‘Darn right it’s bizarre,’ she says, emphasising the word as if to extract its full meaning and filling our glasses again. ‘Want to know how bizarre? We fund a ten-year proxy war against the Soviets to bury the ghost of Vietnam, and a million Afghans die in the name of freedom. Then the Wall comes down and freedom says, “Adios, amigos, we’re done here.” Afghanistan drops off the agenda faster than butter off a hot knife and the Afghans are left to slaughter each other with the same weapons the US taxpayer’s been kind enough to sponsor. Bizarre enough for you? Cut five years till the country gets taken over by a one-eyed mullah supported by our last remaining ally in the region, Pakistan. Said mullah gets it in his cracked head to play host to a tier-zero terrorist who’s declared a global jihad against guess who? America. Secstate wants to climb into bed with the one-eyed mullah, just to see how the cat jumps. “We can deal with the Taliban,” she says. “Massoud’s history,” she says. Meantime she’s fine if the Russians and Iranians send him all the guns he wants so’s to keep the Taliban tied up. Pentagon says, “Engage with Pakistan, maintain the strategic relationship; Massoud’s a lost cause.” Know why we missed Obi-Wan in the cruise strike? Know why we fired a hundred million dollars’ worth of missiles to carve up a pile of fucking rocks in the Afghan desert? Because the Paks warned him. Our dearly beloved allies. Jesus Christ, ours is not to reason why, but how bizarre does it get? Rest of the CIA thinks we’re obsessed with a hot-headed playboy who’s got a fatal kidney disease and what’s our fucking problem? No wonder they call us the Manson family. We could’ve nailed the sucker last year, but the White House won’t give the go-ahead in case we hit one of his Arab buddies who’s about to buy ten billion bucks’ worth of F-16s, and whose government is, you guessed it, the chief supplier of weapons to the Taliban. Massoud’s strongest ally? The Russians, his sworn enemies for ten years. How’s that for
bizarre
?’
There’s not much to add to this, except that it’s consistent with Afghanistan’s mysterious power, despite being one of the poorest and least developed countries in the world, to affect the affairs of the world so disproportionately.
Grace sighs heavily, pours another pair of whiskies, and her mood recovers. A businesslike tone enters her voice. ‘We need to talk about those Stingers.’
She retrieves a laptop computer and brings up a collection of photographs, with which I’m half-familiar from my earlier session with H, onto the screen. The photographs are labelled to show the pressure-release valves on the weapon-round containers, which need to be opened before the missiles are removed. They also show the panel on the weapons where the lot and serial numbers are to be found. These need to be listed, she says. If there are really as many missiles as we’re all hoping, I’ll need to allow sufficient time for finding and photographing the serial numbers.
Once I’m in Afghanistan, a member of the TRODPINT team will advise on the situation on the ground before I move to the target. He’ll meet us before and after the operation and pass on a progress report to his American handler based in Pakistan. Another trusted source will brief me before we get inside the country.
She pulls up the documents on the screen, and I notice some of the security caveats on the Defense Messaging System headers. NODIS means that the distribution of the information is strictly limited. FGI means the document contains sensitive information concerning a foreign government. X5 is one of many declassification exemptions, meaning it all stays secret longer than the assigned number of years.
The photographs appear in turn. The first is of a thin-faced handsome young man with dark features called Abdul Sattar.
‘Speaks English, Pashto and Dari,’ says Grace. ‘I need you to check in with him before and after the operation. I need third-party confirmation that you came and went, that’s all. I wouldn’t trust him with more than that. Nothing operational. We’ve had him signed up for a year but you can be sure he knows some bad people.’
The second is an older man in his forties, with softer features and an oval-shaped elfin face.
‘Name of Hamid Karzai. Comes from a good southern family,’ she says as if she’s talking about Tennessee rather than Kandahar. ‘He was press officer for Mojaddedi in the jihad years and deputy foreign minister in Massoud’s government till he had a bust-up with Massoud’s intelligence chief and rode out of town. Seems he was pretty cut up about the way he was treated and hitched himself to the Taliban for a year or two. Plans took a bath when his father was killed by the Taliban last year and now he’s trying to take the fight back to them in the south. He’s switched on and some of us have got money on him. He’ll talk your ear off, but you can trust him.’ His brothers, she adds, have Afghan restaurants in San Francisco, if I ever get to craving a
qabli pilau
while I’m Stateside.
