“I gather you know him, ma’am?” he said, looking at me astutely.
“We’ve met,” I said, maintaining a casual smile. “Chief Hunter was the languages expert when I had my hostile environment briefing in Geneva. He lectured on useful phrases in Pashto, Dari and Arabic if I remember correctly.”
Captain Grant nodded, accepting my words at face value, and we talked about the forthcoming deployment to Leatherneck and beyond.
I didn’t see Sebastian again during the meal, and the Green Bitch had an empty space next to her for the entire time. I also noted that someone must have spoken to her, because she wore a black pashmina that covered up her cleavage and shoulders for the rest of the evening.
It was fascinating to see who had been invited to the dinner and who had not. There were a number of UN officials that I recognized, as well as British, German, and American officers. Among the Afghan men – and there were no women – I sensed there was something more going on than a simple meet and greet. I kept track of the comings and goings, who was talking to whom. There was definitely a cool excitement in the air.
The evening ended without any more tangible developments occurring. Captain Grant nodded politely and said he’d send a driver to my hotel at 5 am the following morning. We’d be loading up and heading out to Camp Leatherneck, 350 miles away along the notorious Kabul–Kandahar Highway.
Two decades of war and neglect had left the road connecting Afghanistan’s two main cities in disrepair. The US had funded the rebuilding of three-quarters of the road, with Japan chipping in another chunk of cash. It was currently in slightly better repair, but it had become a favorite target of the Taliban – and not a journey to be undertaken lightly, even by the mighty US armed forces. Certainly not by a woman-journalist from Long Beach.
I waited in the lobby for Liz, and when she finally emerged, she was fizzing with excitement. She eyed our driver, the same bulky Sergeant Benson who’d dropped me off at the start of the evening, before allowing him to escort us to our car. She grabbed my elbow and began whispering at top speed.
“I picked up some very interesting snippets, Lee. Something is definitely in the air.”
“Yes, I thought so, too. Azimi was talking to Chalabi, and you don’t often see Sunnis and Shiites being that friendly.”
Liz raised her eyebrows. “Interesting! Well, I’d say, looking at the bigwigs there tonight, it’s a US op. Could be going down from Leatherneck, Lee. Keep your ear to the ground for me, will you?”
“You think I’d hand you a scoop?” I said, teasing her.
“No, of course not, but I’m sure you won’t leave your old mucker out in the cold, either.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Huh, bloody colonials,” she snorted.
I laughed: to Liz, half the population of the world were ‘colonials’.
We drove quickly through the busy streets, people hurrying home before the self-imposed night-time curfew.
Back at the hotel, Liz tried to persuade me to have a drink with her in the bar. She’d heard that someone had gotten hold of alcohol from the local market. Apparently the blanket ban wasn’t taken too seriously by some of the locals, despite the Sharia law punishment for those who bought, sold or consumed the evil brew being a fine, imprisonment, or even 60 lashes with a whip.
“Come down with me, Lee, it should be a laugh. After I get out of this god-awful frock,” she said, tugging on the hem of her blue tent.
“No, thanks, Liz. I’m going to take a hot bath. Since it’ll be my last for a month, I want to enjoy soaking in an actual tub.”
Liz had just changed out of her dress and into her usual Berghaus hiking pants and long-sleeved shirt, when there was a soft tap at the door.