Children of War

by Martin Walker

Freddy declined, blushing, saying he had a date with one of the girls who had checked him into their hotel. Quick work, thought Bruno, but his absence would make the dinner conversation easier. Gilles’s rental car map didn’t show the château, so Bruno lent Freddy his local map and marked his own house, the hotel and the château.

  ‘Fabiola will be joining us for dinner, along with Pamela,’ Bruno said when Freddy had gone. ‘I hope that’s OK.’

  ‘No problem on my side. Does she know I’m coming?’

  ‘Yes, and she sounded pleased. I know things didn’t work out too well when she came to Paris and if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But you can expect Pamela to quiz you, so be prepared.’

  Gilles grinned. ‘I know you too well, Bruno. You’re making out Pamela to be the tough cop so I’ll spill the beans to you. Don’t worry, I was going to tell you all about it, because I want your advice. Fabiola is the woman I want in my life. I’m head over heels in love with her and I just want to make it work. Do you know what happened between us?’

  ‘Not really, just that she was coming to see you in Paris for a weekend, apparently determined to spend most of it in bed. That was Pamela’s interpretation.’

  ‘And mine. And we did, except that we just talked, and held each other and slept. Somehow when it came to it, she couldn’t make love, not properly.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘She wouldn’t talk about it. I thought after we’d slept together, just holding each other, she’d be used to me and it would be fine in the morning. But it wasn’t. It was like she was furious with herself, which was why she dressed and stomped out from my apartment, saying it wasn’t me. It was all her problem. That was it. We’ve talked a lot on the phone since then, but she just refuses to go into it or even to talk to a woman psychologist. I asked some medical contacts and some female colleagues for recommendations, but Fabiola said she’d been let down by women like that before.’

  Bruno did not know what to say. He’d have recommended patience, platonic embraces and some female counselling for Fabiola but Gilles had already tried that.

  ‘Pamela and I are on your side,’ he said. ‘We think you make a great couple. Pamela says Fabiola’s in love with you, buys every copy of Paris Match, follows you on Twitter, has your name on Google alert so everything you write online goes straight into her inbox. Apparently it’s the modern way of romance.’

  Gilles looked pleased. ‘You forget the other part of modern love,’ he said. ‘The gym; that’s why I’ve lost weight. I’m trying to get into better shape so I don’t feel like a fat slob if I ever do get her into bed properly. This is the first beer I’ve had in ages.’

  He took a long sip, put down his glass, and said, ‘In fact, I went to one of these women psychologists who’d been recommended by a colleague at Paris Match. She said all the usual things, be patient, give her time. But she also asked whether Fabiola had ever been able to resolve what had happened to her. She called it closure. I hate these psychobabble words but I know what she means.’

  Bruno nodded. ‘It’s an interesting thought, but since Fabiola refuses to talk about it in any way, we have no idea what happened. Pamela thought it might have been a love affair that went sour, perhaps with a married man who abandoned her.’

  ‘I was hoping that maybe Pamela, being so close to her, could find out more and then we could decide what to do next.’ Gilles broke off and finished his beer in a couple of swallows.

  ‘I’m sure she will. Now, I’ve got to make some dinner for us. It’s going to be very simple: tarte aux tomates, roast pigeons with petits pois and then pears in red wine.’

  ‘So much for my diet. But it sounds wonderful. I stopped off at the cave and picked up a couple of those bottles of Château Haut Garrigue you recommended. It’s called Terroir Feely now and the wines have got funny new names. They call the white sauvignon Sincérité and the red is Résonance, but Hubert assured me it was the same wine. And he made me try some of the Château Briand dry white his daughter makes, so I got a bottle of that, too. Let me contribute those to the dinner, and I’ll watch you cook while you tell me more about Sami.’

  Bruno plucked four juicy pears from the tree as he led the way into the kitchen. To save time, he’d already bought some pre-made puff pastry. He scattered some flour and then rolled it out on his big wooden block into a rough circle, and put it on a plate inside the fridge to cool. He turned on his gas oven and set the heat at level six, picked out some of the best-looking tomatoes and put them on his scales. When they topped one and a half kilos he began slicing them thinly. Earlier, he’d mixed the juice of two lemons into a half-litre pot of Stéphane’s thickest cream, since he objected to paying the price of the mascarpone he should have used. He now mixed the thickened cream with about half as much aged Cantal cheese. He’d picked a bunch of fresh basil leaves from his garden, but never used a knife to chop them, always ripped them with his hands. He’d never understood the chemistry but metal turned the basil black. He added the basil, salt and pepper, and left it to rest while he carefully cleaned the pigeons.

