A Dying Breed, page 34
‘Mr Carver? Right on time.’ Brella was tall, square-jawed and intimidating. His voice, a deep Virginian drawl, matched his physique. William sensed they were unlikely to get along. He knew Brella would have no idea why he had been granted access to a detainee, and he knew Brella would hate the fact he had been. He knew, too, that if Brella ever learned the truth – that his corrupt superior had been paid two thousand dollars to make the arrangements – his synapses would short-circuit. The sergeant marched ahead of William to the reception area at the rear of the building. Three other Marines frisked William and tipped the contents of his bag on to a trestle table. Brella waited for William to pack his stuff, then escorted him through one more set of swing doors to the reception desk. At first sight the woman behind the steel desk looked like any receptionist anywhere – bored and easily displeased. But when the SOG appeared at William’s shoulder, she brightened. She stood and gave a neat salute, her hand catching a gooseneck desk-lamp on its descent, almost sending it over the side. She righted the lamp and tucked a few strands of blonde hair back behind her ear.
‘Sergeant Brella. I didn’t know you were back on base?’
‘Just back a couple of days, Gayle.’
William watched the woman process this information, open her mouth to speak, and then, with a quick glance at William, change her mind. ‘So, Gayle. This is Mr Carver. He’s from the British media.’ It was clear from Brella’s tone that William could not have been less welcome had he been from the Devil’s dining club. ‘You got him on your list?’
‘Let’s take a look. Full name?’
William gave his name and Gayle pulled a clipboard from a drawer and made a big show of running a polished nail down a list of half a dozen names. Carver’s name was first on the list, he could see that from three feet away, but she seemed to be having trouble finding it. She was either showing off for Brella or just making the most of her little quota of power. William didn’t mind either way. He followed Gayle’s finger down the page, reading the names, and when she reached the final name, Carver took a sharp intake of breath. He read it again to be sure and then questioned what the presence of that name on this list might mean; he realised that it meant he had to hurry. Gayle read Carver’s name back to him before taking a plastic visitor pass from a tray.
‘So, am I your first guest today?’ He tried to sound as casual as possible.
‘You are, sir. We don’t get too many visitors in here.’ She took a cursory look inside William’s plastic bag, smiled at Brella, and buzzed them through another set of security doors.
The detention centre smelt municipal – chlorine and camphor. The block walls were painted hospital green. They walked swiftly past some empty holding cells, striding deeper into the main building, their steps echoing in the deserted corridor.
‘What’s this fella to you, then, Mr Carver?’ Brella said suddenly.
William quickened his pace to draw level. ‘I don’t know him personally, Sergeant, but if my information is correct, you might have an innocent man locked up in here.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. I hope you’re treating him properly.’
Brella stopped and faced William, standing a little close. William could smell his toothpaste. ‘We meet the standards here, Mr Carver.’
‘Glad to hear it. So you never beat the prisoners? Hang them up? None of that?’
Brella’s neck reddened. He stared evenly into William’s eyes. ‘You have quite an imagination. Listen, I don’t know whose dick you sucked to get in here—’
‘Your boss—’ William broke in ‘—it was your boss, Sergeant. I didn’t suck his dick but he approved my visit, as you know.’
Brella sucked his teeth and spat his reply. ‘Mr Carver, I don’t care if God Almighty approved your visit. At this moment I’m on duty and in charge of this facility. You’ll treat me and this institution with respect. Understood?’
‘Understood.’ William had enjoyed sparring with Brella, but he knew better than to risk his mission by pushing the man too far.
They completed the last part of their route march through the detention centre in silence. At the far end of the wing they were met by a single guard in creased army fatigues, an assault rifle on his shoulder and a short truncheon tucked inside his belt. The guard saluted a little uncertainly, as if he hadn’t been expecting to see anyone.
‘As you were,’ Brella snapped.
William looked at the guard. He was small and unremarkable and yet there was something about him that made William nervous. He had dark eyes, a wet lower lip, and a name badge that read Kopek. Brella put his face hard up against the greasy glass window in the cell door. He was straining to see inside. He turned and ordered his man to open the door. Kopek gave a slack-jawed smile and unhooked a bunch of keys from his belt without comment. He identified the correct key without hesitation, unlocked the thick metal door and pushed it open. Brella went first. The cell was dark and airless and William smelt the prisoner before he saw him. Mr Savi was sitting cross-legged in one corner, his head lowered, his clothes caked in shit. Brella covered his mouth and pushed back past William in the direction of the guard.
‘I thought I gave orders to clean him up!’ he shouted.
Kopek stepped into the cell to take a look and at that moment Mr Savi raised his head. When the old Afghan saw the guard, he flinched like an animal and shuffled closer to the wall, arms raised. It was one of the most horrible things William had seen. The guard looked at Savi and then spat on the floor.
‘Ain’t my fault if he shits his pants. He’s got the commode.’ Kopek pointed to the metal receptacle by the cell door, a foot from a tray of uneaten food. William looked from these to Savi, who was shackled with short chains to the opposite wall.
‘Clean him up, Kopek, right now! Then bring him to the interview room,’ Brella yelled, a vein throbbing in his thick neck.
