water in shadow. They were keen, studying her. The woman, this enemy, bent her face a little closer, as if she expected something. What? A word? A kiss? Hasina glared at her. She gathered her strength and tried to spit. She was too weak. The spittle fell short. She let her eyes sink closed again, screening out the woman, the dust, the sky. She felt their hands on her, touching her, shifting her, taking her prisoner, and she fell back into darkness again.
Her body was lifted, swung sideways in the air, came back to rest on rough material. The pain in her leg was consuming her. Voices. Bright light and shadow crossing her eyelids. Her body was lightly bounced as they carried her. She could not open her eyes. She might be dreaming. She might be dead. Images, shapes, colours tumbled down on her like falling leaves. Darkness.
Some time passed. Minutes or hours? She was lying on her back. Her leg had died. The pain had left her. Noise. Low voices close to her. Louder voices distant. Foreigners. She would be tortured.
She opened her eyes. Another woman, thickset and fat, dressed in man’s clothes. Army clothes, sand-coloured cotton. Her trousers showed clearly the outline of her large bottom and of her thighs. Hasina looked away. The woman’s arms were naked. They were slick with dark hairs, like a dog. Her fingers were busy with some instrument. The woman turned and Hasina glimpsed a needle in her hand. She bit down as the woman took her arm, wet it, plunged in the needle. Sleep.
A man was lifting her arm, holding her hand, patting it. Abdul? She opened her eyes, dazed from dreaming. She stifled a scream. A big black man, skin shining with sweat like a dark polished pebble in a stream. The inside of his lips flashed wet pink when he spoke to her. Foreign words. She understood nothing. He moved to examine her leg. It was plump and white with bandages. They had done this to her. She tried to move her toes but felt nothing. It would wither and drop off now, this leg. She knew this. Her death would be slow at the hands of this black man.
She tried to twist her head away, close her eyes. Sheets of green material stretched round her, pinned up in the desert, separating her from the heat and sand. A tube was attached to her arm, with a transparent sack of liquid, raised, emptying itself drop by drop into her body. Sleep.
Early evening. Heat draining from the desert. She opened her eyes and they felt clean. The dust had gone. Who had done this to her and what else had they done while she slept? She tried to move her leg. Lifeless. She could not run away.
‘May Allah be with you, Madam. I hope you are a little better, if God wills it?’ A man’s voice. A gentle voice. Speaking in Pashto. His voice was close. She sensed that he had been there some time, watching her as she slept. Waiting for her to wake. She turned her head.
‘My name is Najib.’ He looked older than Aref but his beard was short and thin. His face was a little plump. ‘What is your good name?’
Her throat was too dry for her to speak. He leaned forward, dribbled a little water from a bottle into her mouth. She felt herself flooded with it. The water was clean and tasted of nothing, neither of stones nor of earth.
‘What is your good name?’ he said again, a little louder.
‘I do not know you.’
‘My name is Najib. I am from Kabul.’
‘Kabul, is it?’ She snorted. Now she knew. He was a traitor, a conspirator, taking foreign money.
‘What is your good name?’
She closed her eyes, pretended to sleep.
‘Madam,’ he said. His voice was respectful. ‘Maybe I can help you.’
She remembered the children. Now where…?
‘Children?’ she said. ‘There were…?’
She knew at once from his face. No hope. Only grief, embarrassment. It could not be. How could such a thing…?
And Aref?
‘Who else?’ she said.
His eyes were full of confusion. ‘The children,’ he said. ‘Three little ones. May Allah, His Name be blessed, bring you comfort.’
She let her eyes fall closed. May Allah forgive her. What had she done?
He waited a moment, then spoke again. ‘You are safe here,’ he said. ‘They have good doctors.’
She didn’t reply. What would they say, what would they do, Karam and Palwasha? Their children; all their children. The weight of it stopped her breath.
‘They have some questions.’ The traitor was speaking again. She kept her eyes closed. ‘They want to know what happened here. Why were you in the house?’
She blocked him out. She lay still, her eyes closed, waiting for him to leave. She would not tell. Sleep.