It’s Karzai who will receive the money that we’ve been asked to deliver. The tactical details are our business. Once we’re inside Afghanistan, Grace will liaise with London as and when.
‘Wish I could be there with you,’ she says. Then the steely look comes back into her eyes. ‘I’m counting on you, Tony.’
It’s after ten now. The effect of the whisky is pleasant and has anaesthetised the day’s earlier worries. I’ve enjoyed our talk and wish it could last longer. We walk to her front door.
‘There’ll be a car for you in the morning,’ she says.
‘Thanks. You’ve been good to me. I’ll miss all the cowboy talk.’
‘Wait a second,’ she says. Her hands move to her belt buckle, which she undoes hastily and begins to slide her belt out of its loops. A few seconds later I see in her outstretched hand a woven snakeskin pouch which contains a Leatherman multi-tool. ‘Take this with you,’ she says. ‘Darn useful where you’re going.’ It’s obviously precious to her and she looks at it thoughtfully for a moment before she hands it to me.
‘The Company’s lucky to have you,’ I tell her. We embrace. ‘Give them hell.’
‘Adios, amigo,’ she says.
The streets are quiet and I decide to walk and think things over on the way. I realise the secret world into which I’ve been allowed sits more comfortably with me now. For a month it’s as if I’ve been in conflict over the need for secrecy and the urge to find expression for what I know. But now the two are less at odds. The work is bringing me confidence, and I’m feeling buoyed up by Grace’s frank expression of faith in me. Her gift was not a calculated act, I decide. I take it out of its pouch and look it over. It’s an expensive version, well made and virtually indestructible, although only the Americans could design a multi-purpose tool without a corkscrew. I pocket it again and turn it over in my hand as I walk.
In the lobby of the hotel I announce I’ll be checking out in the early morning and have a brief conversation with the concierge, from whom I’ve earlier asked a favour. I’m tired and it’s time to get some rest. But as I head for my room I pass the lounge and my attention is momentarily caught by the sight of two women perched on stools at the bar. They’re hard to miss. The blonde is wearing a dress that’s open from her shoulders to the small of her back, and the black woman sitting next to her is wearing equally black leather trousers that look as though they’ve been sprayed on her extravagantly long legs. As I’m looking, she catches my eye and smiles, then turns back to her friend.
I think involuntarily of Tintin’s inseparable companion Captain Haddock, in one of his difficult moments, tormented by the contrary promptings of the angel above his right shoulder and the devil above his left.
‘You’ve got a flight early in the morning,’ says my angel.
‘You’re all alone and far from home,’ counters my devil, ‘and you can sleep on the plane. Life is short,’ he adds with a wink.
‘You should be tied to a mast until those sirens are out of earshot,’ protests the angel.
The devil wins.
I cross the lounge and order a top-up of whisky at the bar. A pianist is coaxing mellow jazz from a grand piano, and a dozen guests are drinking at low tables from white leather chairs and couches. The barman pours the whisky with a dextrous flourish and twirls the bottle in his hand as he replaces it on the mirrored shelf.
I turn towards the women nearby as if I’ve only just noticed them. They are both strikingly beautiful and look at me in unison. The blonde has eyes the colour of fresh lime juice and a finely sculpted face, from which she brushes a tributary torrent of topaz-yellow hair. The black woman, whose hair is drawn back from her perfectly oval face, has the smouldering look of a tigress, and is wearing saffron-coloured lipstick as if she’s pressed her lips against the soil of a volcano in her ancestral home.
‘Hello, ladies,’ I say, and a kaleidoscope of fanciful scenarios tumbles into my mind. I’m in the grip of that perverse longing for closeness devoid of intimacy, and my devil is suggesting a bold approach. ‘If I’d known you were both here I’d have cancelled my plans for the evening.’ There’s an exchange of smiles, and the blonde speaks first.
