The Girl in Green (32 page)

Tigger spreads out a map of northern Iraq on the kitchen table while Herb fixes three cups of coffee with sugar and no milk. He uses the laptop to find the location of the GPS coordinates, and the program zooms in on the Sinjar Mountains.

‘Well … shit,' Tigger says.

‘Why?' Herb asks, back at the table in his blue Patagonia field shirt, the sleeves rolled over his forearms and fastened by buttons.

‘They're in the mountains. West of Tal Afar. It's a bad place,' Tigger says, pulling out a chair and then sitting down on it.

‘Who do we know in Tal Afar?' Herb asks.

‘Some of the people we helped in '91 were resettled there,' Märta says.

‘This isn't Tal Afar,' Tigger says. ‘These are the Sinjar Mountains. They rise out of absolutely nothing. Geographically, they look like they shouldn't even be there, the way Monument Valley rises from nothing. Culturally, those mountains are not even Iraq. They are a different universe. They don't like foreigners. They don't like Shiites. They don't like the government. They won't like us. Mostly Yezidi.'

‘I know some of the Yezidi,' Märta says. ‘I'm not saying they like foreigners. I'm saying I think they'll answer the phone if I call.'

‘The Yezidi worship the devil,' Herb says.

‘They don't worship the devil,' Märta says, ‘at least not the devil as Christians think of him.'

‘How else should I be thinking about devil worshippers?'

‘The Yezidi,' Märta says, trying to find out how to explain this even to herself, ‘are a very, very old tribe. Older than the Jews. As old as the Zoroastrians. They see the world as being made of opposing forces — right and wrong, good and evil. The Yezidi recognise that they need to come to spiritual terms with them both, and so they engage in worship that somehow involves talking to the darker forces as well. I don't know much about them. No one knows much, because they don't speak of their religion or their identity with foreigners. They've been a brutally persecuted minority, and see themselves as put upon by both the Arabs and the Kurds, and they aren't wrong about that.'

‘Arwood said he thinks it's ISIL, not Yezidi,' Tigger says.

‘Makes sense,' Herb says. ‘The Yezidi are weak, and the land is good for hiding in. It's close to the Syrian border, it's good for attacking farther south into the Sunni regions, and it's easy to defend. The government is using the Sunni tribes again against ISIL. This is high ground. Not a lot of that around.'

Märta says, ‘The Yezidi are politically sensitive, and they're very attentive to what's happening in their land. It's how they survive.'

‘You think they owe you a favour?' Herb says.

‘I don't think anyone owes me anything but a paycheque at the end of each month. But some people are grateful nonetheless, and they remember things. Back in the nineties, when I was with UNHCR and then the Red Cross, I used to get out of the office more and actually meet people, rather than fill out funding proposals for junior government staff who have never been in the field. And since I'm considered pretty funny-looking in this part of the world, they tend to remember me. We still have reputation and access as strategic assets. Now would be the time to use them, don't you both think?' she asks.

‘We need to make contact,' Tigger says. ‘I will speak with Firefly immediately. Get started. Herb should work the government. See if we can negotiate their release.'

Herb is looking at the map and considering the location of the Sinjar Mountains in relation to the safe zones. ‘Even if we do reach an agreement, we'll still need to get them out of there. If the military is hunting ISIL after that attack, then this zone is going to be very hot. No travelling by ground. That means we'll need a lift. And there are no airfields, so that means helicopters. And if we're flying at only eight hundred metres, we'll be very vulnerable, which means we need to be allowed to fly. Because there's no defence.'

‘Tigger, you have thoughts on this?' Märta asks.

‘I suggest we put the players on the board, learn what we need to learn, and then see what the world looks like after that. Herb, you do the government, yes? Tell our friend in Baghdad what we know. See what he says.'

‘Yeah, all right.'

‘Märta, you warm up Louise. We may need her, like you said last night. I'll talk to Clip Maxwell.
On y va
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‘You two work from here,' Märta says. ‘I need to see Louise in person.'

They sleep like the dead until dawn. It is Arwood who wakes first, to the feeling of a boot in his gut. It is Arwood's involuntary grunt, and then his wheezing attempt to inhale, that wake Benton.

Hands still cuffed behind him, he opens his eyes. There are two men with AK assault rifles by the door, and one standing above Arwood. Once Arwood has taken a full breath, the man kicks him in the solar plexus again, and again Arwood wheezes for air.

‘Stop kicking him,' Benton says from a sitting position. He says it only so that it will have been said.

The man — Abu Larry — is wearing a dark tan shirt that falls to his knees over trousers of the same colour and fabric. He wears desert army boots the colour of sand, and has a leather ammunition belt around his thin waist. On his head is the black headscarf of ISIL. On his wrist there's a vintage gold Longines watch with a fine leather strap. He does not carry a gun.

Abu Larry crouches down by Benton and studies his face. After a long look, he says something in Arabic, and one of the men by the door quickly kneels on Arwood and binds his hands behind his back again. Then he hits him on the head with the rifle.

‘What are you accomplishing? What does this serve?'

Larry says nothing. He checks Benton's restraints, sees they are secure, and then removes a rag from his pocket. He pushes Benton to the mattress, kneels on his head, and shoves the rag into Benton's mouth. He ties a bandana around his head to hold it in place.

The two other men pull Arwood to his feet. Dizzy and obviously in pain, Arwood is unable to walk by himself. Head bent, he says as loudly as he can, ‘We're not alone, Benton. There's still hope. And if they kill us, we'll be avenged. Mark my words. The land remembers. That's the only truth of the Middle East.'

The two men drag Arwood from the room, and one of them kicks the door closed.

