In the Light of What We Know (68 page)

I’m trying to figure out what can we rely on.

I see, he said.

But Suleiman didn’t look like he’d understood.

Epistemology without whisky is like a fish without a bicycle, I added.

Excuse me?

Is Maurice here?

You mean right now?

I nodded.

He’s out but he’ll be back later this afternoon.

Good. Where’s the driver?

Mr. Maurice’s driver, he’s with Mr. Maurice.

But I saw a car in the courtyard?

AfDARI has three.

Is there anyone else who drives?

There’s another driver.

He’s here?

Yes.

Good.

Suleiman listened carefully as I explained how we would get him a few minutes to see and, if possible, photograph the documents in the next delivery for Crane. Suleiman had mentioned that sometimes the men in the jeep handed him the parcel but only when they saw that Crane was already there at AfDARI. The plan involved getting the men to see Crane but preventing Crane from seeing the jeep, and then counting on the men handing the documents to Suleiman. The gate was central to all this, and Suleiman would have to get a driver to move toward it at a critical moment in order to force the jeep to move aside and out of view of Crane. If the jeep moved forward, however, the driver would still be able to see Crane side on, provided I managed to get Crane to come with me to the guesthouse. Crane, however, wouldn’t be able to see them without turning around. Timing was everything.

When I finished, so as to confirm we were on the same page, I had Suleiman explain everything back to me.

*   *   *

I waited for Crane on the veranda outside the AfDARI office. The plan might not work if Maurice arrived before Crane; it wouldn’t work if Crane arrived at the same time as the jeep; in fact, there were umpteen ways it wouldn’t work and only one way it would. I looked at my watch before opening the copy of Graham Greene’s
The Quiet American
I had brought with me and settled in for the wait.

Fourteen minutes later, Crane’s voice—
Let me in, old man!
—came booming across the courtyard over the sound of traffic behind him. The gate gave out a screech as it was opened and shut.

From the steps of the veranda, I beckoned Crane to come over.

Hello, big Z. How are you? Crane looked genuinely pleased to see me.

Just fine. And you?

His handshake nearly ripped my arm off.

Spiffing. Isn’t that what you Brits say? Hey, Sully buddy!

Crane gave Suleiman a thumping pat on the back.

Do you think we could get some tea? I asked Suleiman, who’d appeared on cue.

And, turning to Crane, Unless you want a beer?

You guys have
beer
? Crane asked Suleiman.

We don’t, replied Suleiman.

Forgive my faux pas, I said to Suleiman. Tea’s fine.

Suleiman left.

We Brits, I added for Crane, are known to drink a cup of tea from time to time.

There’s that British humor again. You guys kill me.

Crane, there’s a rather serious matter I need to discuss with you.

Oh, yes?

Why don’t we sit down? I suggested.

Tell me what you know about Bagram, I said to him.

Why? What are you hearing?

I’m supposed to meet up with the UN rapporteur in a couple of days, and I still haven’t got any word from them about when I can visit.

What I didn’t tell Crane was that since the last time I was in Kabul I hadn’t made any further effort to contact them. I needed to keep Crane waiting.

There’s nothing to tell—I mean as far as I know. Sure, there’s some kind of detention facility, but that’s about all I’ve heard. That’s an open secret, he said.

I probed Crane for a few minutes before Suleiman reappeared.

We’ve run out of tea. I’m just going to buy some, okay?

Fine, I said.

I understood that the jeep had just come, a little too soon after Crane’s arrival, and that Suleiman was improvising a sign for me to get Crane to the guesthouse, since there would not be time now for even a sip before the next stage. A few moments later, the AfDARI car in the courtyard fired up and the gate let out its shrill sound.

Crane, let’s go to the guesthouse, I said, motioning my head in the direction of the door to the office as if to suggest the veranda wasn’t private enough. An unplanned bonus: Crane will assume Maurice is here, and that he would take delivery of the letter.

I hear you, said Crane.