‘We don’t talk to strangers,’ she says in a tone of counterfeit coyness that suggests just the opposite. ‘But we might change our minds if you introduce yourself.’ She has a Southern accent which I inexplicably associate with sexual voracity. ‘I’m Summer,’ she says, looking me squarely in the eye as we shake hands. I resist the temptation of allowing my gaze to fall towards her chest, but it’s not easy.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I reply, looking towards her friend. ‘You’re Pudding.’ But the joke misses its mark, evoking looks of confusion.
‘Summer,’ I point to them in turn, ‘and Pudding. It’s a special dessert we make in England. The secret is to make sure the fruit is really ripe. You have to squeeze it without bruising it. I miss it terribly. I have a permanent craving for ripe fruits of every kind.’
‘Do you ever give in to your cravings?’ Summer asks.
This is a green light if ever there was. They accept my suggestion to move from the bar to a table, around which we settle into soft armchairs. I order a bottle of champagne. We chat for half an hour. Summer takes the lead, and the Tigress is sultry and largely silent. They can’t get over my accent, they tell me, so I make the most of that. They’re matching my innuendos as fast as I can produce them. The guests fade away, and when the pianist plays a final version of ‘Georgia on my Mind’, we’re the only ones clapping.
‘It’s getting late, ladies,’ I say, because it’s decision time. ‘What does a man do in this town when it gets this late?’
‘Depends what you enjoy doing most,’ says Summer with a lascivious smile.
‘Well, there is one thing I’m into,’ I say, ‘but it’s not really what you’d call conventional.’
‘Try us,’ says Summer, dipping a finger into her champagne.
‘Think I should trust you with such a private thing?’ I ask.
‘We won’t tell,’ says Summer, and puts her finger in her mouth.
The moment is definitely ripe to let them know.
‘Pond life.’
‘Pond life?’ They giggle uncertainly.
‘Ponds,’ I say. ‘Absolutely fascinating. The whole of life is represented in even the smallest pond. As small as this very table. Every kind of life is in it. Things that swim, run, crawl, fly, burrow and slither. I don’t just mean toads and frogs and newts. Everybody loves them, right?
‘Right,’ says Summer, exchanging glances with her equally perplexed friend.
‘Think of all the lesser creatures that people never bother to mention: water beetles, water scorpions, water fleas, damselflies, skaters, dragonfly nymphs, nematodes, flukes and tapeworms. They’re all there.’
‘I’m with you, kind of,’ says Summer, but I can tell she’s wondering where I’m going with this. Understandably.
‘But it’s right at the bottom of the pond where things get interesting,’ I say. ‘That’s where all the debris sinks to, where you find all the life that has no place in ordinary pond society. There’s a whole world down there with its own rules. That’s where you get the mud dwellers and the scavengers, the parasites and the leeches.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say. ‘Some of the creatures that live in the mud are actually beautiful, so beautiful you can’t really imagine what they’re doing down there.’
I’m watching their faces quite closely now. Summer is confused, but trying hard not to let it show. The Tigress is ahead of her and close to glowering at me.
‘There’s a family of parasitic worms, I think they’re called planarians, which produce slime that allows them to move over any surface. There’s little hydras which hunt by waving their tentacles around to entrap their prey. Then there’s the medusa. Surely you’ve heard of them. They belong to the Coelenterata phylum. They’re free-swimming. Free agents, you might say. Difficult to identify if you’re not trained to spot them of course, but unmistakable if you know their distinguishing features.’
The girls exchange glances again, and their body language is betraying their restlessness. Neither of them is smiling any more. There’s actually a frown on the face of the black woman.
‘There’s little crustacea. They’re very active. Nocturnal too. They swim on their backs and capture their prey with their legs. Imagine that. I mean, what creature would fall for that?’
‘We need to go,’ says the black woman, quietly but abruptly.
‘I do believe you’re right,’ says Summer, or whatever her name really is. The smile hasn’t entirely left her face, but it’s a different kind of smile now. Her lips are held tighter against her teeth than before, in the manner of someone swallowing a bitter medicine. The two of them reach for their handbags.