Note: babu: papa, shirina: sweetheart, shahzadah: princess. I basically just googled these words, so if they are misused, then you have my apologies.
Dear Boss Lady,
You suck hairy, sweaty donkey sack.
Tap, tap, tap.
Dear Boss Lady,
You suck hairy, sweaty donkey sack. Putrid donkey sack.
Tap, tap, tap.
Dear Boss Lady,
So far we've gone through about one hundred and eighty hours of surveillance.
Tap, tap, tap.
And I hope you rot in the sixth circle of hell.
Tap, tap, tap. Who needs coffee when you can drink from the font of desperation? This is exactly how people become addicted to cocaine. Then again she didn't have to go through nearly all of the one hundred and eighty hours herself. Or stand over everyone else's shoulders while they did their part.
Dear Boss Lady,
So far we've gone through about one hundred and eighty hours of surveillance. Please see attached report for results.
Love, Your long-suffering minion
Tap, tap.
Dear Boss Lady,
So far we've gone through about one hundred and eighty hours of surveillance. Please see attached report for results.
Best, Oona
P.S. Don't get dead.
Christ on a cracker and spread with jam. Oona yawns and looks out her office window into the cubicle pool. Lurker Number One looks busy. She decides she'd feel guilty interrupting his actual work to ask him to take her home. Instead she fluffs her folded up sweater, lets her head fall forward onto it, and eyes closed. Thank goodness for having her own office.
Oona has experienced three Important Revelations in the past few days. One, sleep is truly a necessary part of human life and cannot be replaced with caffeine. Or cocaine. Two, she needs a couch in her office because the sleeping bag just isn't cutting it. A really puffy, comfy, marshmallow monstrosity would be perfect. Three, she needs to learn to delegate. If she were less of a perfectionist control freak she might have brushed her teeth at home instead of in the office bathroom this morning. Thank god work has a gym with showers. She complained, loudly, and put up with everyone else's complaining about her micromanagement and hovering, but she knew if she could convince herself she was useful enough around the office that she would have a good excuse to stay. That meant not having to face going home, which meant not having to walk through the house checking the windows and the doors. It meant not having to deal with whatever seemingly innocuous letter is in her mailbox that day. Lurker #2 has probably already collected the mail and put the letter into a file.
Oona groans into the sweater. She just wants Lena to get to the bottom of the traitor doctor, come home, and solve the problem that is Steve. She tries to remind herself not to think of him, that it will only make her bitter and angry, but her brain never really gets the message unless it can be distracted by something else. A small part of her is still afraid that even when Lena does come home that Steve will not be dealt with. The number of times Oona has heard some variation of apologetic refusal, either sincerely or insincerely regretful, has soured her faith in others. The general cowardice of her superiors in the face of simple matters is an ever-growing knot of hatred in her gut. Justice denied when it can so easily be given by those claiming helplessness burns hotter than the fire of Catholic guilt.
"He hasn't really done anything. We really can't do anything when there's no evidence of wrongdoing."
"It's not against the law to flirt with someone."
"You're both very good at your jobs. I think you can learn to work together."
But if she can prove her use, prove that without her Lena's operations would fail, or at least be a great deal less efficient and successful, then she won't be let down. She will have unequivocally earned justice. It's not that Lena has ever betrayed her trust. Or lied to her. That she knows of. And it's not that Oona doesn't believe that Lena wishes to help. But sometimes helping means an uncomfortable decision, and that decision may not be Lena's to make in the end. Those who fight for you only fight until it means they'll lose something. For now they are 'gathering evidence'. Oona keeps a 'creep journal'. She saves the letters and texts and emails and has CCTV cameras around her house. She has the Lurkers, Dave and Cindy, who keep watch, who have never rolled their eyes or made fun of her when she comes downstairs in the middle of the night with a bat and pepper spray when she thinks she hears a noise. But despite all of that, she still carries the pervasive fear that in the end Steve will be 'sternly spoken to', perhaps reprimanded, and nothing will change.
So Oona doesn't go home. She doesn't delegate, and she micromanages the shit out of everyone. She eats take-out and mainlines Dr. Pepper (and not cocaine). She will be worth justice, and if after all this she isn't, then she'll quit. But she doesn't want to bear the bitter hatred that would arise if her only option is to give up on the life she's rebuilt and run.
For now, she tries to push the burning, snarled knot of uncertainty and frustrated rage aside and sleep.
o.O.o
Lena opens and closes her mouth a few times, working her jaw slowly back and forth. It's been ages since she ground her teeth in her sleep, and it annoys her that it happened last night. But with annoyance comes more unconsciously jaw-clenching, and upon realizing she's doing it again Lena groans and sticks her tongue between her teeth as a preventative measure. She is past this dammit. Dang it.
They'll be in an MRAP this time, no jeeps. MRAPs are safe. It doesn't matter if there's an IED; she'll be fine. She won't be impaled on scrap metal and nearly (or completely) bleed out on the side of the road. It's fine. She is safe.
