by Ron Lealos
The bar held only the world’s best liquors. I stood and took the few steps to the metal racks, upgrading to fifteen-year-old vintage Laphroaig scotch. Neat.
Maybe Finnen had the key. Whiskey and beer. Or anything strong enough to reach oblivion. I rarely ragged on Finnen about his pranks, drinking, or infantile jokes. Neither did Dunne. Finnen had seen more than either of us and chosen his path for fending off the visions.
During an all-nighter at the Jalalabad base, Finnen told a story from his days in Kosovo. The CIA had ties with the KLA, Kosovo Liberation Army, a group formed to militarily defend the lives of Albania Serbs who were being ethnically cleansed by the Yugoslavian government. The Company’s goal was to gain information on the country’s president, the butcher Slobodan Milošević, and the movement of his troops. An asset inside the KLA provided Finnen with intel that two of Milošević’s primary underground agents responsible for the massacre in Racak were living closeby in a house outside Prizren. The couple was married and had been trained by Milošević’s brutal secret service division, the YPA. Finnen was given an assassination order.
In the post-midnight darkness, he slipped into their house only to find the two had separate bedrooms. After using a Hush Puppy on the husband, he crept into the wife’s quarters and held his hand over her mouth. Finnen knew she spoke English. “I just killed your mate, lassy,” he hissed in her ear. “After he was dead, but before he stopped kickin’, I fucked him up the ass. You know, the special place where courageous people go to celebrate. But don’t you worry your sweet self, I used a condom. Here it is.”
Finnen took out a rubber smeared with his spit and wiped it on her face. “Smell good? Personally, I think it stinks like shite. But who’s to question matters of taste.”
He pulled the woman out of bed and dragged her into the husband’s room. The dead man was naked and lying on his stomach. Finnen had stuck little Irish drink flags mounted on toothpicks in the man’s anus. He turned on his flashlight and showed the women his patriotic display.
“Now, you might be thinkin’ I shot him in the hole. Not true, unless you count this fine specimen of manhood between my legs. It was the head. See that spot a blood on the pillow? Anyway, I just have ta leave ya with a wee bit of advice, darlin’. Some day you’ll look back on this night and laugh nervously from your grave. A cold one it’ll be, too. Just remember the fine Irish spunk on your face and how I left your husband salutin’ ya from his best side.”
Finnen left her staring. He had finished his tale by saying, “I never shoot women. Unless I do.”
Afghanistan, the rock Land of Oz, was turning the three of us into people we didn’t recognize. I had seen Finnen weep, and it wasn’t caused by the threat of an empty bottle. Washington told stories no one should hear. And I had my own fears; women topped the list.
What bothered me most—what I had grown to fear the most—was that we all had such little remorse for the recent killings and torture. They were bad guys, period. I still believed we were fighting on the right side. No difference from when I first signed on. The change was the innocents. Collateral damage came easily off the lips and was simply passed over as just another statistic. Like spending three trillion dollars on the war in Iraq. No one has any idea what a trillion is. It’s just a big number. If I said, “If you spread dollar bills end to end, three trillion of them would reach the moon and back,” people would kind of understand and exclaim “Wow, that’s huge!” Looking at 3,000,000,000,000 was just a lot of zeros. “Two suspected Taliban insurgents were killed today in an airstrike that also claimed the lives of fifteen civilian bystanders” wasn’t even news—except if you were related. The important part was the “two” and the belief there was still a possibility of winning a war with no defined front in a land where no one but politicians wanted us to be. The dollars were being well spent in protecting the world from terrorism. There was no value in reading further unless you were the one who called in the strike. I had done that too often and wouldn’t do it again.
