27

By midnight, they are asleep. Märta wanted to keep working, prepping, building out possible models, positioning assets, calling in favours, but Tigger and Herb insisted that the greatest resource would be a full night’s sleep, their strength for the next day, and a clear head with which to make sound judgements.

Overruled, she went to bed. But she can’t sleep.

As she lies there, she talks to herself in Swedish. It is how she prefers to mumble. There is no one here to talk to in Swedish. She works in English, and has more professional competence in it because so much of her vocabulary is specific to her profession: explosive remnants of war; unexploded ordnance; protection of civilians; international humanitarian law; small arms and light weapons; antipersonnel landmines; child soldiers; gender-based violence; development; humanitarian action; international humanitarian law; signatories; ratification; internally displaced persons; results-based management; impact indicators; logical frameworks; camp design; evacuation.

At home, they call it ‘charity work.’

God, she says, remonstrating with herself for the insomnia. It’s one-thirty in the morning. She’s worrying like a wife whose husband is a POW. Her ex used to worry about her, though she told him not to and that she was very safe in most of her jobs, and at least as safe as any beat cop in the others. Now the tables have turned, and she has to play the woman.

Why did she agree to let Jamal drive?

There used to be helicopters at night. When the Americans were here, they controlled the airspace. They would have shows of force. The distinct sound of Apaches could be heard overhead at all hours. But it is not only the nights that are quieter. The workday is different, too. There are no civil-military coordination meetings. No arguments about CIMIC, and the differences between coordination and cooperation. No armour on the streets. No APCs.

Why did she let Jamal drive them?

It’s now 2.00 a.m. Three hours left to sleep.

Shit.

Only a drink will do. Why fight it?

She swings out her legs, wraps the thin bathrobe around her, and walks on swollen ankles down the tile stairs.

Brandy is what her grandmother taught her to drink to calm her nerves. She prefers Torres from Spain. She pours a stiff one.

There is a sound behind her. She turns, and sees Herb standing, without a shirt on. It is a wonder how some middle-aged men do it — look that solid.

‘Why are you up?’ she asks him.

‘A text message. There’s going to be an offensive tomorrow. The explosion on the road left nine dead, including four police. And the gunfire that followed killed eleven more. The security forces are very, very angry about it, and they have some new weapons from the US they want to try out. I don’t know where they’re going, but it’s in Ninawa province and it’s going to be aggressive.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘The UN Department for Safety and Security just raised the security level to five. Non-essential staff are going to be evacuated tomorrow. ICRC is moving staff from Dohuk and Domiz to Erbil. I checked with some people in Baghdad.’

‘What about sleep?’ she asks.

‘Sleep would be good,’ Herb says.

The windows are open, and there is a cool breeze blowing through the security bars. The sound of wind through palm trees has always reminded Märta of rain.

‘I’ve been thinking, Herbert. I’ve decided that I’m not going to use you as our communicator with the hostage-takers, assuming there are any. I want to use someone local.’

Herb, normally hard to read, looks crestfallen.

‘They’ll find you out, Herb. I need a communicator between us and the hostage-takers who can remain totally anonymous. I have no doubt that someone here is reporting to the Iraqi authorities or the opposition. You’re a big, black American baritone. And you’re the only one here. Your accent, your tone of voice — you’re too easy to find. And I don’t know what’ll need to be said, and I can’t put you at risk by asking you to say it.’

‘Märta—’

‘Also, I need you in the crisis-management team. You, me, Tigger, Clip. I don’t like mixing the communicator role with the decision-makers. It’s standard ICRC practice, and I’ve taken it on with IRSG, too.’

‘Märta—’

‘Plus, you now have that insipid US Supreme Court ruling that makes it illegal for an American citizen to be in contact with terrorist organisations — the “material support law”. You could be breaking the law by talking to them, because it could be viewed as providing material support to the terrorists.’

‘We’re denying material support to ourselves by not talking with the enemy. It’s a stupidly written law.’

‘Not my country. Not my law. But it’s my problem if it exposes you to unnecessary risk.’

‘I’m going back to the sofa now,’ Herb says.

Märta takes the brandy to bed.

Benton chews, and Arwood talks. The night is deep, and their prison is black. The bloody dress remains where it was thrown. There’s nowhere else to put it.

Benton chews on Arwood’s restraints, and Arwood talks to fill in the time.

‘When I got back, it was midsummer, 1991. There was this huge parade for returning troops in DC. I was persona non grata, obviously, not that I would have gone anyway. So I did what every American man does who returns fucked up from a war. I bought a motorcycle.

‘I didn’t go so much Hunter Thompson as I went Bob Seger. The hair, the goatee, the swagger, the classic-rock-only mentality, disco sucks, feel uncomfortable in roadhouse bars — that sort of thing. Got an open-faced helmet so I could be slapped in the face by the future. I called my bike the Sopwith Camel. You know, because of Snoopy. Didn’t learn until 1996 that it was actually an aeroplane from World War I. How are you supposed to know things like that? Thought the guy who told me was pulling my leg. He swore he wasn’t. Told me not to feel bad. Told me that whenever he heard “Woodstock” he immediately thought of the cartoon, not the concert. You meet people like that on the road. It occurred to me after a while that maybe I needed a girl.’

