The Girl in Green (16 page)

He can't imagine Charlotte as that child. He should be able to, but it is not possible. Not really.

Louise's Red Cross office isn't in a prefab. It has its own two-storey beige building, and there is a large placard outside with its name in French —
Comit
é
International de la Croix-Rouge
. There is an Arab guard sitting on a white plastic chair out front. He is unarmed. On his matching table is another of the ubiquitous Motorola handsets.

Märta waves to him as the Toyota passes through the doors and into the parking lot, where it joins half a dozen other Japanese vehicles with the same colours but different markings.

The foyer is clean. There are posters of the ICRC working in different countries. Others contain quotes from the Geneva Conventions. Benton sees Arwood studying the posters as they walk to Louise's office. One reads: ‘Prisoners of war must be allowed to use tobacco. (Convention III, Art. 26)' He smiles and points, and tries to get Benton's attention, but Benton ignores him.

The doors are all marked with the names and titles of the staff. Märta leads them to the left, past an HP printer and a Xerox machine, past a line of maps showing the region, then Iraq, and then the Middle East in its entirety.

There is a plague on the wall commemorating their dead from the 2003 bombings in Baghdad which closed their offices in the capital and in Basra — the town where the uprisings started in 1991.

At a desk, in front of a PC, is a young Muslim woman in a fashionable headscarf and Cartier glasses. She is slender. She has elegant cheekbones, thin wrists, long fingers, and perfect fingernails. There is an effortless grace to the way she moves. Headscarves make it a little harder to pin down a woman's age, because hair is more of a cue than we often realise, but Benton puts her at about twenty-seven. Compared to the young British women he works with in London, she seems exceptionally composed.

She smiles warmly when they arrive. Märta embraces her, and they kiss on each cheek.

‘Farah, this is Thomas Benton and Arwood Hobbes. Benton is a journalist with the
Times
, and Arwood is a consultant with me. Louise said we could come by for a short chat. They're headed west to al-Qanat near the border.'

Farrah extends her hand, and Benton shakes it. It is like holding the wing of a bird. She smiles diplomatically and says, ‘Very nice to meet you.'

She does the same to Arwood, who shakes as well and — blessedly — says nothing.

‘Farrah is from Erbil. She knows this region better than anyone else I know,' Märta says.

‘The situation near al-Qanat and al-Rabiaa is not good,' she says, directing her comments to Benton. ‘The Ninawa province has certainly not been the worst, not compared to al-Anbar, but there are reports of ISIL groups clashing more and more with the Kurdish Pershmerga and the Shiites. Also, some of the Sunni tribes find ISIL too brutal, so they are turning on them, too. But not all. Deals are being struck. Also, the Kurdish PKK is moving south from Turkey and linking up with other groups. The situation is very fluid. It is best not to go there if you can avoid it.'

‘We're going. So if we can get on with this—' Arwood says.

Farrah smiles again. It is then Benton realises that her grace is not a form of polished diplomacy, but a highly refined survival skill.

Märta raps gently on Louise's door and swings it open enough so that they make eye contact. Benton can see them both from his angle. Louise ushers them in. She's on a call, and the speakerphone is on. She's taking notes on a legal pad with her free hands. ‘I'm on with AirOps,' she whispers. ‘Give me second.'

A dry, humourless, and distinctly Russian voice that channels the collective charm of the former Politburo comes through old speakers on the phone. Disembodied, it says, ‘We had three stretcher cases yesterday without stretchers. This created problem for loading and off-loading of wounded and other messy people. Technically this isn't our concern, but the Iraqi Red Crescent — which is not always the most cooperative national society, not that this is news — is using ambulances for collecting patients, and they don't have stretchers for stretcher cases. They only have the one used in the ambulance. This results in blood leaking onto the floor of my aircraft, which is bad for the aircraft. It also smells very bad and irritates me, and makes everything tacky, including my instruments, and I don't like it. I now think if we are carrying bleeding wounded we need a new solution for protecting against blood spillage into, and from, the aircraft. So I'm telling you — my boss.'

‘Thanks, Spaz. I'll tell the head of mission, and I'll see what we can do about the sheeting. You're helping save lives, Spaz. We're all grateful.'

‘Yeah … OK,' he says, and unceremoniously hangs up.

Louise hangs up by pushing an orange button. She opens her palms. ‘Busy morning. You know how it is.'

‘His name is Spaz?' Arwood asks.

‘We don't know his real name.'

‘Is that good?'

‘It's working so far, which is pretty much the definition of success around here.'

‘Louise Ballan,' Märta interjects, ‘this is Thomas Benton from the
Times
, and Arwood Hobbes, who is temporarily with me. They're headed up north for the day. I wanted you to all meet and see if there's anything that wasn't in the UN sitrep this morning.' Turning to the men, she says, ‘After I left the UNHCR in 1995, I was with the ICRC myself. They have a network of their own, and they don't share information. So this conversation is not to be repeated.'

Louise is in her early forties. She is slender and big-chested, wears heavy and dated glasses, and her hair is the greatest mass of black, tangled curls Benton has ever seen. She sees him looking at it and smiles.

‘Hypnotic, isn't it?'

‘I didn't mean to stare.'

‘Everyone stares. It's hypnotic.'

Benton smiles, and reaches out his hand to shake hers.

Arwood does the same, and says nothing.

‘Where are you going?' Louise asks, sitting down again and ignoring Arwood.

Märta is about to speak, but it's Arwood who answers. ‘A few kilometres south-east of the Yaaroubiyeh border crossing in al-Qanat. There was an attack three days ago,' he says. ‘We're going to the spot — as soon as we're done here. We're going to find the girl. You know the one.' He checks his watch.