The macabre attempt at jokes was an escape from madness. Operation Enduring Freedom wasn’t another Vietnam War just because we weren’t killing Vietnamese; Vietnam was a conflict. Afghanistan was an operation. The time zones in Afghanistan are better suited to network primetime news than Vietnam’s. Britney Spears will never displace The Doors for emotional background music. Some smart Americans actually believed we were defending a democracy in Vietnam. Oil is always more important than rice. Conical bamboo hats hold out more rain than turbans. The list Finnen and I made comparing incursions came during another binge and was to avoid the day’s horror. On the way back to base, we had passed an M-1 Abrams tank that had been the victim of the new type of IEDs. When the gunners tried to get out of the burning tank, the hadjis hit them with an RPG. Bodies littered the highway, and grunts stood beside the corpses, helmets off and crying. Stupid gags and infantile inane attempts at humor were a deflection of the fright and revulsion. Beyond alcohol and pills, making wisecracks was one of the few tools available. Patriotism could no longer drown the visions of burning and bleeding flesh.
Washington and Finnen were asleep. I was trying, but too much had happened in the last few days. Questions remained, and I wondered if Herr Schultz was telling the truth. We didn’t have the time, and I believed we had been there only to make a preliminary evaluation. Or add weight to the message that the guns, dope, and oil play was finished. If Schultz kept his word, he would be a significant asset in further ops. Abernathy was of no more use and would have his life course soon altered. Sheik Wahidi was dead. The wild card was Dostum and how high the plot reached. If it was all the way to Karzai, it wouldn’t be my decision.
As I nodded off thinking of Khkulay, I knew Dunne would, one way or the other, provide some of the answers when we returned to Jalalabad.
The Gulfstream landed at Bagram airbase in Kabul, and we were met by a driver from the Company’s local station—an air-conditioned Chevy Tahoe, black, the CIA’s color. At least we would avoid a ride to Jalalabad in a stripped-down military hummer, and we would have no problem with the MPs at the gates. Bagram was its usual snake pit of activity with newbies arriving but very few bloodied vets returning. At least twenty-five models of planes crisscrossed runways in patterns that had to be hair raising and confusing. Avoiding the hundreds of vehicles dodging in and out would be a challenge. I watched in awe as a Globemaster barely missed squishing a 6x6. Washington seemed bored, and Finnen couldn’t have cared less about the bedlam out the windows. He held his head in his hands, eyes closed, and whined.
“Turn down the noise,” he said. “And stop makin’ fun of my condition. It’s the natural way of things where I come from, painful though it is.”
“No one said a word,” Washington said.
Finnen opened his eyes and quickly glanced up.
“Are you sure?” Finnen asked. “I coulda sworn somebody remarked on the way my skull feels like I got hit by a shillelagh.”
“No one said a word,” Washington said again. “And I don’t even know what a shillelagh is.”
“Those damn voices,” Finnen said, putting his head back in his hands. “Bushmills always brings the banshees out.”
“Did you take your medication?” Washington asked.
“I did,” Finnen said. “Came in a brown bottle and went down smooth as Maggie McGuire’s fine Irish ass.”
“I meant your lithium,” Washington said, a seemingly harmless attempt at humor. “For your schizophrenia.”
“Speakin’ of fun,” Finnen said, ignoring the jibe about his mental health, “is there a pub in this direction?”
At least another hour of the bickering before we were in Jalalabad, and all I could think about was Khkulay. Maybe it was just the longing for a gentle conversation that wasn’t filled with “fuckin’ spook” references. Or compensation for the absence of two sisters. Most likely, she was a life raft in a sea of blood. Whatever.
Finnen and Washington could start the debrief
ing. I was headed straight for the women’s compound.
Jeans and a white sweater. Freshly showered, black hair to her shoulders, peeking out the sides of her scarf and drying in the crisp Afghan air. Bush boots and a touch of lipstick. A smile so beautiful it could erase every other thought about treating her like a sister. A cheerleader lost in Oz. I stood in front of Khkulay with a million things to say. Nothing came out.
“How have you been, Mr. Morgan?” she asked.