Breathe. In one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Out, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Fine. Safe. With deliberate effort, she relaxes her shoulders, bounces a few times on her toes, and stands still. Only person in danger in an MRAP is the gunner, and (she can hear Tim's snort in the back of her mind) no one is going to make her a gunner. They aren't even going that far out of Kabul.
Oona hasn't found the third name on the list yet, but it's entirely possible that no longer matters. But it is possible that Oona has given her gold in place of copper. The United States has been bugging most Afghan government offices since the Afghanis moved back into them, and for some reason employees at the treasury office (who are currently unaccounted for along with Qasim) had been discussing a 'doctor'. It had nearly slipped by, but Oona (bless every inch of that cantankerous, crude woman and her wonderful sense of initiative) had had the good sense to wonder why they were all planning a group appointment in the small town of Charikar. Why someone would travel thirty miles out of Kabul to see a doctor piqued her interest. Why they all planned to go as a group was downright strange, especially as they all were at work and sounded perfectly healthy. No malady had ever been mentioned. Oona's conclusion, which Lena agreed with, was that they were planning a meeting.
This time Lena is better prepared. The disaster that had been the treasury mission will not be repeated. The ranger teams have been in the hills keeping an eye on the house. Oona's report indicated the meeting place would be a large vineyard near the edge of town. The only frequent traffic is the family and the laborers who work there.
The drive is long because MRAPs are slow, but Lena doesn't complain because there are no IEDs or excitement of any kind. When they're half a mile out, she radios Carter who informs her that the only people present in the house are the viticulturist and his young daughter. There are a few workers farther out in the vineyard, but Lena takes no chances. The two MRAPs park outside the gates, one on either side, and four soldiers accompany her up to the house.
The man who comes to the door is mid-fifties, slender, but not skinny, with thick dark chocolate hair sprinkled liberally with gray. Were he not a farmer he might appear softer around the edges. His face is lined more from laughter than the sun or age, a man who has lived in prosperity. His eyes are wide at first, frozen, and he moves slowly, careful not to startle the American soldiers who have appeared at his house. He is afraid, but, Lena notes triumphantly, not surprised. There's no interpreter, nor does the man appear to speak English, so Lena is forced to yell in Pashto over the two soldiers who stand between her and the door. That there is a woman, a civilian, present seems to calm him. No one's going to start shooting around a woman.
"Basar al'Sharif." It's not a question, and wisely Mr. Sharif does not try to pretend otherwise. "May we speak?" This too, is not a question, though Lena is careful to be as polite as the situation allows. More flies with honey and all that.
Mr. Sharif remains still, looking from Lena to the soldiers and back again. He is wary, and they are not welcome, but he asks – politely, she is pleased to hear – if she would mind sitting on the terrace with him. No doubt he does not wish to have four soldiers tromping through his house. Afghanis, like much of the rest of the world and unlike Americans, do not wear shoes in the house. Lena likes that. If it offends his sensibilities to play host to a woman, he hides it well; the woman of the house should receive female guests. Or perhaps the four armed men surrounding her are good motivation for breaking tradition.
"Babu, babu!" A little girl comes running out of the house, squealing delightedly. The source of her excitement becomes quickly apparent. She is holding an extremely tiny kitten in her hands. It looks practically newborn. Swinging from the excitable hands of a small child is not a safe position for a baby animal. Lena forgets manners and her original purpose and rushes towards the girl, who comes up short, enthusiasm snuffed at the sight of a stranger.
Lena drops to a squat and holds out her hands with a smile. "Careful, shirina. May I see her?"
The little girl looks to her father, then walks towards Lena with less caution than before, "How can you tell it's a girl?"
"I can't until I see it." Lena wraps her hands under the girl's, careful not to drop the tiny, still-wet ball of fur as she takes it. "What is your name?"
"Parisa. What's yours?"
"I'm Lena. And how old are you?" Now that her hands are freed, the girl proudly holds up eight fingers.
"And how old is this little one?"
"Three minutes!"
"Well this is definitely a girl. Do you have a name for her?"
There is a moment of eight year old face scrunching that accompanies eight year old deep thought. "Shahzadah."
"Have you ever taken care of a princess before?"
A vigorous headshake in the negative.
Lena leans forward a bit, ready to share an important secret. "Would you like me to show you?"
A vigorous head nod.
"Then let us find her mother, the queen."
The queen mother is safely ensconced in a large basket padded with blankets in a sun-warmed spot on the other end of the wide patio. Lena sets the little kitten against her mother's stomach, and it blindly seeks and latches onto a teat to feed. The mother cat has already given birth to two more kittens, and she shows Parisa how to (very gently) pick up the babies and move them around to their mother's stomach so they can eat. Lena moves the first, and Parisa is allowed to place the second, doing so with determination and an upward glance at Lena.
"You must keep them warm," Lena says seriously, hoping that when she leaves the kittens will be in good hands, "and make sure that they eat."
