by L. A. Larkin
Shinwari shakes his head. The car lurches and the chassis scrapes across exposed rock. Wolfe fidgets in her seat and clicks the stud of her tongue piercing against her teeth. Earlier on she was freezing - the car’s decrepit heating system gave up the ghost years ago. But now, as her heartbeat quickens, she is stifling in her long brown Afghan dress.
‘Her husband is not there? You are certain?’ Shinwari asks, his voice shaky.
‘He’s in Tajikistan.’
Shinwari peers through the filthy windscreen as he searches for the right address, the lethargic wipers fighting a losing battle.
‘If Ahmad Ghaznavi knows you’ve been asking about him, this could be a trap.’
‘Shinwari.’ She turns to face him. ‘I know what I’m doing. You know that, right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he replies.
‘Going after Colonel Lalzad was just as dangerous. We exposed him for the torturer and killer he is. That’s why he’s now in a British gaol. Because of us.’ She squeezes his shoulder. ‘But he’s still running his organisation from prison and word is the drugs are funding an Isil terror cell in the UK.’
‘So why you see Ghaznavi’s wife?’
‘Ghaznavi is Lalzad’s right-hand man in Kabul. He gets the drugs to England. Nooria Zia says she knows how the drug money reaches the man behind this British cell and who he is.’
Shinwari’s forehead is slick with sweat. ‘But why does she help you?’
‘She hates him. He raped her at fourteen. When she went to the police, she was convicted of the moral crime of being raped. Had his son in Kabul’s Women’s Prison. I did a story, remember? You got me the interview.’
‘Yes, yes, but this is big risk for her.’
‘Let me finish. Ghaznavi’s first wife only gave him daughters, so he pressured Nooria into marrying him, legitimising his son. She wants to be free of him.’
Shinwari nods his understanding and focuses on the narrow road. A hairpin bend. Fewer houses. A steeper climb.
‘You always thank me,’ he says. ‘Other journalists, they use me and leave. I thank you.’
‘Any time, mate.’
He scans the street. The houses are bigger, better built.
‘That one,’ Shinwari says, nodding at a mansion that is about as out of place as exposed cleavage is in Afghanistan.
‘A poppy palace. Of course,’ Wolfe says.
Shinwari whistles through his teeth.
There is an eight-foot-high perimeter wall, freshly painted cream, and a wrought iron gate, painted gold. Behind the wall, the house façade is dominated by six wide cream columns, the capitals at the top in gold and shaped like scrolls. These support three semi-circular balconies and the floor above. Through vast sliding doors, Wolfe can see a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The rooftop is flat, supporting a large satellite dish, and is surrounded by a waist-high wall from which to admire the view or shoot intruders.
‘I’ll turn the car around. Make our exit faster.’
Wolfe tucks wisps of her raven black bob under her scarf, then taps the deep pockets of her loose dress. In one is her smartphone. She’ll record the interview with it. In the other is a long key-chain that holds keys to her hotel room, home, motorbike and a locker at Kabul Airport. She doesn’t wear glasses - the sign of a foreigner - and her other body piercings are well hidden. Only her small black field pack strapped tightly to her back suggests she’s not a local. The bag usually contains her laptop, sat phone and spare battery, power adaptor, a few items of clothing and a toiletries bag, all of which she left in the airport locker to save weight and bulk. But the backpack stays with her. Always. Attached to it by a clip is a metal water bottle with a long neck and screw-in plastic stopper. Her money and passport are hidden in a money belt beneath her dress. Earlier, Shinwari had asked her why she wore an almost empty pack.
‘Protection,’ she’d replied.
The house opposite Ghaznavi’s is unfinished, the upper level exposed concrete breeze blocks. Another poppy palace. Shinwari parks outside. Wolfe switches on her smartphone’s video recorder but leaves it in her deep pocket. Her visit must appear social.
‘Let’s go,’ says Wolfe, getting out of the car.
She waits for Shinwari, then walks a few steps behind him. He tries the golden gate but it’s locked. To his left he finds a bell to press. They stay silent and wait. Through the gate’s swirling ironwork, Wolfe sees a carved wooden door open. She tenses, ready to run. It is not Ghaznavi or his armed guards who step on to the porch, but a young woman in a pale pink silk dress embroidered with golden flowers, with a simple black muslin scarf over her head. She hesitates and scans the street, then hurries to unlock the gate, opening it a fraction. Nooria looks at Wolfe, her jade green eyes wide with panic. Wolfe stares at the face of a frightened child.