Half an hour later, the man sitting opposite William in the white windowless room looked if not well, then at least human. Carver laid the microphone on the table and pressed record. The sergeant’s embarrassment at the state in which they had found Savi had had a beneficial effect: he had reluctantly agreed to the use of a tape recorder. Although William had had to agree that the tape was for note-taking purposes only, it was a significant concession. Two mugs of sugared tea and a plate of biscuits had been delivered and William saw Mr Savi eyeing them, interested but wary. Carver took a biscuit, dunked it in his tea and ate. It was Savi’s cue to pull the plate close to him and eat the remaining biscuits quickly, one at a time, washing them down with large gulps of the tea. He finished his drink, tipping it high into the air, and then stared at William’s. The journalist pushed it slowly across the table to Savi and nodded that he should drink that too. He gave the man a few more moments to gather himself, and then spoke.
‘Mr Savi, I am a BBC journalist. My name is William Carver. I am investigating the death of Fazil Jabar. I need you to tell me exactly what happened that evening at your shop. It’s important for your safety and for the safety of a colleague of mine.’
The tailor’s story came in tentative but workmanlike English. Savi had been doing the final fitting for one of several suits ordered by Fazil Jabar and the politician had brought his son with him to be measured as well. The appointment before Jabar’s was with Mr Roydon, an Englishman, who had been back a number of times for alterations on a pinstripe suit. That evening, Roydon had had a black suitcase with him but had forgotten it in the dressing room when he left the shop. Savi had found it and placed it close to the door, expecting his customer to come back.
He couldn’t remember the bomb going off. He worked out afterwards that he had been at the rear of the shop measuring Jabar, who must have taken more of the force of the blast though obviously not as much as the boy or the bodyguard, who were in the front. Savi could remember opening his eyes and seeing Fazil Jabar lying on the floor, close to him. He was moving a little. Then he saw Mr Roydon. He assumed he had come to help and he was about to call out when Roydon took a gun from inside his jacket pocket, knelt down and shot Jabar in the side of the head.
The fitting room was filling with smoke and he couldn’t remember much after that, but he thought he must have passed out. When he woke, he was trapped inside a bag. He was helped out and cleaned up by some American soldiers, but then handed over to an Englishman.
‘What kind of Englishman? Army?’
‘I am not certain, sir, but not Army, I think. He said there had been a big mistake. He promised compensation, money, an apology. He said I needed to be kept somewhere safe for a time. And he brought me to this place. And. And then—’
Carver nodded. He glanced at the door. It was still closed, and the green light on his MiniDisc was steady. ‘But this man. He didn’t give you a name, Mr Savi, not even a first name?’
‘No, sir, he did not.’
‘But he was definitely English?’
‘Yes. English voice. And English clothes, good clothes. A lounge suit, good quality, and a hat, a panama hat.’
Ambassador Lever was walking into reception just as William was leaving. His look of shock and guilt shaded almost immediately to one of resignation. William felt he saw each emotion with perfect clarity. He also saw Lever’s right hand move without conscious thought to the pocket of his suit jacket. He wondered what was in that pocket. Pills? A needle? Lever would surely choose the most painless method to kill a man. The most polite way. The hand left the pocket now and was offered up in greeting. William shook it.
‘Mr Carver. How good to see you. Am I right in thinking you’ve found another piece of that jigsaw you were working on?’
‘I have, Ambassador, yes.’ William held the diplomat’s gaze.
‘And how is Mr Savi?’
William was only willing to go so far with this game. ‘I’ve recorded an interview with him, Ambassador. I have the whole story, on the record, on tape.’ He lifted up the plastic bag containing the tape machine and his notes.
Lever stared. ‘I see, yes. I understand.’
‘I hope so. Mr Savi’s words will soon be available for the world to hear, whether or not Mr Savi is able to repeat them.’
There was a pause, neither man knowing what to say next.
Eventually the receptionist broke the silence. ‘Here you are, sir, you’re all good to go.’ Gayle offered Lever a plastic security badge.
Lever turned and smiled kindly at the young woman. ‘Oh, thank you. But do you know what? I shan’t be needing it now. You see, Mr Carver’s visit makes mine entirely superfluous.’
Brella and Gayle looked at the two visitors, slightly perplexed. The Ambassador was turning to leave. William followed.
‘Can I walk with you, Ambassador?’
‘By all means, Mr Carver,’ said Lever, as though he’d hoped William might ask. They walked for a time, past the coils of razor wire and blast-proof sandbags, neither man uttering a word. The Ambassador was bareheaded today despite the intense heat.
‘So, how’s that puzzle of yours looking now?’
William glanced sideways at Lever. ‘It’s coming together. Piece by piece.’ He paused. ‘The trouble is, I’m not so sure I want to see what I think it’s showing me.’
The Ambassador shook his head gravely. ‘Uncomfortable truths, Mr Carver. Remember our conversation? It’s your job to tell uncomfortable stories. No room for sentiment. You should do it soon, I think, tell the world. No more delay.’
‘I could go to air with the Fazil Jabar story now. It wouldn’t be the whole story but it would be something.’
