The Girl in Green (30 page)

These people have never been so close, have never been so real to her, as they are right now.

‘Come, I want you to meet Ayman,' Miguel says, in a voice he might use when pointing out Barcelona's hippest shoe stores. ‘Ayman is six, and his English is wonderful. He is the best student in the MRE class.'

‘The what?'

‘Mine risk education. These are the educational activities aimed at reducing the risk of injury from mines and unexploded ordnance by raising awareness and promoting behavioural change through public-information campaigns, education, and training, and liaison with communities.'

Miguel says this in the singsong and faraway lilt of aeroplane cabin crews running through safety procedures. It is entirely possible he didn't hear his own answer — it is that automatic.

‘Here, come in,' he says, turning a corner when they arrive at a tent that, to Charlotte, is indistinguishable from any other. Miguel knocks on the pole that holds it up. A woman in a purple scarf nods to Miguel and smiles. She also smiles to Head of Charlotte, and does not seem surprised by the contraption.

Inside the tent is a boy — Ayman — who is waving to her from the floor where he was, until she interrupted him, colouring something with his stubby crayons. With the new audience, and his friend Miguel there to see him, Ayman reaches into a pile of comic books, and takes a colouring book that he holds up to Head of Charlotte.

At first she doesn't understand what she's seeing. The image is clear enough, but it is an image so unexpected it's hard to understand. The colouring book doesn't depict Superman or Spider-Man, but shows pictures of landmines and bombs, and of children standing near minefields, with big Xs over certain pictures where the children are chasing balls past barbed-wire fences, where they will die. Ayman has coloured in the children and the balls and the mines the same way he has coloured in his favourite football heroes. He has drawn circles around the children who will live, because they have done things the right way; he has left uncoloured the children who have done things wrongly, because they cannot be helped, and their lives will exist from this point forward only in outline.

‘Ayman and his mother escaped from Syria after their town was attacked by one of the jihadist groups,' Miguel says. ‘The government arrested Ayman's father and said he was an insurgent, but he was not. He worked at an electronics store — stereos and televisions, and things like that. They have not seen him since. His big brother is also missing, and he has been very sad. But the MRE class is very nice for him, because he plays with other children who have also lost people, so he no longer feels alone, and it has helped him make new friends here and take an interest in art. He has made this wonderful picture of what his village looked like before the massacre. It is here someplace. Ayman, where is the one with the tall blue building I like so much?'

Charlotte smiles at Ayman, who turns away from her to rummage through a stack of papers marked by crayon scratchings. While his back is turned, she moves away from the computer camera for a moment and cries.

By the time she looks back, Miguel has taken Head of Charlotte outside again into an even darker environment. To speak with her, he has turned the camera around so they now face each other.

‘I'm sorry,' he says. ‘I did not mean to upset you. I did not even think it might. I suppose I have lost my common sense with such things. You must understand, it is very good that Ayman is learning these things. They will help him be safe and save other children. People have been putting information like this in cartoon form since World War I. I think the colouring book is new, but the logic is the same.'

‘How long do they have to stay there?'

‘Things are getting worse, not better. The war in Syria is not ending. Iraq is weak and getting weaker. These new insurgent groups have not touched us here in Kurdistan yet, but it is perhaps a matter of time. We are vulnerable here. There are no defences. The people will stay while it is the safest place to be. Then they will leave. It is the way of survival.'

‘Where is my father, Miguel? Have you found him? We haven't talked about this yet.'

‘Listen, Dr Charlotte. Something has happened. I only learned of it an hour ago. I'm sorry to have kept it from you, but I wanted you to understand where we are. Your father … he is missing.'

27

By midnight, they are asleep. Märta wanted to keep working, prepping, building out possible models, positioning assets, calling in favours, but Tigger and Herb insisted that the greatest resource would be a full night's sleep, their strength for the next day, and a clear head with which to make sound judgements.

Overruled, she went to bed. But she can't sleep.

As she lies there, she talks to herself in Swedish. It is how she prefers to mumble. There is no one here to talk to in Swedish. She works in English, and has more professional competence in it because so much of her vocabulary is specific to her profession: explosive remnants of war; unexploded ordnance; protection of civilians; international humanitarian law; small arms and light weapons; antipersonnel landmines; child soldiers; gender-based violence; development; humanitarian action; international humanitarian law; signatories; ratification; internally displaced persons; results-based management; impact indicators; logical frameworks; camp design; evacuation.

At home, they call it ‘charity work.'

God
, she says, remonstrating with herself for the insomnia. It's one-thirty in the morning. She's worrying like a wife whose husband is a POW. Her ex used to worry about her, though she told him not to and that she was very safe in most of her jobs, and at least as safe as any beat cop in the others. Now the tables have turned, and she has to play the woman.

Why did she agree to let Jamal drive?

There used to be helicopters at night. When the Americans were here, they controlled the airspace. They would have shows of force. The distinct sound of Apaches could be heard overhead at all hours. But it is not only the nights that are quieter. The workday is different, too. There are no civil-military coordination meetings. No arguments about CIMIC, and the differences between coordination and cooperation. No armour on the streets. No APCs.

Why did she let Jamal drive them?

It's now 2.00 a.m. Three hours left to sleep.

Shit
.

Only a drink will do. Why fight it?

She swings out her legs, wraps the thin bathrobe around her, and walks on swollen ankles down the tile stairs.

Brandy is what her grandmother taught her to drink to calm her nerves. She prefers Torres from Spain. She pours a stiff one.

There is a sound behind her. She turns, and sees Herb standing, without a shirt on. It is a wonder how some middle-aged men do it — look that solid.