Benton isn’t listening. He continues with his degrading work. For the first hour, while Arwood was talking, Benton wasn’t sure whether he was making any progress at all. The plastic became warm and pliant, but didn’t shear. It seemed to be made of fibres, rather than plastic. His lower incisor became instrumental. He thought he could hear tiny fibres breaking every few minutes, but maybe they were only saliva bubbles. All this chewing and salivating meant a loss of liquid, and he started to get thirsty, which made him impatient and frustrated. The only reason he was able to continue like this was that it was better than being terrified.

Arwood is digressing from his previous tangent to discuss classic rock-and-roll and the merits of a band called Kansas, which is easy for Benton to ignore. At some point, when the frustration reaches a peak, he says, ‘Arwood, you need to try twisting and moving it around. It might respond to some shearing force.’

Arwood tries this, and finds that it does not prevent him from talking.

‘I stayed in Bozeman, Montana, for a while,’ he says, returning to the earlier topic. ‘It’s a little desolate, but I like it there. Nice people, good air. Food was better than you’d expect. Eventually, they invented the mobile phone, and I became the Once-ler. You know The Lorax? Well, anyway … oh, baby, oh, how my business did grow. I went on the road for years. I left America. I was gone when the Trade Center went down. Saw it on TV in Italy. I remember the first line in the Italian paper. It said, “Today we are all Americans.” No shit. It really said that. I cried my eyes out. It said that sort of thing everywhere in Europe. Le Monde, El País. Every major paper. But America didn’t thank them. You know who doesn’t say thank you to a person who extends a hand when the going gets tough? I’ll tell you who: an alcoholic. And not just any alcoholic: one who thinks he’s better than other alcoholics, because he’s found God and stopped drinking and became president after a five-to-four split vote in the Supreme Court. The kind that knows how best to drive a wedge between people. So … mission accomplished.’

Benton stands up and turns. His shoulder hurts. His knees hurt. His jaw is so sore he is forced to whisper: ‘I think I softened it in a spot. It might give if you rock back and forth for a while. You understand that once we break these, they’ll know? You can’t put them back on. And there may be consequences.’

Though the room is exquisitely dark, Benton feels as though he can see the expression of bewilderment on Arwood’s face. Through that darkness, Arwood says, ‘What are they gonna do, put us on double secret probation? I sort of feel like we’re on the last rung of the consequence ladder. After this, we’re headed for the mystery bag, if you catch my meaning.’

‘Right, then. On with it,’ Benton says.

Benton sits back against the wall and rests his muscles. He watches Arwood contort himself, trying to weaken and snap the restraints.

‘Were you listening to me?’ Arwood asks.

‘Were you saying something?’

‘I was pouring my heart out.’

‘Can you break it loose?’

‘I’m trying,’ Arwood says as he twists his wrists. ‘It doesn’t feel looser.’

‘I don’t think it will. I think it’ll snap or not snap. It isn’t a knot.’

‘So anyway, I drank and drank and drank, and I found a calling.’

‘Good for you.’

‘You asked what I was doing. I’m trying to tell you. So listen. After my parents kicked me out of the house for not killing Arabs, I started working at flea markets and gun shows—’

Arwood’s twisting around isn’t breaking the restraint. But maybe twisting or cutting isn’t the answer. Maybe the plastic is loose enough already, and all it needs is enough force to pull the ends apart. But the two of them pulling against one another won’t do it. Their wrists are too pliant. The plastic fibreglass will cut into the flesh, and the pain is too great.

What would Leonardo da Vinci do? ‘He wouldn’t be in this bloody mess, that’s for sure,’ Benton mutters to himself.

‘What?’ asks Arwood.

‘Nothing. Go on. Gun shows.’

‘I started brokering weapons. I’m an arms broker. I got around. That’s why I was able to get your ticket using frequent-flier points.’

‘I think we might be able to loop your cuffs around the handle of the door, then I can stand to the other side and pull you. If it’s weak enough now, it might give.’

‘That’s not a bad idea. But you were so interested in what I did for a living, and now I’ve told you, and … nothing.’

‘I’ve been chewing fibreglass for an hour after the possible murder of our colleagues. I don’t have what it takes to negotiate your stories now, Arwood. In some deep sense, and for some reason, I still trust you. But I also don’t believe a word you say. So that’s all going to have to wait. Let’s try to break these,’ Benton says, stepping toward the inner door where the Stooges took Adar and Jamal.

Arwood follows Benton to the door and finds the handle. Turning around, he wedges the metal cylinder in the space by his wrist near the watch.

It is a tight fit.

‘No way you can get your fingers in there, too. You’ll never reach, anyway. Your shoulders are too wide. I’m going to lean forward as hard as I can, and I want you to grab my belt and pull me even harder. That’s both of our bodies and our strength versus the spot you’ve been chewing on.’

‘OK. Try rocking a bit, too. Put as many kinds of stresses on that weak point as possible.’

Together, Arwood and Benton lean forward, putting all their weight against Arwood’s wrists, the cuffs, and the door handle. Benton knows he is facing the outside door and, in pulling, tries to will himself through it.