Larry remains crouching by Benton, studying him. His eyes are nothing like Märta's. Or Vanessa's. Or Charlotte's.

Benton's broken nose is making it hard for him to breathe. More than fear, he is starting to feel a sense of anxiety and claustrophobia. There isn't enough air. His breaths become more rapid, more shallow. To look at his abductor or to look away — have his options dwindled only to this?

Then the man stands and leaves. He does not kick Benton. He does not say a word. He passes through the inner door into a room Benton has never seen. The sliding bolt is engaged, and then the padlock is replaced.

A moment later, there is a third gunshot.

Dawn again, and the Syrian refugee men in the Domiz refugee camp are already smoking. There is smoke everywhere — smoke from their cigarettes, smoke from the cooking fires, smoke from the makeshift chimneys in the more permanent structures. The drive from Märta's home to the IRSG office at the refugee camp is uneventful. The police only have one roadblock set up, and they're searching cars at random. They wave her through.

She pulls into the Red Cross parking space reserved for visitors. Her Land Cruiser is not as well equipped as those from the UN or the ICRC. She has her handset but no HF antenna, no black rod that stretches like a thin roll bar across her vehicle to fasten in the back. In Sierra Leone, when she was posted there, the locals called them ‘white rhinos'. She always hoped they were referring to the vehicles.

In Pakistan, they laughed at her and said the ‘internationals' never leave the Egg: an egg on wheels. It wasn't only the colour of the Land Cruisers that inspired the name: it suggested that Westerners were never really born into the world in which they now lived.

She gets out of the car and locks it. It is six-fifteen in the morning. Farrah isn't in yet; she comes in closer to seven. Louise, however, is there. Märta can hear the sound of the BBC streaming through tinny computer speakers.

Märta knocks, because people are supposed to knock, and then walks directly in because she wants to. She sits on Louise's sofa.

‘Good morning,' Louise says.

‘They're alive. I got a text message. They're being held by some ISIL cell in the Sinjar Mountains. I've heard that the security forces are planning some kind of offensive today, west of Mosul. So there's a clock on this.'

‘I heard that, too. It's in the sitrep. We've all been told to evacuate the area. I've cleared my people, but the Iraqi Red Crescent is being a little stubborn.'

‘Which means,' Märta says, ‘this all needs to be over in a few hours. I'll send you a letter for the record, but I'm formally requesting that the ICRC extend its good offices to mediate release. And we're gonna need a ride.'

‘Have you made contact yet?'

‘No.'

‘What's your play?'

‘I'm afraid the military knows about this base in the mountains, and they plan to strike it. If they do, they'll kill my people. I also don't want them going underground. I was in that situation in Somalia. They captured our people, they didn't reach out to us for months, and when they did, our nerves were so frayed we agreed to anything. I also can't ask the military if they know about the base, because then they'll definitely bomb it. So all I can do is hurry.'

Louise says nothing.

‘We have an arrangement with Firefly International. Tigger says he trusts them, and thinks they have systems we can use. Apparently, the IRSG keeps them on retainer. Have you used people like this before?' Märta asks.

‘Officially,' Louise says, ‘I can't confirm or deny that we've used specialised firms to set up the negotiating structures to secure the successful release of our people in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Colombia in the last few years. And I can't confirm that I think it's a good idea to follow Tigger's advice. What I can do is tell Spaz that we'll help when the time comes — if all parties accept us, the government is informed, and we can secure a flight path. You realise, though, that to do this I'll have to pull air assets off the relief effort to help your people instead. You want to use my lift during an assault. That'll have consequences.'

Märta nods. ‘I know.'

‘How do you feel about that?'

‘I'm going to put off feeling anything about it until it's over.'

‘Are you in touch with Geneva on this?'

‘I'm putting Miguel in charge of liaison work with headquarters. You know him? My kid from Spain? Big eyes, floppy hair, the voice, the whole thing? I find they're a little afraid to talk to him. The Swiss don't react to his verbal style very well, so they tend to leave me alone if the choice is Miguel or silence. Meanwhile, Herb is working the government to get approval for the pickup, without telling them exactly where it is.'

‘That sounds tricky,' Louise says, turning off the radio.

Märta explains her gambit in Sinjar. How she needs to contact the kidnappers because of the time pressure, but how she fears surprising them and what the consequences might be. Better for them to reach out first. But she can't risk waiting for them. She has to make decisions without sufficient information or basis for judgement. Some call this ‘leadership'. She considers it a failure of preparation, analysis, policy, and systems. You're only on your own once you've been abandoned.

So she has to improvise. She says she knows a family in Kursi. If ISIL has a facility there and it's staffed, she reasons, they'll need to shop for food and supplies periodically, just like everyone else does. And since there aren't many places to do that, people in town will know where they go each day. ‘I'm going to write an email,' she explains, ‘and send it to the family I know there. They'll give it to the son, and the son will drop it off at the market. It will be clearly marked for the hostage-takers. I don't think this will place the shop owner at risk, and if it does, he can say he was given the letter by the IRSG.'

Louise thinks it's too risky.

‘I know a good man with the Iraqi Red Crescent in Mosul,' she says. ‘He can deliver the letter to the shop. You don't have to put the family at risk.'

‘I thought the ICRC and the Iraqi Red Crescent weren't getting along so well these days.'

‘We're not, but I know who's who. His name is Sharo. He's Assyrian. He's a medic, and knows the area well. He can deliver the message. I think he'll say yes, too.'

‘What makes you think so?'

‘He loves his motorcycle.'

‘I don't see the connection.'

‘The road that winds from Route 47 into the mountains is one of the twistiest mountain passes in the world. His wife doesn't let him go riding there, because she says he takes enough risks with his job. This would make it his job.'