A Dying Breed, page 26
They rode on a few yards.
‘Children from many villages came. Boys and girls. I built it because my wife asked me to. This is where she worked. And where she died. You should never love anything too much, Mr Reid. It makes you weak.’
From this distance it was possible to have some idea of what the school must once have looked like; enclosed on four sides by neat dry stone walls and with a space for a playground at its centre, it was well planned and neat. Off to the right, a steady stream ran through what had once been an orchard and was now a collection of burnt tree stumps.
The General stared at the scene and smiled. Patrick guessed that his host was seeing a living, working school, not the burnt-out scene of a bloody massacre. They moved closer still and it became obvious that the classrooms and outbuildings had been well built. The fire had blackened and baked every surface but it had failed to destroy. Brick walls still stood and even some of the roof and rafters had survived. At the stone-wall perimeter, the General jumped down from his horse, tied it to the broken gatepost and walked across the playground. Patrick followed, and as he drew closer he saw the walls, pockmarked with bullet holes, and at his feet, shell casings, rusting green in the overgrown scrub. The General stopped outside one of the classrooms and put his hand on the blackened door. Looking carefully, one could still make out the decorative detail, carved into what now looked like a slab of charcoal. ‘This door was mahogany, decorated by craftsmen in Herat. All the doors were like this.’ He traced a section with his finger. ‘Passages from the Koran. About learning and wisdom.’ The General kicked at the door with a heavy boot. It swung on its one remaining hinge and fell with a bang, a cloud of dust billowing up from underneath. ‘You can do good things. That’s what she said. You can do good things, even with bad money.’ The General walked across the door and into the classroom; the tables and chairs had been reduced to half-burnt firewood but somehow the blackboard was intact and still had writing on it. Patrick moved closer, examining the delicate script. ‘Do not touch that.’
Patrick jumped. ‘I won’t. I wasn’t going to—’
The General was at Patrick’s shoulder; his eyes followed the line of writing. ‘You can look at it. But do not touch it.’ He was staring at the writing. ‘My wife, she taught the children poetry. She loved your English poets best, she read her favourites to the children and she would read them to me too.’ He moved away from Patrick, mumbling some lines under his breath:
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands
The men returned to their horses and the General brought out some food and a flask of sugary tea. They sat and ate in silence. There was birdsong and the sound of the stream, and apart from that, nothing. After the meal, the General tidied the food away and poured them each a metal shot glass of a thick bitter liquor. ‘My wife’s name was Gulbahar. It means “The Rose of Spring”. They raped her and then they shot her in the head.’ Patrick stole a glance at Doushki. His eyes were wet but he would not cry. ‘I found the men who did this. Six men. Me and the man you call Mirgun found them.’
Patrick waited. ‘What did you do?’
‘We tied them up and gagged them, then castrated them, one at a time.’ He finished his drink, winced and poured another. ‘We left them to bleed for a while and then we burnt them alive. They would not tell us which Taliban leader gave them the order to destroy the school, to kill the teachers and pupils. Maybe they thought of it all by themselves.’
Patrick looked at the General. The day seemed to have taken its toll; he seemed older and smaller than the giant Patrick had seen yesterday, rising from a copper bath. ‘And killing those men, it helped?’
The General looked up from his metal shot glass and stared hard at Patrick. He nodded. ‘Yes, it did. For a while.’
27 Hog Heaven
DATELINE: Intercontinental Hotel, Kabul, Afghanistan, July 7th
Carver was sitting on a beaten-up banquette at the entrance to the press hotel bar. He would rather have been in the bar but he wanted a clear view of the lobby. Rob Mariscal was already an hour late, and he was getting fidgety. He had a menu in his hand and was considering killing time with a second lunch. He’d had phone calls from the office in London and from Captain Remora telling him that Rob was on his way and he’d passed a message back saying he’d meet him here at the Intercontinental. William was, as always, early. He had dressed hurriedly in jeans, white shirt and jacket, and his laptop bag was slung over one shoulder. He hadn’t let the computer out of his sight since Patrick and Karim had disappeared. It sat on the toilet seat while he showered and under his pillow when he slept. It wasn’t just the pictures of Roydon he was protecting. William had written up every piece of information he had about the killing of Fazil Jabar and the events that had followed. He flipped open the laptop and reread the last lot of notes he’d made; they summarised his meeting with Chaundy. The soldier was convinced the gunshot on the tape came from a Sig Sauer, and indeed when William compared the wave form created by the bang on Ali’s tape and that of Chaundy’s Sig, they did look identical. But what did it prove?