I glanced toward the gate. I was counting on not being able to see the jeep from the steps of the veranda. The AfDARI car was waiting as the gate opened. Suleiman did not appear to be in it. The jeep must have reversed to let the car pass and, in so doing, had moved out of view behind the wall. I had to keep Crane from looking that way but make sure anyone in the jeep could see him from the back.

I’ve been talking to Colonel Mushtaq.

It’s strange: I can remember that Crane didn’t react right away. Some part of me must have registered that. I realized only later that the delay ought to have puzzled me. At the time, my focus was on keeping his attention away from the gate.

Sikander Ali Mushtaq, I said. Do you know him?

I know
of
him, of course.

Of course?

He’s high up in military intelligence. Have to do your homework in a place like this, buddy.

What kind of place would that be? I asked.

We were nearing the guesthouse.

Goddamn war zone, he replied.

After you, I said, making sure to stop on the side of him away from the road so that as he looked at me he would not see the jeep. I saw the door of the sentry box open. Suleiman would be going to collect the envelope.

Inside my room, I walked over to the door at the back, taking out a packet of cigarettes.

Do you smoke, Crane?

That stuff’ll kill you.

When in a war zone, I said. Mind if
I
do?

Go ahead.

Let’s go out back. I sleep in here and don’t like the smoke, I said, opening the back door.

We stepped outside and I pulled the door shut.

Crane was squeezed between me and the dead black tree. He moved around the bush to where there was more space. I stepped nearer to the wall. If Crane moved too far over, he might catch a glimpse of the jeep. I needed him closer to the wall and to me. Lowering my voice, I said: Mushtaq had something interesting to say.

Excuse me? replied Crane, obligingly moving closer to me, closer to the wall, well away from the line of sight to the jeep.

Mushtaq seems to think you’re up to something and asked me if I’d find out.

And what did you say?

So you
are
up to something.

We’re all up to something, Zafar. Everybody here is up to something. I could ask you the same question. Why are you here? Why not wait until the UN rapporteur gets here, why not come here with him and then go to Bagram? You know they’ll let you all in then.

Why do you think they haven’t responded?

Maybe they don’t trust you. Maybe they think you might be working for the enemy. Heck! Maybe you are.

Now which enemy would that be, Crane?

What exactly did you want to ask me, Zafar?

As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to ask you anything. I wanted to tell you something. That’s all. I wanted to share something with you. Nothing I don’t know is any of my business, but what I know is what I know and I just wanted to tell you what I know. You do with it what you will. That’s your business.

That
sounded
like English—

You understand I’m not asking you anything?

Go on.

You weren’t born yesterday, Crane. You know your reputation. I rather suspect you even cultivate it—or part of it, at any rate. I think you like being thought of as a cad, a noisy, rambunctious cad.

Boy, you’re straight out of the nineteenth century, aren’t you?

But there’s a rumor, something you’ll want to hear.

Crane looked at me intently and I let time draw out over us, cocoon us from what was going on in the guesthouse.

You do plan to tell me, don’t you? he asked presently.

Apparently, you’ve been driving north to C
^___
every week, I said, and stopped there.

Again I let time draw out.

Driving is a crime?

Funny you mention crime. I never practiced extradition law, but, if I remember it correctly, there’s a principle you might be interested to hear about.

Not if it means you don’t get to the point.

Oh, I’m getting to the point. In fact, all of this is the point. In a way I’ve arrived at the point. In general, a man can’t be extradited from country A to country B if the crime he’s accused of committing in country B is not a crime in country A.

I went to law school, interjected Crane.

Excuse me, Crane. Did you study extradition law?

No.