‘I would recommend against it,' Louise says, starting to shuffle some papers around on her desk. ‘There's word that ISIL is targetting Iraqi police and security forces, not only to weaken them but to scare people off from joining them. That area is overlapped by half a dozen unfriendly power players, including the Kurds, Jabhat al-Nusra, and ISIL, at the very least. We have refugees passing through, but we're trying to divert them to better routes or else send them south into Jordan instead, though conditions there are getting very bad. And the Kurds are … unpredictable at this point.'

‘Thanks. We're going anyway,' Arwood says, and then, to Benton's embarrassment, makes for the door.

Louise and her hair nod. ‘Hobbes, huh?'

Arwood stops. ‘That's my name.'

‘Any relation?'

‘What difference would it make?'

‘OK.' Then she looks at Benton. ‘You do know, I assume, that dozens of journalists have been kidnapped by the Syrian government and the Islamist insurgents alike, right? That no one is talking about it on the theory that not publicising it will undercut the motive to do it? Also, the attack you're talking about, the mortar attack — the claim of responsibility by that Kurdish group is unconfirmed. Most people don't think it was the Kurds. I don't think it was. I wouldn't go near the Syrian border now if I were an English journalist travelling with an American.'

‘We heard,' says Benton. ‘And, perhaps unfortunately, many European governments are regularly paying ransoms to get their journalists back, which means a market has already been created and prices set. In any event, we won't be there long. In and out over the next few hours is the idea. We're going to check the site, take some pictures, and come right back.'

‘We've got to get on the road,' Arwood says, clearly growing impatient. ‘Thanks for the information.' Arwood, this time, walks out.

‘Can I ask you a question?' Louise asks, looking at Benton.

‘Of course.'

‘This was one attack in a thousand. Over eight thousand Iraqis have been killed this year. It's a blip on the radar. Why is the
Times
covering it?'

‘Because it was on global TV and you remember it,' he says. ‘It's not a good reason for something to be a story, but it is a common one.'

‘I was told through the grapevine that the
Times
is trying to turn a profit for the first time in two hundred years. This doesn't seem like the way to do it.'

‘It's a big old goofy world,' Benton says.

‘It sure is,' Louise says.

Märta lingers when Benton has gone.

Louise is not smiling.

‘None of that sounds right, Märta.'

‘I know.'

‘The American. Is he CIA?'

‘CIA?' she says, sitting down. ‘No. No way. He doesn't fit the profile.'

‘He's smarter than he looks. He seems very at ease in a conflict zone. He's in shape. He's focussed. He's punctual. He could be Directorate of Operations or a contractor. There's a whole universe I don't even understand.'

‘No,' says Märta. ‘People from the Directorate of Operations, despite thinking they're all mysterious, are actually pretty easy to spot. They're political moderates, college-educated, have weak religious affiliations, are patriotic but not zealous, are able to work in formal administrative systems and follow instructions, and are not especially materialistic — though boys will be boys, with their cars and TVs. They're all square pegs in square holes, and they love their jobs and hate their bosses. Arwood doesn't fit. He has a bad discharge from the army, and the CIA has grown very competitive and selective since September 11. I don't see him being able to have a boss or a job. Also, my experience is that the CIA, despite crossing almost every conceivable moral line, still respects the boundaries with humanitarian organisations and journalists.'

‘We don't know that,' Louise says. ‘Maybe they just haven't been caught yet.'

‘I don't think,' Märta says, ‘that Arwood is working his way up a bureaucratic organisation.'

‘They hire assassins, too. And he sort of does fit that profile. Your reputation would go to hell if he's any way connected to that world, and the International Refugee Support Group would lose access to thousands of non-combatants who rely on you. And since we all look the same to most of these people, a lot of other organisations, including the Red Cross, would suffer, too. So you're gambling with the whole system here to help two strange characters follow a non-story and look for a dead girl among eight thousand others. It doesn't add up. Why are you doing this?'

‘I don't know, Louise. Maybe it's because their irrational belief that one girl and one story still matter is somehow infectious. It's like a first kiss. I can barely remember feeling that way.'

‘It's not our job to feel that way.'

‘No. But I still like it.'

14

He introduces himself to Benton and Arwood as ‘Jamal'. No last name. No family. No affiliations. He shakes hands with a limp and weak touch common to the region, and which Arwood has always taken as a measure of the gesture's unimportance. Jamal leans against his early-1990s Toyota Corolla as Benton and Arwood get in.

The car has heavily worn grey vinyl seats. Like every Toyota in Iraq, it is white. Jamal starts the car and puts the vehicle into third gear far too soon, based on a theory — shared by all — that it will improve petrol mileage and reduce engine wear. As they chug their way out of camp, a box of tissues slides across the black dashboard, threatening to fall, but it never does. Jamal does not glance at it even once.

No one speaks. Jamal has been told the destination.

When they are on Route 2 and reach their cruising speed, Arwood breaks the silence. ‘I love a good road trip!' he says from the backseat as he slaps Jamal on the shoulder and hands him a CD. ‘Put this in, man, will you?'

‘No CD. Only a tape deck,' says Jamal, without looking at or taking the CD. They left camp in the direction of Dohuk and haven't yet run into the customary early-morning traffic. The haze blends with the pollution in the morning light, obscuring the horizon. There is a musty smell in the air. Benton is seated up front with Jamal, and Arwood is in the back, moving around without a seatbelt, like a lanky teenager on the way to the beach.

‘Really? A tape deck?' Arwood says.

‘It's a Sony.'

‘Sony. Nice.'

Arwood tosses the disk out the window. ‘So much for Tattoo You.'