Maybe next she would start calling me “sir.” I brushed my hand through my hair, knowing from the mirror that even with the premature graying, I still didn’t look a day over thirty. At least I thought so.
“Fine,” I said. “Been busy. Nuthin’ special. Just the usual business.”
I wondered if I sounded as much like an imbecile as I felt. We were in the realm of innocent small talk.
Khkulay continued to smile.
“Have you been back to the city?” she asked.
Now, which city would that be? Gardez? Jalalabad? Qalat? Kabul? Frankfurt? Kassel? I cleared my throat, hoping it was just phlegm that caused the blockage.
“No,” I said. “Stayed close to base.” Comforting. Lying helped. “Lots of responsibilities to take care of here.”
Her eyes went down, and the smile vanished.
“Yes,” she said. “The women here have been telling me you have a very busy schedule. Something about people on your dance card who don’t do the tango anymore.” She looked up. “Often, I don’t understand what they are saying. Is that a dance? Are you an instructor?”
In my limited experience and observation, the other evolutionary step women had taken was they couldn’t keep quiet about any male–female interaction, no matter how childlike. At least that was my history, albeit a possible overgeneralization. But female Company agents were the same, and I had witnessed their gossip sessions. They could be trusted with the most highly Top Secret information, but when they got together outside the office, the whispering was about who was dorking who. Or who might be. The female soldiers in Khkulay’s tent couldn’t overcome their DNA, and I must have appeared too transparent. The relationship, even if I was trying to be more of a chaperone than a beau, just had to be dissected. I scuffed my boot in the dirt and watched a rock roll away, not looking anything like a tango teacher.
“No,” I said. “They were making a joke. I think it had to do with people who aren’t responsible enough to watch their accounts. Offenders sometimes have to be called in and given a stern lecture.”
The smile. Just a hint of the sorrow. Sadness was as much a part of her as the hijab covering most of her head.
“Yes,” she said, “now I understand. Would you like a cup of tea?”
If she was inviting me into the tent, it was a major breakthrough. In her culture, it would be impossible and extremely risky for any man to be alone with her other than a brother, husband, mullah, or father. Dangerous for her, not the man. His actions were normal, and any blasphemous behavior was purely the result of irresistible feminine temptation and women’s ability to cast spells on naive men. If the tent was empty of others, it seemed the soldier sisterhood was already having a positive impact in giving Khkulay another perspective. I nodded my freshly shorn head.
“Yes,” I said. “I would enjoy that.”
Following her into the tent, I was amazed at the orderliness. I shouldn’t have been. It was the Army. Even though attempts had been made to make the space homey, everything seemed to be in a designated station. Uniforms folded or hanging from rope clotheslines in makeshift closets. No underwear showing, probably pressed and residing in footlockers. Candles hidden. Pictures stowed. Cots made. The differences were subtle and glaring at the same time. A small vase filled with fake roses. A mirror outlined with pink ribbon. A lampshade with a red veil. A Buddha statue connected to an incense holder. Small touches that softened the area and made it unlike the bare masculinity of a male soldier’s tent.
As I passed a small end table, I was surprised to see a book sitting on top titled A Treatise on the Virtues of Jihad. The name was written in Pashto, and no one else who came into the tent would have been able to translate the label. I had read the manuscript. It was a terrorist and insurgent textbook written by Sheik Abdulla Makdum, one of the supposed intellectual apologists for the slaughter of infidels. The thesis was a nonsensical justification for holy war and the killing of anyone who paid taxes to an enemy of Islam. Or anyone who drove a truck delivering food to anyone who might possibly be involved in anti-Muslim activity. If civilians supported a government like the United States, viewed as the devil’s own, they could be put to death by whatever means possible. Just for breathing. One of the most startling quotes was, “In Islam, there is only death or Jihad. There is no other way.” Fundamentally, everyone who was not a believer was an enemy, and holy war was demanded against them. It was all insane bullshit but also the most popular book in the insurgent community and required reading. It could have just as well been titled A Validation for Murdering Everyone Who Does Not Think Like Me. Then Dying. I turned the book over and inspected the blank back cover, putting it back as if it were a grenade with the pin out.