‘You must leave,’ Nooria says, her accent thick. ‘Mina is watching.’ Ghaznavi’s first wife.
‘Can you meet us at the market later?’ Wolfe asks.
She shakes her head.
There is a loud crack that seems to echo down the mountainside. Something zips past Wolfe’s cheek. Nooria jolts, eyes wide, as blood spurts from a hole in her neck. She collapses backwards.
Wolfe throws herself at a stunned Shinwari and they hit the ground hard. ‘On the roof opposite,’ she pants. ‘Sniper.’
She crawls to Nooria. The girl blinks rapidly in shock, blood pulsing from the wound.
‘Help me!’ Wolfe calls to Shinwari, but he’s frozen with fear.
She grips Nooria under the armpits and drags her behind a column. Wolfe uses the girl’s scarf to try to stem the blood flow.
Shinwari scuttles after her. ‘What do we do?’ he says, cringing behind the pillar.
‘Kabir . . . ’ says Nooria, her voice a gurgle as if she’s drowning. Foamy blood seeps from her mouth. ‘Kabir Khan.’ She chokes.
‘Nooria!’
‘Bomb London.’ The girl’s voice dies away then, in one final act of defiance, she spits out the word, ‘Da’ish.’ The Arabic acronym for Isil or Islamic State.
Another shot booms out. No silencer. The bullet thuds into the snow only centimetres from the column they hide behind. Nooria stares vacantly at the sky. A snowflake lands in her right eye and melts away into a tear.
Wolfe searches for an escape route but the thirty feet between them and their car might as well be thirty miles. There is no cover.
‘We gotta run for it,’ she whispers.
Shinwari doesn’t respond. She shakes his shoulder.
‘You hear me? No choice. We run for the car. You understand?’
‘Yes.’ He’s as pale as the murdered girl.
Wolfe peers at the uncompleted roof where she thinks the shooter has set up position. No movement. No glint of metal or scope. She unclips her backpack waistband, wriggles the straps off her shoulders and clutches it close to her chest.
‘Car key,’ she says.
Shinwari gives it to her, hand trembling. Thwack. A bullet narrowly misses his right shoulder. He recoils.
Ghaznavi doesn’t want us to leave, Wolfe thinks. The sniper could have killed them by now. They’ll make good hostages for a high ransom.
‘Ready?’
He nods.
‘Me first. Stay right behind me. Okay, now!’
Wolfe jumps up, positioning the backpack so that it shields her head and heart. Sewn into the pack is an ESAPI plate designed to protect the body from small arms fire. With Shinwari so close, it gives some protection to both of them. She darts towards the car. But no gunshots. Slipping on some ice, she stumbles and Shinwari literally picks her up by the back of her dress and shoves her forward. They make it to the Corolla and duck low, hoping the sniper’s sightline is blocked. Wolfe shoves the key in the driver’s door and turns it, just as she is yanked back by two men with Kalashnikovs over their shoulders. Her backpack falls to the ground. One of them grabs it. The other grabs her. She lashes out with her boots as she is dragged backwards, but his grip do
esn’t loosen, impervious to her blows.
‘Get help!’ she yells at Shinwari, who is cowering by the car.
Her captor, in a brown coat and dirty white turban, shoves a hand over her mouth. She gags at the smell of tobacco and shit on his fingers. Her heart races and panic threatens, but if she is to get out of this alive, she must think. Every instinct tells her to keep struggling, but her training tells her she’s wasting energy. As the gates to Ghaznavi’s mansion are locked, Wolfe is dragged further into the compound, her heels sliding through a pool of Nooria’s blood. She needs a plan, and to plan she must clear her mind. She shuts her eyes and focuses on calming her heart rate. On the other side of the wall, the Corolla’s engine screeches into life and the tyres skid as Shinwari tears off down the road. They’ll expect her to be paralysed with terror or weep or beg. Playing the weak female gives her an advantage. She goes limp, surrendering.
