Disengaged

by Mischa Hiller

  I miss the curling locks of your luxurious hair, the smell between your creamy thighs, the glow in your cheeks as you envelop me, the flash in your black eyes when your pleasure is released.

  Remember that I am always inside you.

  As Mawlana said:

  ‘Lovers do not finally meet somewhere.

  They are in each other all along.’

  Take care, my sweetheart.

  F.

  They had underestimated her, that was her saving grace. Just a woman, known only as Farsheed’s wife, they would attribute to her no independent thought, thinking she would be lost without him. ‘Why did he send a woman to do a man’s job?’ they had asked her. They were nearly right about her being lost; she very nearly was. They had taken her Iranian passport but hadn’t even thought to ask for her German passport with the Turkish name and a tourist visa for Iran issued in Frankfurt with two days left on it, which she now clutched tightly, waiting. Perhaps they didn’t know about it, perhaps it was something Farsheed had organized without their knowledge, an escape hatch for just such an occasion. She was hoping this small border crossing would not be on their radar. Her hair was sheared under the chador, cut two days ago before she left her apartment building at the crack of dawn, the long strands dumped in the street so they wouldn’t be found in the apartment when they came. No reason to have it long any more. She needed to travel light, and quickly, unencumbered by long, high-maintenance hair, and besides, she would not wear it long for anyone else.

  Soon, God willing, she would be in Dog˘ubeyazıt on the other side, and by tomorrow, after a tortuously long series of bus rides, in Ankara. From there she had no idea. Her future was written somewhere, she just had to discover where.

  FIFTY-SIX

  ‘Julian, back from an early morning run, drinking his coffee in the kitchen while checking a news feed on his phone, came across the small item on a BBC website that referenced an article in Popular Mechanic. Going to his laptop, he tracked the original down, published a week ago. Iranian officials claimed to have taken control of their second drone, this one a very large, long-distance UAV which was equipped with bunker-busting weapons. There were photos with the article, but the drone looked like it was in pieces which they had tried to patch together so that it looked whole. The Iranians said they had proof that it was an Israeli UAV, unlike the US one they claimed to have taken control of a couple of years ago. There were phallic-shaped tubes with fins that looked, to Julian’s untrained eye, like large bombs. The drone was huge, the size of a 737 aeroplane, and took up most of a large hangar where it sat together like a poorly constructed Airfix model. The article said that the Israelis had refused to comment on the drone but an expert in the field said it bore ‘extraordinary similarity to the 4.5 ton Heron TP’, which the Israeli Air Force had unveiled a year ago. He scoured the Internet for more on the story. One of the stories, in the online edition of the New York Times, framed it in relation to a recent cyber infection of computers at a nuclear research facility in Iran. The Iranians denied any such report, saying their cyber-defences were second to none after the Stuxnet infection of nuclear facilities in 2010. The article claimed that Iran needed a PR coup and this drone capture was a useful distraction from setbacks in that area. The new virus had been dubbed ‘criss-cross’ by one computer-security company. It wasn’t clear who had come up with this name, but a search of the company website revealed that they had a research facility in Tel Aviv. A few minutes more and he landed on an activist website where he found a reference to the company which claimed it had ‘strong links with the Israeli military and intelligence community’.

  Sheila came into the kitchen, her hair tied back, in her suit. He’d suggested down-sizing their house, since his salary – now that he was just doing contract work – was intermittent and had effectively been halved, but she said she’d already paid off the mortgage so he didn’t need to worry about it and could do what he needed to do. She was still keeping her financial situation close to her chest, but he wasn’t going to complain.

  She poured herself coffee from the pot he’d made. ‘Working already?’

  ‘Just trying to find out what the news isn’t actually telling me.’

  ‘It’s like a bloody iceberg,’ she said, fetching a bowl and cereal. ‘Most of it is hiding under the surface.’

  ‘What are your plans today?’ he asked. He felt buoyant after what he’d just read.

  ‘A possible house sale this morning, then this afternoon Gulnar and I give a presentation to a group of occupational therapists, to try to convince them that they should go to work in a war zone. Listen, don’t forget Gulnar and her partner are coming round for dinner. You’re cooking, right?

  ‘Yes, it’s all sorted.’

  ‘Her partner’s vegetarian.’

  ‘Stop worrying, I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m nervous about the presentation.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, babe, you’ve done it before.’ He cleared his throat to change down a gear. ‘Remember Boris?’

