In Afghanistan, British secret servicewoman Marcie Brown, posing as the third wife of one of ISAF’s most trusted operatives, is killed in a drone strike.
Or at least, that’s what the official report states. Deep inside enemy territory, what remains of her body is deemed irrecoverable.
Seven thousand miles away, in Britain, her grieving husband, MI7 Officer Nicholas Fleming, joins a police investigation which stumbles onto an Islamist plot to bomb central London. Handed responsibility for the counter-terrorism initiative, he uncovers evidence that one of the bombers is his wife.
By degrees, the utterly unbelievable becomes plausible and, at last, undeniable. Questions such as what really happened to her become academic as love and duty are rendered incompatible. To save the lives of hundreds of innocent people, Fleming must order the destruction of the only woman he has ever loved.
To make matters worse, there is evidence that she is slowly recovering her memory …
The Girl From Kandahar is a love story played out on both sides of the War on Terror. Its detailed understanding of Pashtun culture and Islam is matched by a corresponding recognition of Western motives and concerns. Above all, it deals with the human side of the conflict: families split, loved ones lost, communities broken, distrust, hostility, grief.
Yet its prognosis is far from bleak. In the end, it may be that no ideology is as powerful as the simple truth that our best hope lies in each other.
Ruby Parker and the man who styled himself ‘Toby Copthorne’ sat opposite each other at a table by the river-view window with an A4 document wallet in between them. They hadn’t ordered lunch, nor were they intending to. The staff here were supposed to understand such things, and knew to keep their distance. She was the head of Subterranean One, a black woman in a grey skirt-suit. He might or might not have been the Blue Maiden. He looked to be in his late fifties, and his camel overcoat, immaculately ironed white shirt, navy blue tie and trimmed moustache all gave him an air of gravitas, possibly bluff or triple bluff. It was midday and six swans serenely battled the current.
She removed the inserts - a mixture of memos, reports on 80g/sqm paper and aerial reconnaissance photos - and perused them in silence. He ordered a bottle of pinot noir, largely, she calculated, as a means of maintaining his insouciance - she suddenly realised he wasn’t the Blue Maiden after all – and leaned back: yes, another affectation.
“You’re saying she’s dead?” Ruby Parker said eventually.
“I’m very sorry,” he replied.
“Talk me through it,” she said coldly.
“It’s all in there.”
“I’m very busy and, for what it’s worth, I know you’re not who you’d like me to think you are. Tell your boss you’ve still a lot to learn.”
He sat up a notch.
“Dead or missing?” she said.
“Missing presumed killed.”
“And you’re returning her to me because you want me to tell her parents, I take it.”
He looked at the tablecloth and tried to affect an air of humility. “You’re supposed to be very good at that sort of thing, yes."
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Portuguese
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Bárbara Contarini
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Lia Garcia
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Author review: Superb work. And fantastically quick! Thank you so much. |