Parisa nods earnestly, moving one of the kittens into a better position as if to prove her competence for her new responsibilities. "Are you a doctor?"
Lena laughs, "No, but my cousin's husband is. Do you want to be a doctor?" She regrets the question almost immediately, remembering where she is. This is not a country where little girls are told they can be doctors and astronauts.
But Parisa, not yet aware of dreams she should not have, nods excitedly. "I want to be a doctor for humans and animals! Look!" She is still too young to wear a hijab, so when Parisa pulls her long hair aside Lena can see a big gauze bandage. She also pulls her shirt up to show another bandage. "Doctor Sayeed fixed me, and he said someday I can learn to fix other people!"
Doctor Sayeed. Sayeed Al'Faheen. Lena once had a gauze bandage like the one on Parisa's ribs. Now all she has is a too-white scar, and Faheen didn't patch her up; he's the reason it's there. "I'm sure you will. Can you look after the queen and her princes and princesses? I need to talk to your father now."
Parisa nods, attention already back on the kittens and placing them at a teat each time a new one is birthed. Now that Lena has imparted her knowledge she's no longer interesting.
"Do you have children, Miss…"
"Carlan."
"Do you have children, Miss Carlan?" Sharif asks when she rejoins him. He has a slightly hopeful expression, as if her interaction with his daughter will mean less unpleasantness for him.
"No." And because it's not a complete lie, and because she knows she will have to play dirty, "Not anymore."
"Ah, I am sorry." As intended, the last statement catches him off guard and brings a genuine expression of sympathy. "Would you care to sit?" He indicates a chair, which she takes, keeping both feet firmly planted on the ground.
"Thank you."
It is rude to jump directly to business in Afghanistan, and though anticipation eats at her patience, Lena waits while Mr. Sharif pours tea. "Parisa is a lovely girl. Very caring."
"She is the apple of our eyes. I have three sons – My wife has taken them to visit their cousins – but she has more energy than any of them."
Lena smiles. "If they have even half her determination, you are a blessed man." Lena takes a sip of chai. Despite the tender ache in her arm, she lifts the cup with her right hand as is proper. "Is she well? I saw a…" She gestures to the spot on her collarbone where Parisa's bandage is.
His face shadows slightly. "Yes, she had a bit of a fall. You know how children are, running everywhere."
She nods in agreement. "My cousin has two children. Every time I see them they have a new scrape or bruise. Always climbing trees." This time when Lena takes a sip of her tea she maintains eye contact. She may speak his language and have some awareness of his customs, but she is not of his country. She has a purpose in being here today. "It is lucky you had Dr. Faheen to take care of her."
It's not a question, but a statement of fact and a clear message that she knows. People are always less likely to lie and more likely to open up when they think you already know something. Besides, it is in her best interest to help him avoid being caught in a lie. Should she have to accuse him of lying he would be shamed, and conversation would go far less smoothly after that. Lena doesn't need another Hadid. Luckily, he is smart enough not to dissemble.
"I owe him my child's life," he says simply, hands raised in supplication – whether to Allah for mercy or to her for understanding she isn't sure. So that's how he wishes to play this.
"And he owes me the lives of sixteen good men."
Sharif does not meet her eyes, instead staring into his teacup for several long moments before finally answering, "Would a man who risks his own life to save a child be a murderer? He drove all night to save my daughter." Drove all night. They always talk about what they think you already know. Al'Faheen has a car.
"In my line of work I have seen less likely things."
There is another long pause, and Mr. Sharif finishes his tea. There is a resignation on his face that Lena doesn't like, as if he has been preparing himself for this conversation. "You must understand Miss Carlan, if I betray the man who saved my family it would be as if I were betraying my family. No Muslim can face Allah with such a stain on his soul." Lena's spirit falls when she sees resignation harden into resolve. "Whatever your government does to me will be more bearable than committing such a sin."
Lena has interrogated enough people to know the odds of him bluffing are slim. But she owes a debt to sixteen people who died and one who still yet lives. "Then I will not ask you to sin." This pronouncement does not lessen the tension in Sharif's shoulders. He still fully expects the four soldiers with Lena to arrest him and haul him off to Parwan. "Do not tell me where he is now. I do not need you to speculate either. If you can only tell me when you last saw him, I will leave you and your family alone."
This time there is no hesitation. After all, what could that possibly gain her? There are no surveillance cameras in this city. "My daughter fell two weeks ago. He stayed to care for her for three days." There is an emphasis on three days, as if somehow Lena knowing the length of time Al'Faheen stayed with his daughter will make her think of him as someone other than the traitor who caused the death of sixteen people and nearly her own.
"Thank you." Lena stands, motioning to the soldiers with her that she is ready to leave. Sharif stands with them, but the Americans make their own way back to the gate where the MRAPs are waiting for them.
Lena types a quick email to Oona on the way back.
I need you to find me a satellite.
-L