Someone had fired a gun not long after the explosion, and the weapon was probably the same weapon that British forces in Afghanistan used. Richard Roydon might have fired the shot, and if he had, then the fact that he possessed such a weapon might mean that he wasn’t as ex-military as William had been told – but there were too many mights. It was all speculation. Nothing in William’s notes added up to proof that Roydon had fired the shot. Or even that the shot had killed Jabar. He had evidence that Roydon had been in the area, but again, so what? If William had the bullet, then he might really have something, but he didn’t have the bullet. And even with it, he would need Roydon’s gun to prove the match. He removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt tail. Who was Roydon anyway? Even if William could link him to the killing of Jabar, the trail went no further.
‘Tenuous.’ Tenuous was the word. Everything he had was tenuous. Interesting but inconclusive. It seemed to Carver that the most solid thing he had was his own gut feeling that he was on to something important. But that feeling had been wrong before – very wrong and not very long ago. Looking up, he saw the stocky figure of Dan Riley on the other side of the hotel lobby. He powered down the computer and slipped it back in its case. William took the menu from the table in front of him and raised it to head height, but the American had already seen him and was heading in his direction. The two men had avoided each other since their tense encounter a fortnight ago. It seemed Riley had tired of this game; the American now stood directly over William.
‘If you’re gonna hide from me, you’ll need a bigger menu.’
William nodded an unenthusiastic greeting and put the menu down. Riley was wearing his usual uniform of denim shirt and worn jeans. He was carrying more cameras than usual and he unshouldered these carefully and placed them on the floor. ‘I need a drink. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I thought you were on the wagon?’
‘I fell off. What do you want?’
Carver looked at his watch; he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. ‘A beer?’
‘You got it.’ The American strode round the corner to the bar and returned quickly with two tall beers. ‘It’s dead in there. Freakin’ barman was asleep on the counter. Where is everyone?’ William shrugged. ‘He only had that low alcohol shit, so I asked him to put a shot of vodka in these.’
‘I’m supposed to be working.’
‘So am I. Here’s to your health.’ Riley raised his glass but got nothing in return. Using his drink-free hand as assistance, the American lowered himself slowly into the seat alongside William. They sat in silence for a time. It was obvious Riley had something to say. But he wasn’t saying it yet. They sat and drank until, eventually, William spoke.
‘How’s that job with the Army going?’
‘The embed?’ Riley grimaced. ‘You can call it what it is. It’s an embed. Well, it’s all got a bit complicated, takin’ a good deal longer that it was meant to.’
‘How come?’
‘Well. That’s the question.’
Riley put his drink down and looked at his hands. William noticed a slight tremor. ‘I just got back from four straight days away. I was supposed to photograph the offensive. Up in the north. The final offensive they were calling it.’
‘It didn’t happen?’
‘Oh it happened. But it turns out it wasn’t final and it was mostly offensive to anyone who gives a shit about basic human rights.’
‘And that’s you?’
The old American shrugged. ‘Yeah, who knew? Me and the Army are having a little disagreement over who gets to keep what pictures. There’s some stuff in there they don’t like very much. I’ll tell you about it one day. But not today. You’ve got enough going on, I’d say.’ Riley took a long pull on his beer and shivered as the cold alcohol rolled through him. ‘So I only just heard about the kidnapping. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. Really sorry.’
Carver glanced up at him. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re close to the both of them?’
Carver didn’t rush to reply. He thought about his missing colleagues. ‘Close? I don’t know. Patrick, Patrick Reid. He’s new and I was kind of bounced into having him but we were getting along all right. He came up through local papers.’