‘Why are you up?' she asks him.

‘A text message. There's going to be an offensive tomorrow. The explosion on the road left nine dead, including four police. And the gunfire that followed killed eleven more. The security forces are very, very angry about it, and they have some new weapons from the US they want to try out. I don't know where they're going, but it's in Ninawa province and it's going to be aggressive.'

‘How do you know this?'

‘The UN Department for Safety and Security just raised the security level to five. Non-essential staff are going to be evacuated tomorrow. ICRC is moving staff from Dohuk and Domiz to Erbil. I checked with some people in Baghdad.'

‘What about sleep?' she asks.

‘Sleep would be good,' Herb says.

The windows are open, and there is a cool breeze blowing through the security bars. The sound of wind through palm trees has always reminded Märta of rain.

‘I've been thinking, Herbert. I've decided that I'm not going to use you as our communicator with the hostage-takers, assuming there are any. I want to use someone local.'

Herb, normally hard to read, looks crestfallen.

‘They'll find you out, Herb. I need a communicator between us and the hostage-takers who can remain totally anonymous. I have no doubt that someone here is reporting to the Iraqi authorities or the opposition. You're a big, black American baritone. And you're the only one here. Your accent, your tone of voice — you're too easy to find. And I don't know what'll need to be said, and I can't put you at risk by asking you to say it.'

‘Märta—'

‘Also, I need you in the crisis-management team. You, me, Tigger, Clip. I don't like mixing the communicator role with the decision-makers. It's standard ICRC practice, and I've taken it on with IRSG, too.'

‘Märta—'

‘Plus, you now have that insipid US Supreme Court ruling that makes it illegal for an American citizen to be in contact with terrorist organisations — the “material support law”. You could be breaking the law by talking to them, because it could be viewed as providing material support to the terrorists.'

‘We're denying material support to ourselves by not talking with the enemy. It's a stupidly written law.'

‘Not my country. Not my law. But it's my problem if it exposes you to unnecessary risk.'

‘I'm going back to the sofa now,' Herb says.

Märta takes the brandy to bed.

Benton chews, and Arwood talks. The night is deep, and their prison is black. The bloody dress remains where it was thrown. There's nowhere else to put it.

Benton chews on Arwood's restraints, and Arwood talks to fill in the time.

‘When I got back, it was midsummer, 1991. There was this huge parade for returning troops in DC. I was
persona non grata
, obviously, not that I would have gone anyway. So I did what every American man does who returns fucked up from a war. I bought a motorcycle.

‘I didn't go so much Hunter Thompson as I went Bob Seger. The hair, the goatee, the swagger, the classic-rock-only mentality, disco sucks, feel uncomfortable in roadhouse bars — that sort of thing. Got an open-faced helmet so I could be slapped in the face by the future. I called my bike the Sopwith Camel. You know, because of Snoopy. Didn't learn until 1996 that it was actually an aeroplane from World War I. How are you supposed to know things like that? Thought the guy who told me was pulling my leg. He swore he wasn't. Told me not to feel bad. Told me that whenever he heard “Woodstock” he immediately thought of the cartoon, not the concert. You meet people like that on the road. It occurred to me after a while that maybe I needed a girl.'

Benton isn't listening. He continues with his degrading work. For the first hour, while Arwood was talking, Benton wasn't sure whether he was making any progress at all. The plastic became warm and pliant, but didn't shear. It seemed to be made of fibres, rather than plastic. His lower incisor became instrumental. He thought he could hear tiny fibres breaking every few minutes, but maybe they were only saliva bubbles. All this chewing and salivating meant a loss of liquid, and he started to get thirsty, which made him impatient and frustrated. The only reason he was able to continue like this was that it was better than being terrified.

Arwood is digressing from his previous tangent to discuss classic rock-and-roll and the merits of a band called Kansas, which is easy for Benton to ignore. At some point, when the frustration reaches a peak, he says, ‘Arwood, you need to try twisting and moving it around. It might respond to some shearing force.'

Arwood tries this, and finds that it does not prevent him from talking.

‘I stayed in Bozeman, Montana, for a while,' he says, returning to the earlier topic. ‘It's a little desolate, but I like it there. Nice people, good air. Food was better than you'd expect. Eventually, they invented the mobile phone, and I became the Once-ler. You know
The Lorax
? Well, anyway … oh, baby, oh, how my business did grow. I went on the road for years. I left America. I was gone when the Trade Center went down. Saw it on TV in Italy. I remember the first line in the Italian paper. It said, “Today we are all Americans.” No shit. It really said that. I cried my eyes out. It said that sort of thing everywhere in Europe.
Le Monde
,
El Pa
í
s
. Every major paper. But America didn't thank them. You know who doesn't say thank you to a person who extends a hand when the going gets tough? I'll tell you who: an alcoholic. And not just any alcoholic: one who thinks he's better than other alcoholics, because he's found God and stopped drinking and became president after a five-to-four split vote in the Supreme Court. The kind that knows how best to drive a wedge between people. So … mission accomplished.'

Benton stands up and turns. His shoulder hurts. His knees hurt. His jaw is so sore he is forced to whisper: ‘I think I softened it in a spot. It might give if you rock back and forth for a while. You understand that once we break these, they'll know? You can't put them back on. And there may be consequences.'

Though the room is exquisitely dark, Benton feels as though he can see the expression of bewilderment on Arwood's face. Through that darkness, Arwood says, ‘What are they gonna do, put us on double secret probation? I sort of feel like we're on the last rung of the consequence ladder. After this, we're headed for the mystery bag, if you catch my meaning.'