THE HOSTAGE CRISIS CHANGED EVERYTHING AT SIN CITY. SUDDENLY THE base was the focus of interest – from the international community as well as the Taliban. The major announced that the civilians were to be evacuated. They would be replaced in the isoboxes by top army, Foreign Office and Intelligence personnel.A line-up of officers waited to receive the VIPs. The base came under frequent attack now and the Chinook was greeted by a volley of fire. Two Apaches hovered on either side, firing back.Some of the arrivals climbed out looking terrified. A few wore city suits under their body armour. The OC greeted them and the 2 i/c led them away. The OC remained with the small group of soldiers who had assembled to say goodbye to the civilians, departing on the same Chinook.Emily was tearful.‘Martyn and I did nothing but argue. But I think we did like each other really,’ she sobbed, as she shook hands with the men.Finn raised his eyebrows and said nothing.‘Don’t talk about Martyn in the past tense,’ said the OC. ‘We may get him back yet.’Emily clearly did not believe him.She prepared to board the Chinook, handbag glued to her shoulder, bag of papers in her other arm and an engineer carrying her suitcase.‘Goodbye, my dears,’ she said to Asma and Jean. ‘I appreciate how well you prepared me for the shura. It rates as one of my most fascinating experiences and the young tribesman was a most interesting cultural encounter.’They did not dare to tell her that the young tribesman had been shot by Special Forces and this action had probably prompted Martyn’s kidnap.She shook hands with the OC and his officers. ‘Thank you. Thank you for guarding us so well. I owe you all an apology. I have spent the last months telling you that your precautions were unnecessary. I will regret, to the end of my days, that I encouraged Martyn to treat this protection with such disdain. I have made it clear to anyone who will listen that his kidnap is not your fault.’The OC smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks, Emily. But that may not be enough to save my career.’The Chinook took off, as it had landed, under fire and accompanied by Apaches.‘I liked her in the end,’ Asma told Gordon Weeks.‘Emily?’ he said in surprise. ‘You and she are very different.’‘You mean, she’s brainy and I’m pretty.’‘I suppose I do mean that . . .’ He caught himself in time. ‘Although you’re brainy too, of course.’She laughed. ‘Not bloody quick enough, Gordon. But what I like about Emily is, she knows who she is and what she believes and she sticks to it. She doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of her.’The helicopters had disappeared. The enemy had stopped firing, although a few enthusiastic lads up in the sangars seemed keen to provoke a bit more of a fight. Jean had been called to the ops room. And, without discussing it, the boss and Asma were wandering towards the cookhouse for a brew. They had started to snatch a few minutes together whenever they could and Weeks suspected that these short meetings were becoming the high point of his day. He even found himself feeling agitated if he didn’t see her for a long time, as though she was a drug he depended on.‘But you have beliefs which you stick to, surely,’ said the boss now. He was fascinated by her background and returned to the subject as often as she let him.‘Christ, Gordon, you’re always prodding and poking. Look, I left Islam behind. I left my family behind. I left my husband behind. It doesn’t all add up to a lot of sticking power.’‘Maybe it just means you can’t do things by halves,’ said Weeks, pouring her a brew. She cupped her hands around the mug as though they were back in England and it was cold outside.‘When I got married I knew that meant I was leaving my family and leaving Islam. It all seemed far behind me. Until I came here.’‘So you’ve found your roots again.’‘Oh, you do talk a lot of crap. I’ve found my fucking DNA. That doesn’t mean I want to rush down the mosque with my shoes off praising Allah. It just means I’m a bit more interesting than someone who’s always lived in one country with one family speaking one language in one way.’ She did not meet his eye.‘Like me,’ he said. She still did not look at him. ‘So you don’t find me very interesting. You know nothing about what it’s like to be me in my world, but you’ve decided it’s all farmhouses and polo ponies and therefore not interesting. Maybe you should find out a bit more before you dismiss it.’He saw her wince a little. He wasn’t really offended. He was just challenging her because he had learned that she liked that.She stood up, smiling. ‘Oh, fuck off, Gordon Weeks!’ she said cheerfully. But she was blushing. He studied the way her skin darkened, from the neck upwards. It was lovely.‘See you later. I have to get over to the ops room now or Jean’ll kill me.’He watched her go, carrying her mug of tea carelessly. He wished he could show her his world. The big old farmhouse, the horses in their rugs running their muzzles across frosty winter grassland, the log fire, the warm kitchen, the draughty bedrooms, that place on the dining-room wall where his parents had marked the heights of their growing children. He tried to imagine Asma there, but it was impossible. Not because she came from Hackney but because she seemed to belong to the swelling heat of the Afghan desert.