‘Most of the good ones do.’
‘But this is his first ever send.’
‘Really? Poor guy. And your translator I think I might’ve met. The kid with the harelip. Karim, isn’t it?’
‘Karim Mumtaz. He’s been working for me for years. Working with me, I should say. He’s not just a translator. He’s a journalist in his own right. A good one.’
‘Well if you think he’s a good journalist then he must be a very good journalist.’
Carver gave a sheepish smile. ‘Thanks Riley.’
They drank to Karim and to Patrick and when their drinks were finished they decided they needed another. This time William went to the bar. When he got back the older man was fiddling around with one of his cameras. He had removed the lens and was blowing gently at the thread. Carver put his drink down in front of him and was about to make some small talk when Riley broke in:
‘William, before we go any further, I didn’t just wanna talk about Patrick and Karim. I also wanted to apologise for what I said before. For giving you a hard time about Iraq. I was being pompous and I need to say sorry and eat a little crow.’
He glanced up to see if William was interested in hearing this apology. ‘I wanted to say it before too many drinks went down.’
William nodded. This was uncomfortable for both of them.
‘Thanks. I appreciate you saying it, but the truth is, I only flared up because you had a point.’
Both men felt the air around them clear. Carver necked the rest of his drink and sat as far back as the banquette would allow. The American was a poor substitute for a priest but then William was a poor excuse for a penitent. He’d wanted someone to hear this particular confession for a long time.
‘I argued for that war. I wanted it. I swallowed all the stories the Iraqi exiles fed me, I believed the conventional wisdom, I helped propagate it. I even trusted the spooks and the official sources, God help me.’ William’s head was bowed but his eyes remained open as he stared at the floor. He felt Riley nudge him with an elbow.
‘Don’t beat yourself up too hard. It was a lapse, that’s all. Can happen to anyone. Hell, it did happen to most people.’
‘That’s true. But I wouldn’t accept that as an excuse from anyone else, so I don’t think it excuses me. I was naive and they used me. I let them use me. I let that happen.’
Carver scanned the lobby. ‘I think about Iraq a lot, you know. Too much, probably. I mean, it’s gone now, hasn’t it? It’s done. But I’m still not sure what upsets me most. That they took us into the war on a big filthy lie. Or that once we swallowed it and they got the war they wanted, they messed it up so badly.’
Riley nodded sympathetically. ‘You never thought of quitting?’
‘Not really, or not until recently, anyway. Just before I came out here, they called me in. One of the BBC bosses asked me if I wanted to chuck in the towel.’
‘Early retirement?’
‘Yeah, big cheque and an early pension. I said I’d think about it. I’m still thinking about it.’ He paused. ‘What’s retirement like? Would you recommend it?’
Riley gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Oh, it’s fantastic. You sit about all day doing nothing, play some golf, watch TV. You’d love it.’
William smiled. ‘But you got yourself down to Florida, didn’t you? Nice weather, new friends. That doesn’t sound so bad?’
‘Oh yeah, that’s true. I’ve made a whole load of new friends since I retired. The trouble is, I don’t like a single one of them.’
William stifled a laugh. ‘What about—what’s your son’s name, again?’
‘Harry. Yeah, I got lots of time for Harry now, but Harry doesn’t have a lot of time for me. He gave me three hours a couple of Thanksgivings ago.’
‘That’s tough.’
‘Not really. I wasn’t there for him when he was young and he’s not there for me now I’m old. It’s fair enough. He sends me pictures of the kids, two grandkids I got – boy and a girl. I get all the pictures framed, stick ’em up on the wall in the condo. I got quite a gallery going now. Can you stand another of these crappy beers?’
‘Sure. I’m sorry, Riley, this place is a dive. I’d suggest we go somewhere better but my boss is supposed to be meeting me here …’ He looked at his watch. ‘An hour ago. When something serious like this happens, the BBC always fly some suit over. Mariscal’s the suit.’
