Ever After (16 page)

“Our job is twofold, ma’am.” Justin looked slightly confused, as if she should already know the information he was sharing. “We need to hunt down the insurgents, the terrorists, and we need to help Iraq become a free country. We couldn’t really do that without knowing some of their language.”

English was fairly common in the Middle East, but Justin was right. If they were going to reach out to the children and help introduce democracy to a nation that hadn’t known it before, they’d need to know the language. At least enough to play a little football with the kids.

Lauren didn’t want to take up more of his time. “I’ll tell Emily we saw each other.”

“Okay.” He jogged back a few steps and threw the ball again. “Tell her I love her.” His eyes shone. “Tell her I’m counting the days.”

“I will.” Lauren’s throat hurt. If she could whisk this young man to safety, to a plane that would take him home to Emily, she would.

She and Scanlon had all the information and photos they needed. It was time to move down the street toward the protestors. As they drew closer, Lauren stopped to survey the crowd. Some of them were hopping and waving fists, grouped in a tight circle and chanting something she didn’t understand. Something anti-American, no doubt.

As she watched, a man ambled up and studied her. “You from U.S.?”

She felt suddenly vulnerable. Yes, she had her protective Kevlar, but that didn’t matter. Cameramen and reporters could be blown to pieces same as soldiers — even with their safety gear. Lauren took a step closer to Scanlon. Scenes like this protest were rare in Afghanistan, though flare-ups continued. She held up her press badge, the one she wore around her neck. “Reporter.”

The man nodded and pointed at the protestors. “You hear what they say?”

“No …”

Scanlon moved in close beside her. He had his camera, but he also had a can of mace. Just in case.

Lauren squinted at the mob. “What are they saying?”

“They say no more violence against voters, against leaders.” The man’s weathered eyes grew watery. His English was difficult to understand. “Every time good man try take office, insurgents kill him, kill supporters. Kill voters.”

“What?” Lauren hesitated, but slowly, like the first few pebbles in an avalanche, the meaning of his words hit her. As they did, she felt her world turn upside down. She lowered her brow and looked at the man. “You mean … they want the U.S. out of Iraq?”

The man’s mouth went slack and his eyes widened. He held up his hand and bowed his head, shaking it as hard as he could. “No … never! Not yet, no.” He said the same thing until finally Lauren interrupted him.

“Sir, please. I need to understand.”

“My people — ” the man lifted his eyes to hers — “so grateful to Americans. So grateful. We have hope now, a chance to work and grow and live with our families.” Anger twisted his expression. “But some want old ways, old terror ways.” He shifted his attention to the protestors. “Now we say, enough. Time to stop the violence.” He pointed at a few of the soldiers. “Americans try to stop violence.” He bowed twice. “We glad for Americans.”

“Okay.” Lauren looked at Scanlon, then back at the man. “Can we take your picture?”

“Yes.” He pointed at her notepad. “You write down what Yusef say. We glad for Americans!”

Lauren wasn’t sure which way was up. She began scribbling, capturing the things Yusef wanted to tell her. Then she looked at the protestors again, but this time through new eyes. These weren’t the insurgents, the terrorists opposed to the United States. If they were, then where were the flag burners? The men who would gleefully burn an image of the U.S. president ?

They weren’t around, because these people wanted the same thing the U.S. wanted for Iraq. Democracy and peace, a safe place to live and work and raise their families. Suddenly a connection became clear. Lauren looked at the empty lot, where the children and the soldiers played together. She aimed her question at Yusef. “Whose children?”

“Those men.” He pointed at the protestors. “Most people want free election and personal rights.” Tears filled his eyes again. He nodded at the children. “They are our future. They want live in world without terror.”

“Yes.” Lauren could almost feel her beliefs being ripped to shreds, the foundation she’d stood on crumbling as fast as the words falling from the old man’s mouth.

He jabbed her notepad, more intense than ever. “You tell them Yusef says so.”

She looked at him a moment longer. Did he know? Was he aware of the news that came across the televisions and daily papers in America? Did his compatriots know that the reality playing out here in the streets was not the story being told to the citizens of the United States?

Suddenly, the weight of her responsibility hit hard. All along she’d seen herself as a Pied Piper, a solitary voice with the ability to make people fall in line with her way of thinking. Never once until now had she felt guilty about how she’d used that power, about how maybe she hadn’t told the full story.

She felt sick to her stomach. What if she’d been wrong? What if, even half the time, she’d missed the story in her zeal to uphold her beliefs? She accused the U.S. military of using unnecessary strength, but what had she done? What about her colleagues? To come into a situation like the war in Iraq with a predetermined mind-set was to do the entire world a disservice, wasn’t it?

Yusef ambled off to join the other protestors, and Lauren realized she was shaking. “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”

Scanlon filled his cheeks with air and let it out slowly. He removed his baseball cap and raked his fingers through his short hair. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the whole thing was staged, something set up by the army.”

Her question and his answer sent another wave of alarm through her conscience. Were they that conditioned, that even witnessing the truth, they doubted what they were seeing? All because it didn’t line up with their viewpoint? “I feel sick.” She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a bottle of water. Without stopping for a breath, she downed it.