  She stopped eating and looked up, worry on her face. ‘What is it? Has something happened?’

  ‘No, not at all. Sorry, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just that, well, I think he did a good thing.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The chess pieces are chipped plastic and unsatisfyingly hollow. Their battleground of folding cardboard has frayed corners and the glued-on paper surface is coming away. There is a cup stain right in the centre, where the pieces now vie for control. Two men, one obviously older than the other, study the board intently, occasionally touching a piece without moving it. The bespectacled younger man, Farsheed, unconsciously flaunts the impatience of his youth, looking around the noisy and smoke-filled café, studying the other chess players. He has the air of a player who already knows what he is going to play and is frustrated at the convention of having to wait his turn. The older man, named Boris, is more circumspect. Neither of them, strictly speaking, should be consorting, even under the innocent-looking cover of a chess game in a very public chess café in Baku, of all places. But neither man seems to care, or perhaps they feel it is worth the risk. This is, after all, their third game together. Boris tentatively plays a rook, keeping a forefinger on it until he is sure of his move. He hits the clock as soon as he does, then strokes his moustache thoughtfully. Farsheed whips his piece across the board, replacing the rook with one of his own. He puts it next to some others on the table, arranging them in order of importance: pawns, knight, and now a rook. He does all this before stopping his clock, as if he has time to burn or is just showing Boris that he doesn’t care about how much time remains on his clock. Boris plays more quickly this time, and there is a small flurry of pieces exchanged and clock hitting. They sit back briefly, contemplating the now sparsely populated board. Boris leans forward, Farsheed does the same, unconsciously echoing him. Their heads are just inches apart.

  ‘There is a man,’ Farsheed says in English, without looking up, ‘responsible for the security at a certain research facility. But his personal security is not so good. He connects to the Internet using the same same computer he uses on the local network.’ He looks up to see if Boris is listening but he seems intent on the board. ‘Anyway, he visits certain websites, bad ones, every day to download videos and pictures. He even gets some sent by email, to an account he has online. A man as devoted to God as this man says he is should not be watching such videos.’ It is not Farsheed’s first language, English, neither is it that of Boris, but they both speak it fairly well – Boris perhaps better than Farsheed – and both tainted with the inflections of their respective Russian and Farsi tongues.

  ‘That is why I am not devoted to God,’ Boris says, his eyes flitting between the pieces on the board, ‘so I do not suffer such religious qualms.’ The young man looks up, but he does not get a response in kind.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you were religious.’

  ‘No,’ Boris says, shaking his
head.

  ‘I see. Is that why you are doing this? Because you have lost your religion?’

  ‘Something is lost, but not religion. Something more fundamen-tal.’

  Farsheed shakes his head, seemingly confused. ‘So anyway,’ he asks, ‘you can do something with this knowledge?’

  ‘Of course I can, but I need an IP address,’ Boris says.

  Farsheed smiles and shakes his head. ‘When I have verified your side of the bargain, then I will make an email address available to you immediately, not an IP address; you know, an IP address can be linked to a geographical location, so I cannot provide that. Anyway, this man subscribes to certain videos using this email address, do you understand?’

  Boris nods and moves a pawn up the right flank. ‘It needs to be a video that he is guaranteed to look at, so I need more detail about his specific interests, so we can tailor it, make it appealing to him.’

  Farsheed nods, making a mirror-image move on the board, but says nothing. Instead he takes off his glasses and proceeds to clean them with the napkin taken from under his glass of tea.

  ‘So what is it?’ Boris asks. ‘Lesbians? Oral? Gangbangs? Anal?’

  Farsheed blushes and, even though Boris is speaking softly, looks around before putting his glasses back on.

  ‘Please tell me it’s not underage girls?’ Boris asks.

  Farsheed shakes his head and studies the board very carefully. It must be obvious to Boris that he cannot say it. Boris sighs, perhaps worried that he is going to have to run through every sexual fetish before they get anywhere useful. Farsheed glances at a nearby table where a young boy sits on his father’s lap, watching him play chess. Then he looks back at Boris, his glasses reflecting the sunlight from outside, then to the boy, then down at the board, then back to Boris.

  ‘No?’ Boris says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  Farsheed nods, seemingly ashamed, as if he is somehow tainted by the sordid perversions of a compatriot.