  Cooking familiar dishes came almost automatically to him, so Bruno began talking about Sami as Gilles sat on the high stool by the kitchen counter, took notes and sipped at his beer. As Bruno mixed an egg, some soft butter and two chopped shallots into the ground pork that would be the stuffing, he described Sami’s life in St Denis and why Momu had turned to the mosque in Toulouse. Meanwhile he added some nutmeg, salt and pepper, mixed the stuffing together and inserted it into the pigeons. Pamela always maintained the stuffing was the best part whenever she ate roast fowl. Then he reached for the big ham that hung from the beam in the kitchen, and carved off four slices, as thin as he could make them. He carved an extra slice, a little thicker, for the expectant Balzac, who wolfed it down and sat back, looking especially appealing as he hoped for more.

  ‘Whether people at the mosque helped him go to Afghanistan, we don’t know yet for certain,’ Bruno said. ‘But they were responsible for Sami and they let him down. The schools inspector who gave them a rating of “acceptable” has some explaining to do. Maybe that’s another angle for your story.’

  Bruno began mixing spices and sugar into half a litre of Bergerac red wine as he described Sami’s voyage to Pakistan, and then his brutal treatment at the Peshawar madrassa. He grated lemon zest and ginger into the wine, added a splash of cognac, poured it all back into the wine bottle and replaced the cork. In his head he calculated the timings; thirty minutes for the first cooking of the tarte aux tomates and then another forty minutes when he’d turned down the heat to mark two on the gas stove. The pigeons would need about forty minutes at mark six. Pamela and Fabiola were due in about thirty minutes. Allowing for time for drinks and chat, he could make it all work, but he’d cheat a little by using a tin of petits pois rather than abandon his guests to make them.

  He spread the thickened cream and Cantal mixture over the pastry. Then he layered the sliced tomatoes, each one fitting over the next in a long spiral that ended in the centre of the pastry. He filled the final hole with some more slices, sprinkled walnut oil and ground some fresh pepper over it all and put it in the oven, setting his timer.

  ‘Given Sami’s limitations, he’s been enormously helpful,’ Bruno told Gilles as he washed his hands. ‘He’s identified people from photographs, at the Toulouse mosque, in Germany and in Abu Dhabi, in Pakistan and in Afghanistan. He remembers every place and date and the names of the terrorists who starved him and whipped him to make him work. The intelligence guys are very happy.’

  ‘Should you be telling me this?’

  ‘I’m authorized to say he’s being very helpful and cooperative. And if the Taliban know Sami, they know he’s got an extraordinary memory. That’s why they want to kill him’

  ‘Has he told you yet how he escaped?’ Gilles asked.

  ‘Not yet, but we know that he learned about the French troops from a radio he repaired in a village south of Herat. When
it was being tested he heard a news bulletin that said the French were at the Nijrab base in Kapisa, and that’s when he began to think he might escape and get home. Then he says he just slipped out of the village, walked all night, hitched a couple of rides but walked most of the way. One of the soldiers here who served out there says people like Sami are seen as holy fools, said to be touched by Allah.’

  ‘It sounds a better way than we think of them. When can I see him?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Will that work for your deadline?’

  Gilles nodded. ‘That’s great. This autism problem, how well does he express himself?’

  ‘His speech improves every day, and he looks better, putting on a bit of weight. He seems very glad to be home but expect very short and simple sentences. I don’t think it will be your usual kind of interview.’

  ‘Can I quote you by name?’

  ‘Anything about his life in St Denis before he went to the mosque, certainly. Anything after that, just call me a French official involved in Sami’s debriefing. You can also meet the American colleague who’s been sitting in on the debriefings, but you’ll have to check with them about sourcing. And it might help if you took along a CD of Mozart. He loves Mozart, don’t ask me why.’