Riley saw Rob first. ‘Talk of the devil and the devil appears. I’m guessing that’s your man?’
Mariscal swept into the hotel accompanied by a clutch of other journalists, including John Brandon, who had been kept in Kabul to see how the kidnapping story played out. Brandon was in one of his many white suits, and with the bright Afghan sun at his back, he appeared luminous, especially standing side by side with Mariscal, dressed as always in black. Brandon reflected every ray of available light, while Rob absorbed it. William recognised most of the other people around Mariscal. The only face he hadn’t seen before belonged to a woman; long-limbed and angular with pale skin and a black bob. She was wearing khaki trousers and what looked like a flak jacket. Rob had an arm slung casually around Brandon’s shoulder and was whispering something in his ear – something extremely amusing judging by the look on the TV man’s face. William looked away. The group gathered around the reception desk. In time, Mariscal unhooked himself from Brandon and surveyed the lobby. When his gaze fell on Carver he grinned and waved, the wave becoming an urgent gesture signalling that William should stay put. Rob made his excuses to Brandon and company and strode across. As he drew close he glanced back over his shoulder before pulling a ridiculous face, a wide-eyed look of comic horror for William’s entertainment only.
‘Carver! Thank God. Save me from those fucking people.’
Rob grabbed William’s proffered hand and clasped it in both of his. ‘You looked like you were having a good time.’
‘I was crying on the inside, mate. Crying on the inside. They’ve been boring me rigid for over an hour.’ Mariscal looked at his reporter. William’s hair needed a cut and a wash too. His gold-framed glasses were dirty. Stubble had worn his shirt collar to threads. His eyes were bloodshot. ‘You’re looking good, man.’
Rob turned to acknowledge William’s companion. ‘Hello. I’m Rob Mariscal. I’m—’ He paused and took a long look at the older man in front of him. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Dan Riley. We met once before. You were with William in the Balkans. Or somewhere like that.’
‘Riley! I don’t believe it. I heard you’d quit. Or died.’ Mariscal shook the American’s hand vigorously before taking a step back and staring at this odd couple. ‘I need to take this in. I’m in Kabul with Carver and Riley, two of the best fucking journalists in the world! I’m in hog heaven. Hog fucking heaven. Have you guys had a drink?’
Rob didn’t wait on a reply but headed straight for the bar, leaving William and Riley little option but to follow. They gathered up their bags and the cameras and trailed after him. Mariscal had found a corner table as far from Brandon’s party as it was possible to get and was arranging three chairs in a tight circle around it. ‘Sit, sit. My round. I was feeling a bit jet-lagged before but I’m right as rain now. We’ll have one or two here and then go somewhere else and eat, yeah?’ He left and returned with a strange mix of drinks: two large whiskies, two white wines, one red wine, a half pint of vodka and three beers. ‘I got a selection.’ He arranged the drinks around the table and sat.
‘So tell me, Riley, what’s changed? Does Carver still pop off for a piss whenever it’s his round?’
The American laughed. ‘Ah, he’s not so bad. I remember he bought that big round of drinks that time. Biafra, wasn’t it?’ He winked at William. Mariscal slapped the table joyously, jolting the drinks, and William flushed slightly.
‘I’ll tell you what hasn’t changed,’ said William sharply. ‘You’re still always bloody late. Where have you been? Your plane landed bang on time. I checked.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. I got dropped at the BBC house, I thought you’d be there.’
‘I left you a message saying where I was.’
‘Didn’t get it. I dropped my stuff and I was coming to look for you but Brandon found me and dragged me off to some bar he knows, the Frontline Club?’
‘Yeah. I know the place. He calls it that. It’s got a proper name.’
‘He wouldn’t let me leave. I was stuck between him and that bird from German telly.’ Mariscal turned and pointed indiscreetly at the long-limbed woman who was already looking in their direction and threw him a dark look in return. Rob gave a friendly wave and the woman turned away. ‘I think she’s got her eye on Brandon. He was giving her the pick of his anecdotes. Some of them were all right. Have you heard his story ’bout—’
