News From the Red Desert (23 page)

Rashid stepped away from the espresso machine when Amr emerged from the back of the shop. He had been working for fourteen hours and was glad to be relieved. Already it was hot, though, too hot to sleep, and so he did not immediately make his way to his bed. He sat on a stool at the back of the service area, winning an annoyed glance from Amr as the older man set about making the coffee orders he had taken. Mohammed emerged, too, and began clearing the tables and carrying orders to those waiting.

Between them, Amr and Mohammed served the customers quickly, and as the morning rush settled into a more manageable rhythm, Mohammed came into the back to wash cups. He looked at Rashid, still sitting and yawning, and said, in English, “How did you like your film the other night?”

Rashid did not immediately register that he had been spoken to—Mohammed hardly ever said a word to him. Then he looked up at the boy and smiled. “
Fight Club
? It was a bit of a surprise.”

“Had you seen it before?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew what was in it.”

“Yes.”

“Do you find that interesting? Helena Bonham Carter and her shame?”

Rashid laughed. “Who are you quoting?”

When Mohammed did not reply, Rashid continued, “Helena Bonham Carter is always interesting. At the very least.”

Amr shot him a searing look then and Rashid got up and went to his bed.

The coarse woollen blanket was itchy in the heat and he could not sleep. He nevertheless closed his eyes and pretended to, if only to avoid being given a task. These moments when he first got off shift, when Rami Issay was still sleeping, were the only empty minutes in his schedule. He found them distressing. They allowed him to remember.

This morning he replayed the moment when he was told that his student visa had been revoked. He had foreseen most of what would happen, at least in outline. Ms Johnson, the woman who called him at the rooming house, was efficient and crisp. She told him when he had to be out of the country. No, she was not privy to the reasons behind the revocation, she said, in a tone that asked at the same time, “Are you kidding?” The holes in Lower Manhattan were still smoking.

He tried to ask whether the decision was final, but his voice broke and she told him good day. He slipped down the wall where the telephone was mounted, the handset still against his ear. He did not weep. But he bit on his lower lip so hard he tasted blood. He knew precisely how his father would respond. His mother's dismay. He would not be able to live in his parents' house again. He would be on his own in Islamabad, a city he had so scorned on leaving it that it would be certain to punish him.

This is what he thought about when there was nothing else to occupy him, which was why he tried so hard to remain occupied. He was to have started his master's in electrical engineering at MIT that autumn. And now, for no reason known to him, he was on the American no-fly list and apparently the subject of ISI interest in Pakistan. There was no engineering career ahead of him. That future was gone. He had tried to conduct himself as if it wasn't. When he got back to Pakistan he went to his father's house and he was told that he would have to pay back the money he had been given to live in America, that whatever he'd done to bring this upon himself was his responsibility and that he had shamed his whole family in squandering such an opportunity. No, he could not stay there. They wanted no visits from the police and, anyway, there was a new baby brother in their already crowded home.

Rashid had wept then, as he left that house, thick globular tears running down his cheeks like the New England summer rainstorms he remembered from his time in Boston. It was the first time he had cried since he was twelve. That night he slept in an alleyway among street children. One of them showed him a knife. He resolved to approach his situation like a difficult chess problem. The disadvantage was the essence of the problem. He needed to find the best possible response, and in finding it, win. He didn't completely convince himself. But as he wrapped his arms around his knees and shivered, it was how he decided to behave, going forward.

The chance to come to KAF solved several problems at once. It represented a place to live; after a few nights of improvised sleeping situations, that seemed more important than he could have anticipated. The pay was modest, but there was an advance, which he gave to his father, prompting no words of thanks or acknowledgement. His anger at his son was undiminished. One more reason to get away.

There was a rudimentary security check, but Rashid bought the papers of one of the poor boys he'd met in the street for a few American dollars and the boy's background was desperate enough to have been largely unverifiable.

But, as in chess, bold solutions to difficult problems only rarely pan out. This life here in Kandahar was as empty as anything he could imagine. Even making fun of Rami Issay was no longer very interesting. Rashid let out a long sigh and rolled over in his hot and lumpy bed. It was like sleeping on a burlap-covered corpse. Where was this going to end?