  ‘What about this mysterious gas explosion they were talking about on the car radio? There were reports of gunfire.’

  ‘I’ve been tied up with Sami,’ Bruno said, shrugging as he loaded plates, cutlery and wine glasses onto a tray. He took them out to the table in the garden, Balzac following hopefully at his heels. Gilles brought his notebook and a bottle of the Bergerac white.

  ‘What’s going to happen to Sami?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Nobody knows. It may depend on the way you write this story,’ Bruno replied, opening the bottle. ‘You’ve got the exclusive, you’ll set the tone. Right now the world knows Sami as the Engineer, the ruthless bomb-maker with dozens of dead to his name. You now know it’s a lot more complex than that, but you have to make your own judgement. This may be the most important story you ever write.’

  Gilles was silent, looking away over Bruno’s land and over the woods and ridges into the far distance.

  ‘Jesus, this is a time when I wish I’d never given up cigarettes,’ he said, and fell silent. Bruno poured him a glass of wine but Gilles left it untouched.

  ‘You probably know that journalism isn’t doing too well, but you don’t know that they’re offering redundancy payments at Paris Match. If too few of us take the money and leave, some will be laid off. We don’t know how many, ten per cent, twenty, maybe more. Advertising is down with the financial crisis, sales aren’t great. That means, I suppose, that I need this story. It could save my job. God knows there aren’t many alternative jobs in journalism these days.’

  ‘Well, at the worst you’ll go out on one of the world’s great scoops,’ Bruno said, hearing the familiar sound of an under-powered car labouring its way up the steep lane to his house.

  Fabiola’s battered Renault Twingo lurched round the final bend and into Bruno’s driveway. Balzac galloped to meet it with his ears flapping almost as if he hoped they would turn into wings and let him take to the air. And once the door on the driver’s side opened, the dog seemed to soar onto the driver’s lap, and Bruno heard his friend chuckle as they watched Balzac smother Fabiola with affection. He was glad to hear it. So focused had Bruno been on Sami’s story and Gilles’s reaction, he’d forgotten that for Gilles the deeper meaning of this evening was his new meeting with Fabiola. Gilles’s fingers were plucking nervously at his shirt collar as if trying to adjust the tie he wasn’t wearing.

  Fabiola walked briskly from the car, a warm smile on her face. She thrust Balzac into Bruno’s arms as she strode straight past him to take Gilles in a strong embrace, her arms locked around his back, her face tucked against his chest.

  ‘I miss the beard,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘And you’re getting too slim. I like you a bit more cuddly.’

  Balzac still in one arm, Bruno leaned forward to kiss Pamela, but she took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly on the lips. ‘I find all this affection rather catching,’ she said, and kissed him again.

  At last, all four of them were sitting in the evening sun with glasses of wine in hand, Balzac scampering from one to the other and squeaking in pleasure. Bruno pointed to the sweaters he’d put out in case the evening turned cool, raised his glass to his friends and rose to head for the kitchen, where his timer had just pinged. ‘I must see to the food.’

  Bruno took a very dry cabécou of goat cheese from his pantry and crumbled it in his hands. He turned down the gas, laid a slice of ham over each of the pigeons and slipped the roasting dish onto the bottom shelf of his oven. Having scattered the crumbled goat cheese over the top of the tomatoes and then tasted the spiced wine for the pears, he decided to add a touch more cognac and ginger before heading back to the table on the terrace, where his friends were talking about Sami.

  ‘… even if he stays out of prison, Sami is still likely to go into a psychiatric hospital, not because it will do him any good but because that’s the least the politicians and public opinion will accept.’ Fabiola shook her head in frustration. ‘He’s Sami, he’s not this monster we call the Engineer.’

  ‘The point is that Sami is two people,’ said Gilles. ‘He’s both Sami, this autistic kid who can’t really be blamed for what he was forced to do, but he’s also the instrument of mass murder. Even if we drop this emotive name he’s still a bomb-maker. But from what you’ve been saying, Bruno, Sami is also a third person, an extraordinarily valuable source of intelligence.’

  ‘Are you saying that compensates for the bombs he made?’ asked Pamela.

  Gilles shrugged. ‘Probably not, but it must go into the balance.’