  ‘OK. That is definitely something that can be used.’

  ‘But after this,’ Farsheed says, gesturing at the board, ‘there can be no more contact. No direct exchange, no phone calls, no texts, nothing online. Online is not safe. And if you try to be safe you immediately look suspicious.’

  ‘I’m old school, as they say.’

  ‘Old school?’

  ‘Old-fashioned. I like to hold things in my hand, to look into someone’s eyes, to hear what they have to say. I like physical indicators that things have happened.’ He moves another pawn.

  ‘What about your side of the bargain?’ the young man asks.

  ‘Yes, of course. Let’s talk about that.’

  ‘It sounds more complicated.’

  ‘I am giving you more than an email address, my young friend.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. You are giving me an opportunity, like I am giving you an opportunity. That is all we are doing.’

  ‘Agreed. But the opportunity I am giving you has a potentially bigger reward for you, as well as a bigger risk for me, which is why it is more complicated for you. You will need to work harder for it. I will do what I can do make it easy but I am dealing in unknowns.’

  The young man shrugs, and it’s not clear whether it’s because he doesn’t agree with the assertion that it is complicated or that it provides a bigger payback. ‘So what will you give me?’

  ‘A name. That’s all. An opportunity.’

  ‘When does this happen?’ asks the young man.

  ‘I travel tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ the young man asks, surprised.

  ‘It is now or never. I’ll be gone for four weeks. I need a week to set things up, then you can take your opportunity.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your deadline, your window of opportunity, will end exactly midnight today in four weeks, do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Repeat it.’

  ‘I got it. Four weeks today. That’s August the fifteenth at midnight.’

  ‘And will you be going yourself?’

  ‘No, I am unable to leave. I am sending someone.’

  ‘You can trust this person? They know about me?’

  ‘Yes, I can trust them, it is someone very close to me. But she does not know about you.’

  ‘Her? You’re sending a woman?’

  Farsheed blushes at his amateurish error. ‘I am sending the best person I know.’

  ‘Fine, as long as she knows what is needed?’

  Farsheed nods.

  ‘Listen, if you are staying you should continue to come back here, continue to play chess,’ Boris says, smiling. His teeth are stained from past smoking; he has not smoked at any of the games. ‘You’ll have time to improve your game.’

  ‘In four weeks? Four years is not enough time to improve my game.’ Farsheed moves a bishop down the board but it is a stalling move, the outcome is clear. ‘So how will I get this name?’

  ‘I’ll tell you it in a minute,’ Boris says, and, seeing the young man’s surprise, adds, ‘I told you, I’m old school, and I don’t want any paper or electronic record of this information passing between us. For that reason you should remember it and tell it to whoever you are sending. No writing it down, no electronic footprints. You understand? The same applies to the email address you give me afterwards.’

  Farsheed smiles. Then he frowns. ‘But how to get it to you at the end? There can be no meeting with the person I am sending.’

  ‘No, of course not. She will have to pass it to me somehow, by midnight on the fifteenth. I will not be around after then.’

  Farsheed nods and moves a piece. He is an adequate player, judging by previous games, but these conditions are not ideal for concentration. In fact, he looks likely to be beaten in a few moves, four at most. To his credit, he realizes it. He picks up his king and lays it on its side, stopping the clock. He holds out his hand to mark the traditional end to a chess game. ‘Good game,’ he says, as they shake hands.

  They stare at the position on the board for a few seconds, as if to discern some meaning that they have overlooked.

  ‘What about you? Why are you doing this?’ Boris asks.

  Farsheed removes his glasses and looks up, squinting, thinking. ‘Sometimes, when everyone treats someone as if they are a criminal, they can start to behave like one, especially if nobody believes that they are innocent. They think, why not be a criminal, there is no benefit to not being one. It is like a prophecy that comes true because you behave in a way that makes it true. I don’t explain it very well, perhaps?’

  ‘No, I understand. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

  ‘Self-fulfilling,’ Farsheed repeats, nodding.

  ‘Hadfish Systems, in London,’ Boris says. ‘Repeat it.’

  ‘Hadfish Systems.’

  Boris nods and stands up. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I think luck should not be a factor.’

  ‘Luck is always a factor, comrade. The trick is to adapt to it.’

  Outside, Boris looks back into the café and watches the handsome young man, just a boy really, sitting at the table and sweeping his chess pieces into a battered shoe box on his lap.