Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

Why do you think they haven’t responded?

Maybe they don’t trust you. Maybe they think you might be working for the enemy. Heck! Maybe you are.

Now which enemy would that be, Crane?

What exactly did you want to ask me, Zafar?

As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to ask you anything. I wanted to tell you something. That’s all. I wanted to share something with you. Nothing I don’t know is any of my business, but what I know is what I know and I just wanted to tell you what I know. You do with it what you will. That’s your business.

That sounded like English—

You understand I’m not asking you anything?

Go on.

You weren’t born yesterday, Crane. You know your reputation. I rather suspect you even cultivate it — or part of it, at any rate. I think you like being thought of as a cad, a noisy, rambunctious cad.

Boy, you’re straight out of the nineteenth century, aren’t you?

But there’s a rumor, something you’ll want to hear.

Crane looked at me intently and I let time draw out over us, cocoon us from what was going on in the guesthouse.

You do plan to tell me, don’t you? he asked presently.

Apparently, you’ve been driving north to C___ every week, I said, and stopped there.

Again I let time draw out.

Driving is a crime?

Funny you mention crime. I never practiced extradition law, but, if I remember it correctly, there’s a principle you might be interested to hear about.

Not if it means you don’t get to the point.

Oh, I’m getting to the point. In fact, all of this is the point. In a way I’ve arrived at the point. In general, a man can’t be extradited from country A to country B if the crime he’s accused of committing in country B is not a crime in country A.

I went to law school, interjected Crane.

Excuse me, Crane. Did you study extradition law?

No.

Then I’ll carry on, if I may. So if, for example, he’s accused of drinking alcohol in public in Saudi Arabia, say, where doing so is an offense, then when he’s in Germany, say, he can’t be extradited back to Saudi Arabia, because drinking alcohol in public is not an offense in Germany. Of course, this parallelism shouldn’t be taken too far. You asked if driving was a crime. Driving on the left side of the road in the States is indeed an offense, whereas in good old Blighty it isn’t. Quite the opposite: It’s mandatory. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get extradited from Britain to the U.S. simply because the alleged offense isn’t an offense in Britain. The allegation has to be properly characterized, you see. What about the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act? Not quite about extradition but still a good question. There the United States is claiming extraterritorial jurisdiction. As an American citizen, in certain matters one has to behave overseas. You can see what a fine thing the FCPA has been when you consider that corruption has been all but rooted out of American oil and arms companies. But extraterritorial jurisdiction has nothing to do with whether country A is obliged to hand over someone to country B. What matters is whether what’s alleged by B to have happened in B would, mutatis mutandis, constitute an offense in A.

What the hell is going on here?

I’m getting to it.

Zafar, if I’m not being accused of committing a crime on U.S. territory, then all this shit about extradition is irrelevant.

That’s a good point.

Are you? he asked.

Am I what?

Are you accusing me of some crime?

In the United States? I responded.

Yes.

No, I replied.

Well, why the hell are we talking about this?

You’re right, Crane. I’m prevaricating. Fact is, I’m uncomfortable.

Just say it. What’s my reputation? Don’t imagine I haven’t heard it all.

Thank you, Crane. You’re quite right. I’m sure there’s nothing to it. Are you going to dogfights?

Crane looked at me, apparently quite genuinely puzzled.

Are you fucking serious?

You’re not? I asked.

You’re out of your mind, he responded.

You’re not going to dogfights? I asked.

Is that what you wanted to tell me? That Colonel Mushtaq said I was going to dogfights? I haven’t got time for this. You haven’t got time for this.

Crane took a step toward the back door of the guesthouse.

And the girl? I asked.

Crane stopped. He was now right next to me.

What are you talking about?

I told you, Crane. I’m just talking about rumors, doubtless untrue, but you should know or at least you might want to know. We have a mutual friend, Crane. You could say I’m doing this as a favor to him. Do you want me to stop talking?

Go on.

Let’s go inside, I said stubbing out the cigarette on the ground.

We were both inside, the back door shut behind us, when I resumed.

This is, as you put it, a war zone, and what happens in Kabul stays in Kabul, but only if you’re discreet. The fact that others know could mean trouble.

What others?

I started to make as if I were pacing, as if I were avoiding the question. I moved toward the door, the one that led into the small hallway that went out into the courtyard.

Others, Crane, I said. I turned and paced again.

Fuck this.

Crane, you need friends here. You don’t care what the Afghanis think. I can get that. But you can’t afford to become a liability to the Americans, to your own.

Why the fuck should I care about stupid rumors?

What if it’s more than rumors? What if there’s evidence?

There was a knock.

I went to the door and opened it.

Yes! I shouted.

My back was to Crane. He might have caught at most Suleiman’s face but would at least have heard Suleiman’s voice.

I’m very sorry to disturb but there’s a letter—

Thanks! I shouted and grabbed the envelope with both hands. With my back to him still, Crane would have heard an envelope being ripped open.

Suleiman exclaimed, No, sir! It’s for Mr. Crane!

Thank you, Suleiman, I said, shutting the door.

I turned and walked toward Crane, handing him the torn envelope.

Excuse me. Where was I, Crane?

I’ve no idea, he replied.

Look. Here’s the deal. Too many people know about the girl. If it gets out any further, at best they’ll force you out of the country. At worst …

At worst what?

There’s a war on, Crane; there’s too much to lose. A lot of people need the Americans to stay here — can you imagine how much money’s at stake? Actually, you probably can. These people don’t need the scandal of a U.S. senator’s son screwing an Afghani girl. The line between deniable asset and bloody liability is convenience. Your death is nothing to them. Nothing. I hate to say it, but from where they stand it’s the neatest solution. Clean, upright, square-jawed all-American boy fighting for his country.

Are you really looking out for me? Crane asked.

He smiled. He seemed genuinely tickled by the thought.

We have a mutual friend, don’t we? Call it loyalty.

Crane extended his hand and took a step toward me.

How long are you here? he asked.

As long as it takes.

Listen, I’ve got to go now, but can we hook up in the next day or two? I want to talk to you about something.

A girl? I asked, half joking.

No! No! No! I’ll tell you later. So long.

Yes. So long, I replied.

Through the window I saw Crane walk across the courtyard to the AfDARI office.

God! You gave me a fright.

Suleiman had appeared from nowhere, announcing his presence with a tap on my shoulder.

Documents? I asked him.

Yes.

Did you take the pictures?

Yes.

The DVR? Where’s the recording of Crane?

Suleiman pulled a flash drive out of his pocket, handed it to me, and was out the door.