Water was trickling down the back of her throat, cool and fresh. Her head ached. Her body was leaden. She was coming to again, finding herself on her back, immobile, sweating and uncomfortable. Something was wrong. No one breathing beside her. Her left side was not warmed by the heat of Abdul’s body, by his breath, hot and stale in her ear. For every night of their many years of marriage, he had balanced her like a scale. Now she was alone. She forced herself to open her eyes but everything was blurred.
Now she remembered. The memory knocked her down. The bomb. The dust. The soldiers. She battled to focus. The Kabul man was there, bending over her. His face was kind. The rim of a transparent water bottle loomed large in her vision.
‘Are you all right, madam?’ he said. Stupid question. She gulped down the water inside her mouth. Not local water. The light was softening. The air was cooler. It must be almost evening. Where would they take her now?
‘Can you eat a little bread? Drink some tea?’
She stared at him, incredulous. He was speaking Pashto but his words made no sense to her. Why was he offering her tea, as if she were a guest?
‘What…’ she managed to say. Her voice was croaky. ‘What will they do with me?’
He smiled. His short beard waggled on his chin. ‘They won’t hurt you,’ he said. He sounded almost merry. ‘They are making you well again. No need to be afraid.’
‘Afraid!’ she said. He spoke the truth: she was terrified. Better she’d died in the house. Better they shot her where she lay. To be brought back to life and then killed, this was a far worse fate. Abdul, she thought. My own dear Abdul. My parents chose wisely when they married me to you. Thank you and bless you, wherever you are.
‘Don’t cry.’ The man from Kabul was dabbing at her face. His movements were gentle.
Later, she sensed a woman, a stranger, hovering at the green curtain, peering down at her. She looked. That Western woman, the one with the river-water eyes. She wanted something. Hasina could smell her eagerness, hard and wolfish like hunger. The woman didn’t come close, just stood there, watching her, taking her in. Her head was strained forward, her eyes on Hasina’s face. Hasina closed her eyes.
After a few moments, there was whisp
ering. Foreign words. One of the women in men’s trousers came forward and bent down over her. The smell of antiseptic, of lemon. A cool cloth wiped her forehead. Soothing. Her limbs relaxed. Floating. Sleep.
9
The earth was breathing sand across her body, covering her face in a fine film of grit. Ellen pulled the upper lip of her sleeping bag a little tighter, her nose filled with the smell of dust and decay. Men, sprawled around her, were snoring and grunting in their sleep. The black silhouette of a soldier was standing guard on the gate, his cigarette a bobbing red dot. The moon was up. The outlines of the compound walls, the buildings, shimmered in the half-light. Outside the bolted metal gate, cattle were shuffling. Distantly, out in the desert, a wild dog howled. She tensed, listened. The Taliban howled like that at night, a covert way of signalling to each other. A dog or a fighter? No way of telling.
She turned on her side, shifting shards of stone, and imagined the scene here last night. The men of the family whispering, smoking, bolted inside their compound, discussing how to destroy the remnants of their poppy. Wives and children sleeping in those dark, dank rooms. Where had they fled to? Did they know foreign troops had taken over their home?
The soldiers had seen much less resistance than they’d expected. She read the relief in their faces. Hancock’s jauntiness. Frank’s swagger. They were pleased with themselves, pretending they’d never been afraid.
She was less confident that the ground had been so easily won. Mack had told her they had satellite images of fighters here. If that were true, where were they? Why hadn’t they put up a fight? Perhaps they still might.
She checked her watch. After one. A few more hours and they’d be up again. She tucked her head into her chest and closed her eyes and saw again the dead children.
The youngest had been dug out with a deep gash across her face, a stain reaching from the inside corner of her eye down to her mouth. Blood had spilled, then dried across her cheek, blackened and clotted by dust. Ellen’s first thought had been: that must hurt. Then: she’ll need stitches. And, finally: they should clean that up before they bury her. The girl only looked about three. Patches of clear, delicate skin showed under the filth. Small hands, with creases of dirt in the palms and pink bitten-down nails. Fingers like a doll’s.
The Last Kestrel Page 9