‘I’m sure it would be riveting. Prize-winning or game-changing or whatever matters to you fellows these days. You should go ahead.’
William looked again at the Ambassador’s profile, the thinning hair, the weak chin. He wondered if he knew what he was asking. If nothing else, broadcasting what William knew about the killing of Jabar would end Lever’s career. ‘There would be consequences.’
The Ambassador gave a short snort of laughter. ‘But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? What’s the point of journalism if there are no consequences? Are you telling me you would rather tell inconsequential stories?’
‘No.’
‘No, of course not. There was a time, Mr Carver, when I thought that the greatest good for the greatest number would be served by you staying silent. I’m no longer of that opinion.’
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that the scales have been lifted from my eyes. I’ve changed my mind. I think you should let people know what’s going on here. Post-haste.’
Carver swapped the carrier bag from right hand to left. The sentry gate was only metres away now and beyond it, the Ambassador’s waiting Land Rover. ‘I don’t think I’m going to do that yet.’
The Ambassador stopped in his tracks; his dust-covered brogues kicked up a little swirl of dirt and sand. ‘Why on earth not?’ he half snapped, surprising William and himself.
Carver raised the plastic bag and waved it gently as though attempting to guess its weight. ‘This information is the only card I have to play with Patrick’s kidnappers.’
The look Lever gave him was one of genuine disbelief. ‘What? You’re not still planning on attending this rendezvous or exchange or whatever the hell it is?’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘But you do have a choice. The operation to release Reid will go ahead, with or without you. And I’m pretty sure the outcome will be the same whether you’re there or not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean they will either free Patrick Reid or they won’t. You being there won’t make a jot of difference.’
‘I don’t agree. The men that took Patrick want information from me and I’ve got it now. It’s a chance I have to take. I put Patrick where he is now. I’ve already got Karim on my conscience.’
‘Nonsense.’ Lever stared at the floor, then at Carver’s plastic bag and the bulging black brick of a recorder that weighed it down. ‘Karim would want you to go ahead and tell the story. Wouldn’t he? So would Patrick.’
William half nodded. ‘Maybe. You may be right, Ambassador. But you’re forgetting your Bonhöffer.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your man Bonhöffer, you remember? “To save one life is to save the world entire.” That’s how it goes, isn’t it?’
Lever looked suddenly much older, his face dusty from the day’s journey, tired and lined. He managed a thin smile. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s how it goes. To save one life. The hard part is deciding which life to save.’
The Ambassador’s driver opened the Land Rover’s rear door and Lever climbed in. William watched as the four-by-four drove off, a cloud of dust billowing up behind. He kept his eyes focused on the rear window, but Lever didn’t look back.
By the time William had trudged back to his quarters, collected his bags and reached the departure building, the Ambassador was long gone. At the transport office a surly lieutenant told him that his transport back to Kabul could not leave for several hours. ‘… And they’ve just set fire to the shitters. So you might want to cover your nose.’
There were VIPs on the move and after that Bagram was hosting a service of repatriation for an officer of the Yorkshire Regiment who had been killed while mentoring an Afghan National Army unit nearby. The base was locked down. William made the most of the time. He found a quiet corner and listened again to his interview with Savi, transcribing it as he went in spiderish script. Time passed and eventually he was told that he could hitch a lift out shortly. He was ushered across the airstrip in time to witness some of the Repatriation Service. A padre, in battledress and bands, stood completely still, prayer book in hand, in front of a lectern and ten or twelve lines of soldiers. Carver recognised fighting men and women representing several different British regiments as well as Americans, Danes, Estonians. Some soldiers were dressed in full military regalia, others wore combat camouflage. At the back of the group stood mechanics and technicians in overalls. All stood straight and silent. Silent too were the giant transporter planes, American helicopter gunships, Chinooks and every other piece of American and Allied hardware that usually made the airstrip a deafening place. They had all fallen silent as a mark of respect for one man. The man in question was lying inside a flag-bound coffin on a metal gurney just a few feet from the lectern. The padre was speaking now, through a scratchy PA system, and William moved closer, straining to catch what was being said.
‘They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them …’ And then a single soldier marched from out of the ranks and stood alongside the padre. He lifted a bugle to his mouth and played a note-perfect Last Post and Reveille.
William jumped as an RAF Hercules standing nearby suddenly started its engines and slowly backed up until its rear ramp was within feet of the coffin and gurney. A six-man bearer party came forward and lifted the dead man to shoulder height. They waited for the padre to join them and then marched their cargo up the ramp, out of the afternoon sun and into the dark hold. As the plane doors closed, some of the soldiers drifted away but the core of the ramp ceremony stayed and Carver did likewise. He watched the plane taxi up the long runway before taking off straight into the sun. Still the padre and soldiers stood and William followed their gaze skywards. He saw the Hercules climb and then turn slowly back in the direction of Bagram, as though the pilot had changed his mind and was planning to land again. William watched mystified as the giant aircraft flew low and fast, back over the black tarmac. As it passed, the mighty plane dipped its starboard wing in tribute to the fallen soldier and to the comrades he had left behind.