And, without a sound, Arwood’s cuffs snap.

Together still, they fall to the floor. Benton lands on his face, breaking his nose. Arwood can feel blood around his wrists, where the plastic has dug into the flesh.

‘I think … I think I’ve really hurt myself,’ Benton says, but Arwood isn’t listening. He’s off to the mattress and recovering the iPhone. He turns it on, and muffles the sound by placing it beneath his armpit. The room glows a pale blue, and Benton whispers ‘The light.’ Arwood covers the screen until he can hide it beneath a mattress and adjust the brightness. Opening ‘Messages’, he types one with the coordinates and a brief note.

‘We don’t have a signal,’ Benton says.

‘No,’ Arwood whispers. ‘But we’re not going to miraculously get one, either. It’s like this, Thomas: either there’s a signal a few metres outside that window, or there isn’t. You know what a Hail Mary pass is?’

Spitting blood from his lips, Benton mutters, ‘I can guess.’

‘Football. American football. You can either get tackled and lose the game, or hurl the ball into the unknown and hope for the best. You might still lose the game, but the thing about a Hail Mary is that you also just might win.’

‘I see where this is going.’

‘After you hit “send” on an SMS, it usually says “sending” for a second or two as it looks for a signal and catches the wave. My hunch is that if I hit the button and I hurl it out the slit in the roof, maybe it can catch a signal and send the message before it smashes to bits and it’s game over.’

‘It’s not much of a plan, is it?’

‘Not really, but my thinking is that the odds are better than zero, which is what they absolutely are right now if we don’t do it. And, like you said, my restraints are off. This is the window of opportunity, no pun intended. So, what do you say?’

‘Who are you writing to?’

‘Märta. And a local friend.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Yeah. You click the little plus thing, and you can add recipients. See?’

‘You really think Märta would move the world to come and get us? It wouldn’t be a rational choice. That would be a lot of chips to cash in for two people who did this to themselves.’

‘Yes, I do. And I’ll tell you why. Because people aren’t rational actors, Benton. People are themselves. If you want to know what’s going to happen next, you don’t look at the choice, you look at who’s making it. That’s what I learned as an arms broker. In this case, it’s Märta. I think Märta wants to see you rescued, because she either loves you or close enough to it. And I think she wants to help the underdog, and that means Adar. And I think she wants to protect her own staff, and that means Jamal. And I think she doesn’t ask for a lot of favours from other people, so whoever she is going to ask for help is going to say yes. She doesn’t care about me, but there should be enough seats on the bus if it comes along.’

‘That’s quite an analysis.’

‘I’d bet your life on it.’

‘All right. Get on with it,’ Benton says.

‘You need to kneel by the window so I can stand on you. I can’t reach otherwise.’

‘Of course you do.’

Benton moves on his hands and knees toward the wall across from the mattresses and between the two doors. There are three slits near the ceiling, each a metre long, separated by small supporting columns. They are too small for a man or a child to slip through, but wide enough for binoculars, a rifle, or an arm to hurl an object the size of a grenade or a mobile telephone.

The room has all the qualities of a crypt. It smells like a construction site mixed with cooking spices and bare feet. In the dirt and the dust that coats everything, as Arwood places his right foot in the small of Benton’s back, an unexpected thought comes to him, and not one he’s entertained before.

‘I want to die outside,’ Benton says.

‘Me, too,’ says Arwood, and he now shifts all his weight onto Benton’s back. The skin over his old bones slips around like a plucked chicken’s. ‘I want to get out of here and have a nice long life selling weapons to oppressed people with cash.’

‘I don’t mean outside this room. I mean outside all rooms. I want my last breath of life to be taken outdoors. A clear shot, so to speak.’

‘This window opens to the outside,’ Arwood says. ‘We seem to be in a small valley, or a canyon, or something. I can’t fit my head through. I can see stars above us, but there are rocks or — well, something that blocks out the stars — maybe ten or fifteen metres away. There’s no artificial light anywhere. I can’t see any buildings. Wherever we are is blacked out.’

There is blood dripping from Benton’s nose, and he cannot move his hand to wipe it away. All he can do is stare into the floor and listen as Arwood narrates his own movements: ‘I’m reaching my hand out to see what’s there. The outside wall is smooth, more or less. I can’t reach the ground. I can’t tell how high up we are. The light is too strange. A metre or two? It doesn’t feel like the ground in our room is the same level as the ground outside. I think we’re dug in. That’s why the slats on the wall are so high.’

‘If you have a clear throw, then get on with it. My back—’

Arwood falls silent above him. His feet become still. There is a moment when their absurd pose becomes statuesque — a new member in the Garden of the Fugitives, those human statues at Pompeii. Then, without a sound, Arwood’s weight shifts to Benton’s lower back, rests there a moment, and then shifts forward to his upper back as he hurls the phone with all his might.

A silence follows — as complete and warm as a ceasefire — to be replaced by the sound of plastic and metal crashing into an ancient crevasse, echoing outward from the Sinjar Mountains to al-Anbar in the south and Ninawa province to the north, with a message for anyone with the ability to hear it.