War Torn (67 page)

‘Aggie, it’s not for long and I’ll ring you often,’ he said softly.

He stroked her hair and the repetitive movement was soothing.

‘I want to take care of you. I wish you hadn’t sent me away the other day, after the beach.’

She closed her eyes. She leaned against him. It was one thing to look at Adi Kasanita on a summery evening laughing with her brood of healthy kids and think that was how life ought to be. And another to send away your only friend when you were stuck alone in a small house with a sick child on a rainy day. She was sure now that she did not want Darrel to go.

‘Will you miss me?’ he asked.

She nodded. She was frozen.

‘I have to get to work,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be back soon, Ags. Take care of yourself.’

He carefully settled Luke into the corner of the sofa and this time
the baby did not object. Darrel bent over Agnieszka. When she didn’t turn her face up to him he kissed her on the forehead.

She stood at the window watching the beautiful car drive away. She did not permit herself to feel anything.

She switched on the TV. The screen was filled with British soldiers. They were wearing desert camouflage and streaming out of the back of a Chinook. This must be Afghanistan. Her heart missed a beat.

‘A new development,’ said the anchorman, ‘in the unfolding Afghan hostage crisis.’

Afterwards, Steve held Leanne so tightly that it crossed her mind he was trying to kill her. It was a moment before she realized he was trying not to cry. The thought that this big man had been moved to tears by having sex with his wife brought tears to her own eyes.

‘You can cry if you want, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I am.’

As soon as she had spoken, his entire body was shaken by the immense sob that followed. He held her as he cried and cried. When she looked at his face she saw the pain there. The pain of the leg he had lost, the pain of the new reality, the pain of all the hopes and possibilities that had been exploded in a few seconds under the hot Afghan sun. She cried too, as though she could carry some of his pain and save him some tears.

‘Life’s going to be different now, love,’ she said at last, passing him a third wad of tissues. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be worse.’

He nodded and put an arm around her. ‘I still love you. I don’t always show it but I do.’

She smiled.

‘And,’ he added, ‘thank God I can still do it.’

‘Oh, you can still do it all right.’

When she stood up to go and make them a sandwich she realized that she felt relaxed for the first time in months. If she fell asleep now she would sleep for the rest of the day and the whole of the night. Instead of waking up and tossing and turning for hours and then sneaking down to the fridge as though it was her secret lover.

‘Turn on the TV, sweetheart, it’s time for the news,’ said Steve. He sounded like his old self again.

She switched on and went into the kitchen. She didn’t feel hungry! She decided to go without a sandwich and just make one for Steve. She was reaching for the bread when she heard shouting.

‘Bloody fucking stupid bitch!’

She ran back to the living room.

‘You left the zapper over there, fat cow! Look, there’s something about the lads and I can’t reach the zapper to turn it up!’

He was roaring. His eyes were bulging with fury, his face was angry black lines.

She rushed to the zapper and dropped it.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he screamed. She picked it up and hastily turned up the volume. His eyes blazed as he turned away from her. He was intent on the screen.

Leanne sat very still. She watched the newsreader without listening.

‘. . . now made a ransom demand for the safe return of the American hostage, oil exploration expert Martyn Robertson. The Foreign Office has refused to comment on reports that his kidnappers are demanding as much as thirty million dollars, as well as the release of a number of Taliban detainees.

‘Martyn Robertson was kidnapped by insurgents in Helmand Province while under the care of a British Army escort. The army has issued a statement saying that every effort was made to keep Mr Robertson safe but members of his family are calling for a full inquiry into how the Taliban slipped through the army’s security net.

‘The kidnappers are rumoured to have set a two-week limit for the delivery of the ransom. They are unlikely to let the hostage live past that deadline.’

The picture changed, the story changed, a different reporter appeared on the screen. Steve and Leanne continued to watch, mute and motionless, from separate chairs.

THE
MEN
WERE
CLUSTERED
AROUND
THE
TV
IN
THE
COOKHOUSE.
Martyn Robertson was the first news story. There was a shocked silence as the newsreader announced the ransom demand and execution threat.

A grainy video was shown of Martyn looking miserable. He said he was being well treated and he read out a prepared text about the evils of imperialist powers in Afghanistan.

The watching men searched the background for clues to Martyn’s whereabouts but behind him was only a mud wall that could be anywhere in Helmand Province, anywhere in Afghanistan. The report cut to politicians from both sides of the Atlantic talking about their determination to free the hostage without giving in to terrorist demands.

‘That’s a load of crap,’ said Swift from 3 Section. ‘We should be driving around this area ripping the shit out of every Taliban bastard for miles around.’

‘Can’t we just go through the whole town looking for him?’ asked Aaron Baker. ‘He’s probably in someone’s cupboard.’

‘Why aren’t we
doing
something to find Martyn?’ people shouted.

‘And what good are fucking diplomats?’ asked Mal.