  Bruno headed for the kitchen, with a quick detour to the herb garden to pluck some more leaves of basil and one of his lettuces. He washed and rinsed it for the salad he’d serve after the pigeons, took the tarte from the oven and shredded some fresh basil on top. Finally he turned up the heat on the pigeons and took the first course out to his friends, where Pamela was lighting the candles and Gilles was opening the bottle of Sincérité.

  ‘I was just telling Gilles that if he wants Sami to open up you ought to be there,’ Fabiola said to Bruno as he joined them. ‘Maybe you should take Balzac. He loves that little dog.’

  ‘He’s fond of you as well,’ Bruno told her, slicing the tarte. Pamela handed him the plates, each in turn. ‘At some point the tribunal will need to talk to you as his doctor. Maybe we should both introduce Gilles so Sami knows he’s a friend.’

  Bruno described the two new members of the tribunal. Fabiola perked up at the name of Amira Chadoub, saying she had read one of the woman’s books on psychological issues for immigrants and had been impressed by it.

  ‘I’ll have the photographer with me as well,’ Gilles said.

  Bruno nodded. ‘I’ll pick you all up at the medical centre at ten in the morning. But now let’s enjoy our dinner.’

  ‘Pastry, cheese and tomatoes, it looks like a French version of pizza, and I smell goat cheese under all this basil.’ said Pamela, picking it up like a slice of pizza to eat with her hands and taking a healthy bite. ‘Mmm, good.’

  ‘Seemed like a good way to use up some of my vast crop of tomatoes,’ said Bruno, and then added thoughtfully, ‘Maybe next time I should add some onions, perhaps a little ham.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Pamela firmly. ‘Learn to leave something well alone. This is perfect just as it is.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Fabiola cheerfully, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. ‘And you can start cutting me another slice, Bruno. You can make this dish to get rid of your tomato crop with me whenever you want.’

  18

  Bruno had ensured that the names of Fabiola, Gilles and his photographer had been put on the approved list to get through the security checks at the château. Even so, they had to show thei
r ID cards and Freddy’s camera case was thoroughly searched along with Fabiola’s medical bag. They rolled their eyes when Bruno showed them the sports bag containing broken laptops and junked mobile phones that he’d picked up from Florence. Balzac was well enough known that the guards relaxed their stern expressions and grinned at the sight of him. One bent down to pat and fondle his ears. With a chill, Bruno remembered that one of the special tricks of the Engineer had been to hide bombs inside the roadside corpses of stray dogs.

  Nancy and the Brigadier came down the steps together to greet them. Despite the warm September day the Brigadier wore one of his usual dark suits and a forced smile, as though not happy to welcome the press but determined to make an effort. Nancy was in the casual pants and sweatshirt that she usually wore around Sami. Perhaps she suspected that more formal dress might change his response to her. Her eyes met Bruno’s and he felt that frisson again, but she gave him a quick smile and then braced herself as Balzac greeted the American woman as an old friend, jumping happily into her arms as she bent to stroke him. Fabiola observed this with interest and then gave Bruno a quizzical look.

  Introductions were made and the Brigadier handed Gilles a press statement that would be released once the new issue of Paris Match was published. His eyes skimmed over it and then he passed it to Bruno. It was a bland summary of the facts. There was something mind-numbing about official prose that could turn a profound human drama into lifeless bureaucratic verbiage, thought Bruno, but perhaps that was the point.

  ‘How long do we have with Sami?’ Gilles asked. Freddy already had one camera in hand and another slung around his neck.

  ‘About an hour,’ the Brigadier replied. ‘We don’t want to take too much time from the tribunal. He’s in the garden with his parents, if you’d care to follow me.’

  ‘Here, take the dog,’ said Nancy, handing Balzac to Gilles. ‘Now Sami will know you’re a friend.’

  ‘Doubly so,’ said Fabiola, slipping her hand under Gilles’s arm as they went through a stone archway. It led into a walled garden with a stretch of lawn, fruit trees espaliered against the stone, a long wooden bench and some chairs around a large table of sun-bleached wood laden with coffee and bottles of mineral water. Momu and Dillah looked up at their approach and Sami bounded toward the new arrivals, beaming and calling out, ‘Fabiola.’