News From the Red Desert (11 page)

“Kenwood, what's up? Why are you even awake?”

“ABC and NBC and the
Guardian
and
Le Monde
have all received huge leaks about the fighting there. Do you know anything about this?”

“No. What are the leaks about, exactly?”

“From what we hear, footage of helicopters gunning down civilians, footage of drone collaterals, incredible stuff. No one's published anything yet, but the talk is deafening. Have you pissed someone off? Why are we excluded?”

“I've pissed a million people off, Kenwood. But it doesn't sound like this could be a sanctioned leak. No one I deal with would have done this.”

“But someone still did it. Find out who.”

“There will be a lot of people trying to do just that, I think. Most of them with sidearms.”

And then one of their phones cut out. She'd blame it on his later, if she had to.

Rami Issay said, “I have a good idea.”

Rashid rolled his eyes, but only after he put his hand over them. “What's that?”

“I think we should have a chess tournament. Excellent move. An imaginatively used knight is truly one of the game's great pleasures.”

“Of course you do.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sometimes you mystify me, my young friend.”

“That is a well-supported bishop, isn't it?”

“What would we have as a prize?”

“For what?”

“The chess tournament.”

“Boss, this is Kandahar.”

“All the more reason to introduce a bit of civilization.”

“Boss, this place has had civilization scrubbed from it. Look around you. No one will thank you for your efforts.”

Rami Issay did not reply to that. “That was a truly good move.”

“Thank you.”

Deirdre watched the videos on the InformationIsFree site as her thoughts raced about the leaker. Who would do something like that? Who has even the vaguest sympathy for al-Qaeda and the Taliban? No one. And no non-American would be given access to those sorts
of files. Some pissed-off American, then. A missed promotion, a felt-to-be unjust reprimand of some sort. The signals intelligence people would be all over the original files, looking for signs of where they came from. God help whoever sent these out. She felt a kind of moral injury herself; she could not fathom why someone might have released these files. She had to get some of the other journalists to talk to her about this. She hated the press tent. Wankers. Whiners. Leches. Who among them would talk to her straight about what they knew? No one. Who would even pretend to? A couple, anyway.

Just then the terp she had patrolled with walked into the café. She stared at him for a moment before she caught herself and then she nodded. She wondered what he was doing in the Green Beans. Terps never came in here. The only locals in here normally were the baristas—though, hundreds of kilometres and a country away from their own homes, the baristas would be surprised to learn they were considered locals. Everyone in the café looked up at the terp, especially the baristas. He caught Deirdre's eye.

She waved the terp over. He came to her gratefully. “Hello, ma'am,” he said, as he sat. Mohammed walked over and he ordered a tea.

“Deirdre.”

“Pardon me?”

“My name is Deirdre.”

“My name is John Wayne.”

“I remember. Is it really?”

“Well, no, of course not. We use pseudonyms for the sake of our families.”

“Why John Wayne? Why not an Afghan name?”

“It feels less deceitful.”

“Where do you come from?”

“I would prefer not to say, ma'am.”

“You speak Pashto well enough that you must be from the south.”

“I thank you for the compliment.” He began to rise.

“No, please stay. I won't pry anymore.”

He sat again.

“Do you enjoy the work?” Deirdre asked.

“Yes. I am learning one hell of a lot.”

“What have you learned?”

“American vernacular. I learned English from textbooks the British left behind half a century ago. The Americans have always been mysterious to me. When I watched their movies, I always thought that they were speaking another language entirely. And, not understanding their language, I have not understood them.”

“Do you, now?”

“A little more than I did. I understand that they are as mystified by this place and the people who live here as we are by them.”

“Maybe don't tell your employers that.”

“I have been indiscreet. I apologize.”

“Not at all. I think you are right. We do not understand this place well. But perhaps you are part of the effort to teach us.”

“This is the hope. People who understand one another have less reason to fight.”

“Do you think if the Taliban were understood better it would be less necessary to fight them?”

“The Taliban are, as you suggest, extremists. They did many evil things when they were in power, and it is not wrong to see them like that. But if Americans knew Afghanistan better it would seem less useful to make war with the Taliban.”

“That might be another thing you should not say to the soldiers.”

He smiled. “The men I work with did not make the decisions that brought them here.” He noticed then how quiet the room had become. He had hoped it would be comfortable to come here and drink a cup of chai or play some chess. He leaned forward. “I should go, ma'am. It was a pleasure talking with you.” And he stood and walked quickly out of the café.

The tension in the room dissipated. Everyone returned to their own chessboard or magazine or conversation.

Deirdre's BlackBerry buzzed.
CALL NY
.

Just Amachai watched Deirdre pack up her notes and laptop and stride out of the coffee shop. Just Amachai was not as tired as she had pretended to be with the boy. That had been to entertain him. But it had been a busy day. Busy days were fine by her. Since she had arrived, six months earlier, she had saved fifteen thousand dollars, mostly in tips. She wasn't a prostitute, and never had to explain that here. Just not having to have those conversations was worth putting up with the dust and the dreadful food and the absence of a temple to pray in.

That writer-lady annoyed her. She never acknowledged other women in the room, and hardly acknowledged non-westerners, except when they came to take her order. She was here to write about the war in Afghanistan but, from reading her online, it seemed that the journalist considered it to be only a story about westerners. Except for how grateful, or not, the Afghans were for the labours of westerners on their behalf.

Mohammed came over to ask if he could bring her another tea. She smiled and said, “No, thank you.” She could see his disappointment—he had wanted a reason to linger. “Tell me about your day, Mohammed,” she said. He glanced over his shoulder. Rami Issay was staring at the chess board, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table.

“It was a little busy, ma'am,” he said, perching on the chair opposite her.

“Your English is coming along, Mohammed.”

“Thank you, ma'am. The new boy, Rashid, helps me.”

“Where is he from?”

“Pardon?”

“Where did he live, before living here?”

“Islamabad, ma'am. But he has travelled many places in the world. He was a student of engineering.”

“Stop calling me ma'am, please.”

Grinning. “Okay.”

“Where did he study engineering?”

“In the United Kingdom, I think. Near Massachusetts.”

“Not in Pakistan?”

“Maybe in Kabul.”

“Does he know Pashto?”

“Oh yes, he speaks it well.”

“He is Pashtun?”

“I don't know who his family are but he knows many things. The entire periodic table of the elements, for instance.”

“Well, he did study engineering.”

“Yes, he did, m—”

As he caught himself, Just Amachai felt a surge of maternal affection so strong she had to restrain herself from hugging him.