They stand her up and give her a shove. Wolfe opens her eyes, taking in her situation: three men, a locked gate and no weapon. Her bag and sat phone are held by the second man with a Kalashnikov, who has the gate keys hanging round his neck. Taller and younger than her brown-coated assailant, he runs a tongue over his thin lips. Both armed men point their guns at her torso. The third man is scrutinising the inside of her bag. He drops it to the ground, then turns to look at her. She recognises Ahmad Ghaznavi. His black beard and hair are trimmed short, Western style. He is dressed head to toe in a long white shirt and white baggy pants. His tasselled loafers are Italian, his watch a gold Rolex.
‘You killed your wife,’ Wolfe says, trying to keep her voice level.
‘She betrayed me. And you, you will make me even richer,’ Ghaznavi says. ‘Your newspaper will pay well, I am sure.’
‘Shinwari will get the police.’
‘I own the police.’
He says something in Pashto to his men. The only word Wolfe understands is ‘whore’. Ghaznavi turns his back on her and walks up the steps to enter his house. She glimpses a woman, her face hidden by a veil, who follows him down the hall in silence. Somebody closes the front door.
Wolfe checks the rooftop and upstairs windows, but it seems they are not being watched. Her captors lean their rifles against the wall. They laugh and jeer at her. She is their reward. The taller man is playing with his crotch, taunting her with what he will do, as the one in the brown coat laughs, revealing some missing front teeth. Wolfe lifts her left hand up, palm facing outwards, and says in Pashto, ‘Let me go in peace.’
There are key phrases she always learns in the language of any country she visits. This is one. Another is, Help me, I need a doctor.
Her right hand is in her dress pocket, gripping her key-chain: a thick cable as long as her forearm, her keys on a ring at the end. She casually pulls it from her pocket. All the while she has her other hand out in front to distract her captors. To them she is saying: back off!
The taller man steps closer, arms wide as if to grab her. Wolfe swings the cable back, then up and over, like a fast bowler, and lunges forward so the sharp keys smack him hard in the side of his face, gouging a deep wound under his eye. He yelps; his hand shooting up to the wound. In one continuous motion, she swings the chain in an upwards arc so the keys collide with his mouth, slicing through his lower lip. His head jolts back. Lifting her leg, she bends her knee and kicks out, the tip of her steel-toe work boot smashing into his balls. He crumples to the ground, groaning.
The brown-coated man is so stunned he fails to react immediately. Then he charges. Wolfe swings the keys at him but isn’t quick enough. He grabs her raised wrist with one hand and punches her in the face with the other. She stumbles, reeling from the pain, and lands on the icy ground. He yanks the keychain from her hand and tosses it away. Disoriented, she scrambles to her knees and blinks away the dizzying light in her eyes. She needs another weapon.
Wolfe pounces on her discarded backpack, unhooks her metal water bottle and grips it by its elongated neck. Her attacker has the advantage: he stands; she is on all fours. He looms over her, shouting abuse, and spits on her. Then, eyes down, he fumbles for his penis. She jumps up and, in a whipping motion, strikes him on the jaw. He sinks to his knees like a lame horse. With all her strength she slams the metal cylinder into the side of his head, the blow propelling him sideways on to the ice. Spread-eagled, he doesn’t move.
But it’s not over. Her other assailant struggles to get up, still clutching his crotch. Wolfe kicks him in the throat and yanks the gate keys from around his neck, snatches her pack, staggers to the gate, unlocks it and runs.
Someone yells out. ‘Here! Olivia!’
Dazed, she follows the sound of the car engine and the cloud of hot exhaust. She sees Shinwari’s head sticking out of the window. He’s come back for her. Yanking open the back door, she throws herself on the seat to the rapid rattle of Kalashnikov fire.
‘Drive!’
3
London, England
A man in his seventies wearing a Barbour coat and corduroys, trailing an overfed Jack Russell, passes me without so much as a glance. Like London’s ocean of homeless, I have become invisible. I dress to disappear. My only distinguishing feature - scarring around an eye - is partially concealed behind thick-framed glasses and, today, by the hood of my nondescript, black pea coat, pulled tight. I am no threat. A student? Unemployed? Who else would be crazy enough to sip tea on a park bench on a bone-chilling weekday morning like this?