At that instant, before she could put the empty bottle back into her dusty canvas bag, an explosion of gunfire rang out from what looked like a deserted brick building across the street from the protestors.

Screams filled the air, and Scanlon grabbed her, slammed her to the ground. “Lauren, don’t move!” He whispered a string of obscenities. “We gotta out get of here!”

From her place on the ground, she saw three protestors fall, squirming, twisting in pain, their blood spilling into the street. Lauren sat up, too horrified to look away. One of the men was Yusef. Kind, passionate Yusef. Who wanted so badly for the children in the empty lot to get a chance to grow up in a free society. Now everything he believed in was draining away on the streets of Baghdad, where the truth screamed as loud as the wailing protestors. The life Yusef spoke of would never be. Not for him.

Yusef was dead.

T
HIRTEEN

L
auren tore her gaze from Yusef’s fallen body. Scanlon hovered over her, both of them low to the ground. Her breathing came fast and hard, and she stared at the dirty road inches from her face.
Focus, Lauren. Come on, focus.
She wanted to run to Yusef, see if there was something she could do to help. But that would be too dangerous. Besides, he was gone. She had seen enough death to know. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her heart pounded so loud it was deafening.
Watch, Lauren. Observe. And tell the story. The true story …

She eased herself free from Scanlon’s protection and lifted her eyes to the horrible scene. “I want to
do
something,” she hissed.

“We can’t.” His voice was breathless, thick with fear.“Stay low until it’s safe. Then we run for it.”

He was right. Here, low to the ground, they weren’t a target. The streets were full of people cowering low. She looked at Yusef again, what she could see of his body. Other protestors surrounded the victims, wailing and waving their fists at the place where the shots had rung out. At the same time, a dozen U.S. soldiers — the ones who had been standing stiff-faced along the edge of the protest — sprinted toward the building, weapons drawn. They broke down the door and raced inside.

Lauren looked at the empty lot in time to see Justin and his fellow soldiers round up the children, hiding them behind the army vehicles. Several of the little boys, who moments earlier had been tossing a football, were weeping and screaming, clinging to the Americans.

More gunfire exploded from inside the building, and Lauren had just one thought:
Please, God … let those be American guns.
Because that would mean the assailants were dead, the way Yusef and his friends were dead.

The protestors only wanted what most people wanted — freedom and hope and a chance for a future. Yusef had believed with every syllable that the election could be held in peace, and that the Americans would help make it happen. But now … she watched, aching for them as the protestors fell to their knees beside the fallen, rocking back and forth, wailing over their loss.

Next to her, Scanlon aimed his camera at the empty building, at the grieving protestors — and finally at the American soldiers protecting the children — shooting a few dozen quick pictures.

Then, in the time it took for Scanlon to grab her arm and pull her to her feet, a whole new array of thoughts hit her. If there had been more support for the war, more aggression on the part of the U.S. troops, maybe the men who fired those shots would’ve been hunted down long ago. Maybe they’d be in jails or eliminated. But so many Americans had helped spread a mind-set that made any support of the war taboo.

Americans like her.

She took one last look at the place where Yusef’s body lay. As Scanlon led her from the scene, she couldn’t keep herself from looking. “I’m sorry, Yusef.” She whispered the words at first. Then she shouted them, so loud that across the street she was sure Justin Baker could hear her. “Yusef … I’m sorry!”

“Come on!” Scanlon sounded terrified. “We have to get out of here.”

She turned and ran along behind him, leaving the battle to play out as it would. And now what? She was supposed to go back to her compound and open her laptop and pound out a story undermining the U.S. military and its role in the war in Iraq? After she’d seen U.S. soldiers handing out food and water to kids? After she’d watched with her own eyes as they played football, and even as they rounded up the kids and protected them with their lives? As they ran into a building full of insurgents in an attempt to protect the Iraqi protestors?

She was supposed to look the other way about the things Yusef had told her? Write a story that made the protestors into something they weren’t? Anti-Americans anxious for the U.S. to leave them alone?

Scanlon took the driver’s seat as they headed back. Lauren was glad. It allowed her time to cover her face and let the tears come. Was this how Justin Baker and his company spent their time? Lending as much safety and hope as they could to the people who wanted what Yusef wanted?

How could she ever look in the mirror again, ever write another story the way her editor expected her to write it? Her stomach rumbled and her heart lay in a heap, just like the gunned-down protestors.

Oh God … God … have I been wrong all this time?

Daughter … I am with you.

The answer sounded so loud, she wondered if the Lord was in the backseat, guarding her, helping her, answering her constant cry for wisdom. She let her tears come.

“Lauren … it was one day, one scene.” Scanlon seemed to know what she was thinking. “You can’t throw out everything you believe because of that.”

“Maybe I can.” She dragged her hand across her cheek and glared at him. It wasn’t his fault, the turmoil twisting within her, but it felt good to take it out on someone. “Maybe we’ve all been wrong.”

“War’s more complicated than that. Than one side completely right, one side completely wrong.” He kept his eyes on the road, his voice calm. “You’re a journalist, you should know that.”