The OC was in the cookhouse with the men. He looked tired. ‘Secretary of State Clinton is making a surprise visit to Kabul. While she’s here, she’s going to talk to the Afghan President about Martyn.’

His words were met by silence. Finally CSM Kila said: ‘With respect, sir, that’ll do fuck all to help.’

Major Willingham was doleful.

‘I know.’

‘Can’t we find him? Can’t we go and fight with the fuckers?’ men said. ‘We’ve got to get to him before the bastards slice his head off.’

But the OC held his hands up to indicate his helplessness in the world of politicians and diplomats.

After dark, Asma escaped from the ops room to have a cigarette and join Gordon Weeks for a walk around the perimeter. Foreign Office staff, walking with their heads tilted back so they could see the amazing Afghan stars, kept bumping into them.

‘They get paid danger money to come to an FOB,’ said Asma. ‘It’s a fortune. But the first sign of any incoming and they’re into the bunker and down on the ground.’

Weeks stepped around a stumbling man in a smart suit and body armour.

‘Their greatest risk is falling and breaking a leg while they stargaze.’

She giggled.

‘God it is so fucking good to get out of the ops room! It’s stuffy and smelly and horrible. And so are all the officers.’

Weeks decided she had just paid him a compliment without even knowing it. Suddenly he felt happy. Happy to be with Asma, under a spectacular night sky, hearing her laugh.

Without thinking he reached out and drew her to him. Their body armour bumped. He smelled the hint of perfume and the odour of cigarette. Her arms were bare and the softness of her skin excited him. Then his courage failed. He kissed her on the cheek and released her.

‘What was that for?’ She was laughing at him.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

She laughed again and then they walked on in silence.

‘So,’ he began awkwardly. ‘Are you sitting there with your headphones on just listening all day?’

‘Yup. Except when someone nicks me headphones.’

‘Is it ever interesting?’

‘It’s enough to make me take up fucking knitting. I mean, why do we look at the radio when we’re listening to it?’

‘But are you getting anywhere?’

‘Well, it’s frustrating. I knew Martyn and I feel this sense of urgency, especially now we’ve only got two weeks. But there are guys in there who are treating it like just another bloody day’s work. It’s more about politics than about finding him.’

‘But do you hear anything on the radio that may lead us to him? The men all want to get out there and search.’

‘Hmmm. Depends how you interpret what they say.’

‘Because the Taliban speak in code?’

‘Their codes aren’t very complicated. But they chatter a lot about nothing. So it’s hard to tell what’s crap and what matters. There was a lot of stuff about a holy place today so the colonel’s convinced they’re hiding him in a mosque.’

‘Well, they might be.’

‘Or they might just have been talking about mosques. Because Moslems do.’

‘Any idea which mosque?’

She laughed again.

‘No. So if your blokes want something to do, they could search them all.’

‘FOLLOWING
AN
INTELLIGENCE
BREAKTHROUGH
WHICH
SUGGESTS
THAT
Martyn is being held in a mosque, the colonel has decided that every mosque within a one-hundred-kilometre range of this base is to be cleared and searched tomorrow morning,’ announced the boss.

‘So what will we do
after
lunch?’ asked Jamie Dermott.

Gordon Weeks said: ‘It is important to clear as many mosques simultaneously as possible and clearly this base doesn’t have the manpower. So troops from other bases will be taking part and other companies are being flown in to help.’

‘How many are we doing?’ asked Angus.

‘There are three mosques in the town by the base and each platoon will clear one. You will, of course, behave respectfully and politely. To you it may feel like any building to be searched: to a Moslem a mosque is a very holy place.’

Dave involuntarily glanced at Mal. He was staring at the ground, his face red.

‘Don’t they have to leave their shoes outside? Well, I’m not taking my fucking boots off,’ said Angus.

‘You can keep your boots on,’ said Dave, rolling his eyes.

The boss continued: ‘There is to be no shouting or swearing in the mosque. And, although we will have to enter with our weapons, we must avoid firing them unnecessarily. It’s a green entry so strictly, strictly no grenades. Plus total respect for any religious objects like the Quran, please.’

‘On training they told us that the Taliban store weapons in mosques,’ said Bacon. ‘Where’s their respect, then?’

‘They not only store weapons but they frequently fire from mosques. But that’s no reason for us to do the same.’

‘So how can Martyn Robertson be held in a mosque if it’s a public place?’ asked O’Sullivan.

‘Good question. Either the Taliban has to ensure the silence of an entire community, which is possible. Or he’ll be kept in a cupboard, room or underground area around the mosque. In short, we don’t know.’

‘Will there be many people inside? Saying prayers and things?’ asked Binman.

‘The operation has been deliberately timed to avoid the five Moslem prayer times. But there may well be people inside the mosque and we will have to indicate to them, very politely, that they should step aside while we search the place.’