News From the Red Desert (29 page)

“Chayse, can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you, Sara.”

“I'm amazed cell phones work there!”

“Well, they do.”

“Listen, we've been going over the footage you shot.”

“Yes?”

“We think it's
fabulous.
”

“Good.”

“You are doing excellent work.”

“Can I come home now?”

“Not yet. I'm going to come over there. We've pretty much decided to shoot an episode on the base.”

“Which one?”

“Well, according to the episode map, the third. ‘Stolen Information.' ”

“What does the café have to do with that?”

“The writers are still hashing that out. Your friend the café owner, though. We definitely want to involve him. Would that be okay with the military, do you think?”

“Manager. Not owner. The only military I've dealt with has been falling all over themselves to make this happen.”

“If you get any static from them at your end, let me know. The PA officers I've been talking to at the Pentagon would be only too happy to clear up any difficulties.”

“Sure. When will you arrive?”

“I'm flying out in a few hours. They're putting on a special transport for me!”

“You don't have to go through Dubai and Bagram?”

“Direct from California!”

“Wow, the brass really are enthusiastic. What do you want me to do in the meantime?”

“Local colour, Chayse, local colour. Get to know as many people as you can. Become Mr. Issay's friend.”

Rami Issay and Rashid both held their breath when they prepared to open the crate marked
FILM
–
HANDLE WITH CARE
. It had been dropped
off at the café sometime the night before. Rashid Siddiqui inserted his screwdriver and pried. Packing foam spilled out and he reached inside for the heavy grey disks. He withdrew the first one he touched. It said
REEL THREE, SIN CITY
. They both sighed.

Rashid said, “Boss, I know this film. I watched a bootleg copy I found in the bazaar a few months ago. Frank Miller cannot be successfully shown in a military environment. They will call this pornography. It will be the end of the film series.”

Rami Issay held his head in his hands. “I saw the review on Rotten Tomatoes. I was told the
Stars Earn Stripes
producers might come tonight, though.”

“Well, you have a decision to make.”

Deirdre and the soldiers were lying in the shade of a stand of poplar trees that overlooked a poppy field. The colonel had put spotters and snipers at each end of the ridge. He was watching a video feed from a drone high above them on his laptop. Deirdre could see him whispering into his headset, but she couldn't make out what he said. He looked up and caught her watching and covered his mouth with his hand. He watched too much NFL and read too many spy books. No, she couldn't read lips.

Lattice was aware that he had not successfully resisted his temptation to take control of all things, always, and so he had forced himself to come sit with her. He would have much preferred to be watching the drone feed and positioning the spotters himself.

“Can you tell me what we're waiting for here?” Deirdre asked him.

“No.”

“Because you don't know or because you can't tell me?”

“Do you have a more general question?”

She sighed. “How is the poppy crop doing this year? That field looks healthy.”

“The conditions for growing poppies are nearly ideal. Which means there will likely be a record crop. Which is not good news. Largest crop
since 2001, anyway.”

“In 2001 there were no poppies grown, though, were there?”

His voice tightened. This was well-trod ground. “The Taliban had one of their spasms of ideology and, yes, banned the poppies. But they'd financed their civil war with poppies, and the war against the Soviets before that. They are quite okay with infidels becoming addicts. When it suits their purposes. Like now.”

“So are we waiting for opium smugglers to show up here?”

“I'm not advocating poppy interdiction as a strategy against the Taliban. It just pisses off the farmers.”

“Is this an ambush?”

“Myself, I wonder why we don't just buy the entire opium crop. The world needs morphine. And prosperity takes the spring out of extremism everywhere.”

“Have you advocated that?”

“I'm not going to say that at a press conference. It's not my field. But it does make sense to me.”

She thought about what he had just said. Did he think this was all off the record? He knew better. Was it her job to clarify the point? She wondered for a moment and then she decided to see where it went.

“Can you shoot likely opium smugglers on sight?”

“Everything that enrages these farmers has to do with the industrial army. Poppy eradication, which is stupid, the high-speed vehicle patrols through their villages, which are lethal to the villagers' kids and livestock, and most of all, the sheer, obvious presence of Americans everywhere in their country, years after we invaded. Every man up there,” he nodded, indicating the soldiers on the ridge, “wants to know when we're going home. And so do they.”

“Which will be?”

“Depends on how much latitude I am given.”

“What do you need?”

He looked away from the ridgeline and at her. “It would be a fairly short list.”

“God, you're opaque,” she replied.

He looked back at the ridgeline and frowned. He liked hearing that. She knew it immediately.

Chayse Simpson walked into the café. She wore a Black Flag hoodie with the band's name scrawled in white across the front. Her headphones were around her neck. She wore sunglasses. She sat down at the table beside the door. She opened her messenger bag and pulled out her laptop.

Rashid was at the counter, placing a tray of cinnamon buns on wax paper. He looked up when he saw the sullen American woman come in, but he did not interrupt his bun placement. Then he saw Rami Issay come in from the back and he closed his eyes, for the boss's sake.

“My young American friend!” Rami Issay called out, approaching her table. “What can I get for you? Would you like a cinnamon bun?”

“No thank you, Mr. Issay,” Simpson said.

“How about a mug of chai?”

“Mr. Issay, I sent the footage from the chess tournament back to our producers in America.”

“What did they think?”

“They thought it was interesting. They would like to meet you. One of them is on her way here now.”

“Would they like me to arrange another chess tournament?”

“No, Mr. Issay. Their interest is in the reality show. But they are trying to figure out what sort of role you might have in it, if you want to be a part of it, that is.”

“What are they considering?”

“I'm not sure what all they are considering. They did say they found you quite charismatic.”

“Well, that's wonderful. Are your quarters adequate for a longer stay?”

“Is there an alternative to the barracks? It would be great to have my own room and shower.”

“I don't really know. Myself, I sleep with the rest of my staff in the back of the café.”

“I see. So there's nothing you can do, is there?”

“I can ask.”

“Thank you for that.”

“How long do you think you might be here?”

“It might be weeks. Maybe more.”

“Well, you can have all the coffee you want, while you are here. On me.”

“That—” She caught herself. “That's very generous of you, Mr. Issay.”