Then I’ll carry on, if I may. So if, for example, he’s accused of drinking alcohol in public in Saudi Arabia, say, where doing so is an offense, then when he’s in Germany, say, he can’t be extradited back to Saudi Arabia, because drinking alcohol in public is not an offense in Germany. Of course, this parallelism shouldn’t be taken too far. You asked if driving was a crime. Driving on the left side of the road in the States is indeed an offense, whereas in good old Blighty it isn’t. Quite the opposite: It’s mandatory. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get extradited from Britain to the U.S. simply because the alleged offense isn’t an offense in Britain. The allegation has to be properly characterized, you see. What about the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act? Not quite about extradition but still a good question. There the United States is claiming extraterritorial jurisdiction. As an American citizen, in certain matters one has to behave overseas. You can see what a fine thing the FCPA has been when you consider that corruption has been all but rooted out of American oil and arms companies. But extraterritorial jurisdiction has nothing to do with whether country A is obliged to hand over someone to country B. What matters is whether what’s alleged by B to have happened in B would, mutatis mutandis, constitute an offense in A.

What the hell is going on here?

I’m getting to it.

Zafar, if I’m not being accused of committing a crime on U.S. territory, then all this shit about extradition is irrelevant.

That’s a good point.

Are you? he asked.

Am I what?

Are you accusing me of some crime?

In the United States? I responded.

Yes.

No, I replied.

Well, why the hell are we talking about this?

You’re right, Crane. I’m prevaricating. Fact is, I’m uncomfortable.

Just say it. What’s my reputation? Don’t imagine I haven’t heard it all.

Thank you, Crane. You’re quite right. I’m sure there’s nothing to it. Are you going to dogfights?

Crane looked at me, apparently quite genuinely puzzled.

Are you fucking serious?

You’re not? I asked.

You’re out of your mind, he responded.

You’re not going to dogfights? I asked.

Is that what you wanted to tell me? That Colonel Mushtaq said I was going to dogfights? I haven’t got time for this.
You
haven’t got time for this.

Crane took a step toward the back door of the guesthouse.

And the girl? I asked.

Crane stopped. He was now right next to me.

What are you talking about?

I told you, Crane. I’m just talking about rumors, doubtless untrue, but you should know or at least you might want to know. We have a mutual friend, Crane. You could say I’m doing this as a favor to him. Do you want me to stop talking?

Go on.

Let’s go inside, I said stubbing out the cigarette on the ground.

We were both inside, the back door shut behind us, when I resumed.

This is, as you put it, a war zone, and what happens in Kabul stays in Kabul, but only if you’re discreet. The fact that others know could mean trouble.

What others?

I started to make as if I were pacing, as if I were avoiding the question. I moved toward the door, the one that led into the small hallway that went out into the courtyard.

Others, Crane, I said. I turned and paced again.

Fuck this.

Crane, you need friends here. You don’t care what the Afghanis think. I can get that. But you can’t afford to become a liability to the Americans, to your own.

Why the fuck should I care about stupid rumors?

What if it’s more than rumors? What if there’s evidence?

There was a knock.

I went to the door and opened it.

Yes! I shouted.

My back was to Crane. He might have caught at most Suleiman’s face but would at least have heard Suleiman’s voice.

I’m very sorry to disturb but there’s a letter—

Thanks! I shouted and grabbed the envelope with both hands. With my back to him still, Crane would have heard an envelope being ripped open.

Suleiman exclaimed, No, sir! It’s for Mr. Crane!

Thank you, Suleiman, I said, shutting the door.

I turned and walked toward Crane, handing him the torn envelope.

Excuse me. Where was I, Crane?

I’ve no idea, he replied.

Look. Here’s the deal. Too many people know about the girl. If it gets out any further, at best they’ll force you out of the country. At worst …

At worst what?

There’s a war on, Crane; there’s too much to lose. A lot of people need the Americans to stay here—can you imagine how much money’s at stake? Actually, you probably can. These people don’t need the scandal of a U.S. senator’s son screwing an Afghani girl. The line between deniable asset and bloody liability is convenience. Your death is nothing to them. Nothing. I hate to say it, but from where they stand it’s the neatest solution. Clean, upright, square-jawed all-American boy fighting for his country.

Are you really looking out for me? Crane asked.

He smiled. He seemed genuinely tickled by the thought.

We have a mutual friend, don’t we? Call it loyalty.

Crane extended his hand and took a step toward me.