Lattice drew back the curtain on the one-way mirror and watched the interrogation of John Wayne. Protocol was that interrogators were to be made aware when they were being observed but this was Lattice's turf and CIA is not SF. Waller, the intelligence officer, remained sitting in the corner. He had been up all night. Speckles of blood were on his cheeks. The terp had stopped speaking long ago. The CIA officer refused to let him collapse. He had tied the man to the chair and pulled his head back by his hair.

“Just tell me who you got the files from. Then you can sleep. We'll clean you up and you can go back to work and forget this ever happened.”

He did not answer.

“Wake up!” the CIA guy yelled, and slapped him across the face.

John Wayne was not asleep and he was not unconscious. It was clear that he would not be going back to work. He had decided he was going to be killed. When the Americans were done with him they would give him to the NDS, the Afghan security service. And then he would die, either immediately or in a cell, in Sarpoza in a few months or years. Everyone knew about the NDS. Everyone knew about Sarpoza.

Lattice knew something about Captain Waller. Ex-SF sergeant. In Waller's impassive face, Lattice correctly read disgust at what was happening in front of him. He recognized the response. He decided to keep a careful eye on Waller.

Rami Issay walked into the base adjutant's office and waited for his clerk to acknowledge him. The clerk was on the telephone and several minutes passed. Finally, he looked up. “Yes?”

“I would like to speak to the base adjutant, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but he told me to drop by and talk to him the next time I wanted to have an event.”

“Who are you?”

“Rami Issay. I run the Green Beans coffee shop.”

“What sort of event do you want to have?”

“Forgive me, but are you the adjutant?”

“No, but I can take your name and see if the adjutant will grant you an appointment.”

“General Jackson told me to work things out with the adjutant.”

Long stare. “I'll see if he is in.”

“I think you know very well whether he is in.”

“Just a minute, please. Sir.”

The clerk got up and opened a panelled door and closed it behind him. A few minutes later he re-emerged. “This way, please.”

Rami Issay followed him into the office where Major Horner sat behind a large desk. Rami Issay put his heels together and stood at attention. “Good morning, sir.”

Horner looked up from his computer. “Are you mocking me?”

“Goodness no, sir.”

“Then stop that, please.”

“Yessir.”

Horner rolled his eyes. “General Jackson's chief of staff asked me to keep an eye out for you. Now what is this about?”

“I would like to undertake a morale-improvement initiative, sir.”

“Please stop sirring me. What kind of initiative?”

“A chess tournament, sir.”

“Will there be gambling?”

“Goodness gracious no, sir.”

“Well, I don't see why you would even need to ask permission to hold a chess tournament. Do you?”

“Yessir, I mean nosir.”

“Good heavens, man, calm yourself. Please sit down.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sitting.

Horner fell silent for a long minute. Then he asked, “Do you know what reality television is?”

“Nature documentaries?”

“No. Shows where there is a contest of some sort.
The Amazing Race. Survivor.
”

“I'm afraid I am not familiar with such shows.”

“It doesn't matter. There's going to be one shot here at KAF. It strikes me that you and your café should be a part of it, lend some local colour.”

“What is this show?”

“They're calling it
Stars Earn Stripes.
Good title, huh? Celebrities and ex-SF dudes, attempting heroic and difficult feats.”

“Which celebrities?

“Nick Lachey. Todd Palin.”

“I am not familiar with these people, sir.”

“The American public is.”

“What will they be doing?”

“Demonstrating their skill at arms and their courage.”

“Are any of them soldiers?”

“Some are ex-soldiers. Still.”

“This is to boost morale in America about the war?”

“You'd think the facts about the Taliban would suffice, but they don't. So, yes. I'll tell you what. I'll help you with your chess tournament if you help me with the TV shoot.”

“But I, sir, am no ex-soldier or American action TV star.”

“Don't worry, the producers will find your café interesting. And there might be a contest of some sort you could play a part in. A Know Your Enemy quiz, or something like that.”

“I am not America's enemy, sir.”

“I know. Just thinking aloud.”

“Have you been to my café?”