Gillian Anderson - A Vision of Fire

“Pakistani and Indian soldiers both came in,” Ignacio said. “Now they’re shooting at each other.”

Ben glanced at the ambassador’s face in the corner of his screen; it was frozen with horror.

Out Ignacio’s window, a pedestrian suddenly broke and ran for an alley but shrank in terror halfway, cowering next to a food stand as a soldier’s gunfire shredded bowls of nuts and dried fruits just above his head. A bilious yellow cloud of spices flew into the air. Ben jolted as another bomb exploded in his ears. A section of a temple roof shattered before his eyes, blasting fragments and black smoke. The explosion had come from the inside. Terrorists, most likely—local instigators blowing up their own home so they could kill outsiders.

“My god,” Ganak breathed.

Ignacio flipped his tablet to face himself but before he could speak his hands wobbled and the camera swung wildly, hitting the floor. Ben gasped. Had he been shot? But the picture remained, showing Ignacio crawling away from the window. He reached a woman lying nearby, grabbed her under the arms, and, still on his knees, dragged her jerking body through an arch into the living room. The woman was screaming, her stomach heaving, blood gushing from her mouth onto her yellow sari. They could see the red stain spreading over one side of her chest. Ignacio crawled back into the room and then he was facing the camera, yelling: “Get the UN forces here now ! I don’t have the authority—get the damned UN to order them to move !”

Then in the distance, another explosion. The picture dropped and the feed cut off.

Ben closed his eyes. He was perspiring, shaking as though he had a high fever. Globes of light were exploding behind his eyelids—physical memories of bombs at night high over Bangladesh in 2001. He heard his name from a distance, opened his eyes, and there was Ganak calling to him.

“ Ben…? ”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”

“I only recorded my portion—”

“I’ll send you the full recording.”

“Thank you. We must meet at once. Can you come to my office in half an hour?”

“Of course.”

The men ended the chat without courtesies. The ambassador would already be moving to contact military officers. Ben e-mailed the video, then sat and shook, wiping moisture from his brow and eyes. He wanted the whole goddamned thing over there to end, every madness humans inflicted on themselves to go away.

Back in the bedroom, Caitlin jolted awake.

She swung her legs out of bed and only then remembered that her old friend Ben had been in that bed all night.

She pulled on a bathrobe and padded down the hall, pausing outside Jacob’s room in case he was awake early. She heard nothing and continued to the living room, where she saw Ben sitting with his hands on the top of his head, huddled under her afghan in utter despair. Is he regretting last night? she thought, but then she noticed his tablet, his Google account open, and a blank video chat window.

“Ben,” she said, and placed one hand on his shoulder. His breathing was deep and ragged as he forced it into a rhythm, trying to control himself.

“Jammu,” he blurted. “Attack on a shopping center.”

“Oh no,” Caitlin said, sitting next to him.

“Sorry I woke you,” he said.

“You didn’t. Anything I can do?”

He shook his head and stood, dropping the blanket. “Another bump to the body count,” he said harshly, and shoved his tablet into his bag with sharp, angry movements. “I’ve got to meet the ambassador. This thing is beyond out of control.”

He hurried back to Caitlin’s bedroom, miserable and urgent.

She gave him his space. She knew this side of Ben—this side of the work they did. She picked up the afghan and wrapped it around herself, trying to focus on anything other than what Ben had just told her. She had not heard from Gaelle since she left Haiti. Whenever she called, she got the Anglade Charter voice mail. And Maanik—Caitlin was barely keeping a handhold on the cliff of that trauma. She almost envied Ben’s having a target to focus on: territorial carnivores fighting over land and ideology. What the hell was she battling? The session with Maanik had taunted rather than informed her. It was like she was searching for something cunning, cagey, that did not wish to be seen.

If I want to help these kids, if I want to sleep again, I need more information. Ben was dealing with his crisis by running toward it. She had to do the same.

There was another teenager Caitlin had not been able to contact yet. She brought up her phone’s browser and searched for Atash. It took some time but she discovered an article written the day before about self-immolation in Iran. It referred to the boy who set himself on fire in a library. He was, it said, in critical condition at a Tehran hospital.

Still alive , Caitlin thought with a rush of exhilaration.

Ben came charging into the living room.

“I’m sorry.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry I’m handling this so—so crappy.”

“You’re not,” she replied. “It’s been a helluva few days.”

He agreed with a grunt as he grabbed his coat and thrust an arm into it.

She struggled with herself, knowing that if she said anything now it was probably going to be seen as wrong—but it had to be said before she lost him to this crisis. “Ben, I know the timing couldn’t be worse but I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I have to get to Iran as soon as possible.”

Ben’s hands dropped from the coat zipper he’d been trying to close. He looked sad but when he spoke he sounded ferocious. “What are you talking about?”

“The boy who burned himself—he’s alive.”

“Okay—and?”

“You saw last night what we’re up against. I have to see him.”

“I need you to be alive, not kidnapped and imprisoned and God knows what. I’ll find you a translator and you can call him.”

“There’s no guarantee the boy can talk. And, Ben, I can’t see a nonexistent breeze over the phone.”

“If he can’t speak, if he’s that badly burned, the likelihood of getting anything from him isn’t worth the risk.”

“You can’t know that. I can find a way to safely navigate Iran if I have UN help.”

“Not through me, Caitlin.” Then, as though the sun had risen early, understanding washed over his expression. He turned to face her. “And not from me, either.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re running away from me.”

She was surprised. “Ben, I swear to god, I’m not. I have to see this boy now . He may not live—”

“I said no,” he snapped, giving up on the zipper, not meeting her eye as he grabbed his bag.

“Ben, listen. Last night I understood—no, I felt what could be possible with you. I felt the ability to hold more with you, to be stronger because it’s more than just me now.”

“Not buying. You’re punching out like I’m an appointment.”

“Please listen—”

“ No! I will not help you go to Iran, Caitlin.”

He left the room and headed through the foyer to the front door. She called after him, “I’m going, Ben. I’ll find another way.”

There was no reply but the sound of shoes on hardwood and the door shutting.

Caitlin strode to the dining table, picked up her cell phone, and called Director Qanooni of the World Health Organization.

Acouple hours later Qanooni called back from the Regional Office for Africa in Brazzaville, Congo. He was working through lunch at his desk. Caitlin told him there was a medical emergency in Iran and she needed to get there ASAP.