“Doing some reading in your free time?” I asked, pointing to the book.
Khkulay turned around from where she was lighting a small, single-burner cook stove.
“Yes,” she said. “Captain Meredith gave it to me. One of the soldiers found it in an empty building in Jalalabad. I have never read it. My father would not allow such a book in our house.”
Standing straight, I wondered if the gulf was too wide and it was already time to kill the fantasies.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She smiled but with her forehead furrowed, as if she were concentrating.
“It is always worthwhile to try to comprehend what your countrymen believe,” she said. “I think I am much closer to the situation than you. I do understand how the humiliating condition of most Muslim men has led to an inferiority complex that they feel can only be fought through the end of a gun or a bomb strapped to the chest. I do not agree in any way but have sadly witnessed the result of the beliefs. The attitude has also dramatically and harmfully affected women in the Muslim world.”
Fuckin’ A. A brain, too.
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows.
“You could be lecturing tomorrow at the State Department,” I said. “Your direct experiences and insights would be extremely helpful. You continue to amaze me.”
We both blushed. I tried to recover from being so rudely forward.
“You must have had many books at your house,” I said. “And many discussions.”
Khkulay looked down, sadness dampening her eyes. Another blunder; I attempted to make amends.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to remind you about what you’ve lost. I really came to talk about the future.”
The water was beginning to steam. She dropped tea bags into cups and poured.
“Don’t apologize,” she said, without turning. “I do wish I could get some of my books, but I’m afraid they may have been Yabba Dabba Doo’ed by now.”
A frown. This time it was me who had no idea what she was talking about.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “That sounds like Fred Flintstone. Is he popular here?”
A smile and a soft laugh.
“Yes,” she said. “Very. But what it has meant is that many of Mr. Flintstone’s words have become part of our culture. First, Yabba Dabba Doo was a way to describe US soldiers. Then, because of the air drops of crates and supplies into Afghan villages and the way they sometimes caused huts to be destroyed, it took on a bigger meaning: the ruin of personal possessions by soldiers or fighters. On either side, even if the intention was humanitarian.” She laughed again. “Some of the people who received the aid thought the meatballs in the cans of spaghetti came from horse droppings.”
She walked over and handed me a cup of tea. It smelled like jasmine.
“I mentioned it before,” I said. “Are you still interested in coming to America? I’ve spoken to my commander, and I think it can be arranged. A job. Housing. Everything you need. I could accompany you and help you get settled.”
She sipped and studied me. This kind of conversation would be totally off limits for her and filled with innuendo.
“I don’t have other choices,” she said. “If I stay, I die. There is no one here who will miss me.” She held the cup in both hands and rested it on her lap. “We spoke of this before, and I still feel the same. I’ve considered every alternative and am convinced I would like to come to your country.” She let her head fall to her breast. “It is not easy.”
Leaving a land where she couldn’t go outside and was jeopardizing her life by reading a book. A country at war with no end in sight. Didn’t seem like a tough decision. But no one was asking me to defect, and my need to comfort and protect her clouded rational judgment.
Having finished my tea, I rested the empty cup on my thigh.
“That’s terrific,” I said. “I think we could be leaving in a day or two. There’re a few more projects to be completed, but they shouldn’t take long.”
She smiled, and I hoped it was from the happiness of getting to go on a journey.
“Will I be working in accounting like you?” she asked.
Not likely.
I shook my head.
“Maybe with the same department in the government,” I said. “But in another office.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve never been strong with numbers. Like the women say here, I’m more of a people person. They said you had a difficult job because people often got real sick around you.” She looked at me with wide-open eyes. Concentrating. “Why would they say that?”
To be a successful spook, lying had to be quick and easy and have something of the truth included. I shook my head again and grinned.