The dog charges behind the bench, its piercing yap doing my head in as it peers up into the bare branches of a horse chestnut. Conkerless and leafless, the tree resembles an umbrella, fabric torn, spokes broken. The old fella dutifully follows, cursing, splashing through puddles, his back to me, so I look up too, safe in the knowledge he can’t see my face. Dangling from the tree is a dead mistle thrush, its neck encircled in what appears to be fishing wire. It swings in the wind, its speckled belly no longer warmed by a beating heart. Further up is an impaled kite, the source of the noose. The man drags the dog away and moves on. I stare at the dead bird, fascinated by its glazed eyes, its mind blank.
I know how it feels.
There is an empty room in my mind. It pulls at me incessantly like the moon on the tides, but every time I return, I find it still barren. There is no window, no furniture, no sound, no people. No me. My diary tells me that my injured brain can no longer hang on to new memories. Yesterday’s experiences, places, people, all glimmer briefly and then fade, like mayflies. Yet distant memories of my childhood and early twenties are as clear as a midsummer sky.
I know it is Monday 16 November, 8.26 a.m., because my iPad Mini tells me so. The warmth of it in my lap draws my eyes back to the screen. I gaze at the wallpaper image of the two of us, arm-in-arm, taken when I could function as a normal human being. When I had a future. Your tight-lipped smile, those dark inquisitive eyes, round and questioning like a dumb dog, and that trashy eyebrow stud that cheapened your otherwise pretty face. Of course, you don’t have it any more. Since the Pulitzer, you’ve feigned respectability. But I know you, Olivia Wolfe. I’ve made it my life’s work to know every one of your secrets.
I feel my face flush, my heart race. I crush the paper cup, the warm tea dripping through my fingers. Beads of sweat glue my shirt to my back. The burning fury inside me fights against the frigid air. I know you are responsible for my wretched existence. You have to be. Why else would I be driven to do this?
I smirk at the bitter irony.
There is one advantage to my new state: I recall nothing I inflict upon you and I can, with all sincerity, deny my actions. How can I be guilty when I truly believe I didn’t do it? How can I feel remorse when I can’t remember?
I am as innocent as the day I was born.
4
‘Wolfe!’ bellows the praying mantis from the doorway of his office on the fourth floor of The Post’s sparkling new building in King’s Cross.
Its exterior reminds Wolfe of an inside-out toaster, with the heating ele
ments protected from the weather by glass. The core is open from the foyer to the roof, bisected by a glass-lined rectangular void through which the ‘ant colony’, as her editor calls it, can be observed scurrying about on each of the five levels. This set-up makes sneaking out unobserved for a quick fag or an early lunch well-nigh impossible. The interior is littered with sudden bursts of colour, as if the designers somehow imagined that the five-foot-high, shocking pink number two on a meeting room’s glass partition, or the lime green chairs, or the intrusive burst of red wall as you turn a corner, might somehow jolt the overworked staff into a renewed flurry of activity.
Wolfe receives nods from fellow journalists as she weaves through the maze of closely packed desks and a sheepish grin from the ambitious rookie crime reporter, Jonathan Soames. The frenetic energy and the babble of voices - urgent, challenging, frustrated, excited, coaxing - revive her after a long flight. When she’s out in the field, she misses this convivial frenzy, but after a day or two on the news floor, she can’t wait to be in the field again.
‘Welcome back,’ says Mark Lawn, the political correspondent, as he races by, heading in the opposite direction. He notices her face’s purple bruising and stops. ‘I heard about the assault. I’m sorry.’
Head down, she continues her journey to Cohen’s office, aware numerous pairs of eyes are watching her. Do they know too? She doesn’t want to give her boss any excuse to move her to a permanent desk job. She’d go stir crazy.
With a takeaway cappuccino in one hand and her dusty backpack slung over the other shoulder, Wolfe follows Mozart Cohen, editor of The Post, into his glass cube of an office. Cohen is six three, gangly, with a long face and a sharp tongue. She’s lost count of the number of reporters he’s reduced to a trembling jelly.
‘You’re late,’ he growls.
‘Just one day, Moz, and the Afghan police might’ve had something to do with it.’
As he sits, Cohen retracts his bony arms and grips the edge of his desk. Wolfe is convinced that to fit his long legs under there, he must have to bend them in ways not humanly possible. Cohen scowls at a yellow sofa with marshmallow-like cushioned pockets.