“Yes, I should.” She made a sound that didn’t come close to releasing her frustration. “So how come I’ve been so one-sided? How come so many of us have been?” She covered her face again. War
was
complicated. Valid debate might exist over the way a war was carried out or whether one target was more dangerous than another in the battle. But the core of
why
it was happening and its purpose?

She’d never allowed the possibility that the stories she’d heard from soldiers and commanders might be true, that the U.S. really
was
doing a good thing for the people of Iraq, or that by dismantling terror cells, they really
were
protecting the interests of the United States.

It had sounded like so much military rhetoric, and sometimes at the end of the day, she would join Scanlon and other U.S. reporters and practically mock the news being handed them by the military’s public information officers.

“Do you realize what happened out there?” Lauren lifted her head and looked at her friend.“We discovered a lie, Scanlon. One that too many of us have believed for way too long. That nothing good could come from war, that nothing could ever justify it.” She pointed over her shoulder at the scene they were leaving behind. “But that … what we just saw. That at least makes this war understandable, doesn’t it?”

What was wrong with the insurgents, that they’d fill a building, hiding like cowards, and shoot into a crowd of people whose sole intention was to help build a better Iraq? The factions that tore apart the country were so different it was frightening. Were these the people she had wanted the president to reason with?

She leaned back against the passenger seat and tried to get a grip on her emotions. It was one day, one incident. Her beliefs hadn’t been formed in a day, and neither could she release them that quickly. Scanlon was right. Maybe she was overreacting. Witnessing a killing could do that to a person.

The road was bumpy beneath them, and Lauren still couldn’t catch her breath.
God … what did I just see? That was just one flash of a moment in this terrible war, right? What am I supposed to feel?

Daughter, I have given you wisdom. You would do well to listen.

Lauren shut her eyes. The response was so clear, Scanlon might as well have said it. But it wasn’t Scanlon speaking. The voice — the still, small voice — was God’s. And what was He telling her? He’d given her wisdom? When? In the events that day?

No …

Her eyes widened. Not the events, but the heart of the matter — the passion behind the events of war. Maybe that’s what He had shown her today. Suddenly she remembered something. Months ago Shane had tried to tell her everything Yusef had said. Shane had reminded Lauren of September 11, of the terrorists who in cold-blooded exactness would take control of jetliners and fly them into buildings.

“Reason with someone like that, Lauren?” He gave her a sad look. “No one wants war, but how are we supposed to protect the U.S. from that sort of killer without going after them?”

Today’s images flashed in Lauren’s mind like a horror film. She closed her eyes but they wouldn’t go away. Justin and his buddies playing with the Iraqi children, the protestors shouting and ranting, Yusef jabbing her notebook.
You write down what Yusef say. We glad for Americans!

She gritted her teeth and opened her eyes. God’s answer was clear. There
was
wisdom to be learned from today, and the best thing she could do was look for it, listen to it.

If she’d been wrong in her views, her staunch beliefs, then she needed to say so. Even if it meant losing her job. She leaned back against the headrest and stared at the desolate roadway ahead. She had begged God for wisdom, and in a single morning He had nearly drowned her in it.

Yes, war was complicated.

But what she’d seen that day was as simple as breathing. And every word of her story would reflect the truth about it.

She willed herself to relax. If she was going to write the stories in her heart, she needed to be calm, at her absolute best as a journalist. Otherwise her editors would think she’d gone soft, that her time in Fallon hanging around military types had tainted her thinking.

Shane’s face came to mind.

Nothing could’ve been further from reality. She had left Shane

— knowing she could be leaving for good — all so she could defend her way of thinking, her absolute belief in the inherent evil of the war and its perpetrators.

God, I want to see Your wisdom from today. Give me the words as I write. Please. Is this just one day, one instance? Are there really people swarming the streets of Baghdad, wishing Americans would stay and help?
She pictured Justin, the look on his face as he played catch with the kids.

Last year she’d written a story about how violent soldiers were teaching a generation of Iraqi kids to be fighters. She had based her story on the same sort of rhetoric she accused the army’s public information office of spilling. Her research was covert, interviews with people in a clandestine setting. The contact usually showed her something small-scale. In the case of the story about soldiers teaching violence, the contact had introduced her to three young boys, all of whom had rifles.

“We fight Americans,” the chosen young spokesman for the group said. “We fight them until they leave.”

Lauren wanted to kick herself. Looking back on it, she had to admit it was just as likely the kids had been young terrorists. Because only the terrorists would want U.S. soldiers removed from a scene like the one she’d just witnessed. Still, she’d written an entire piece on the notion, leaving millions of Americans who read the story with a sense that the army was somehow bringing harm to the people of Iraq.

God … I feel faint, sick inside. Please … if I’ve been wrong, if I’ve written stories that furthered the cause of people like those in that building, then please … use me to change that thinking, to balance it. Please, God.

She wasn’t ready to call Shane and tell him she was wrong about much of what she’d believed … but she was close. When she returned to the journalists’ compound, she said very little to Scanlon. There was no time to waste. She hurried to her room, opened her laptop, and started a new document. Then, as though her next breath depended on it, she began to write a story.

A story different from any she’d written in all her life.