Glenne shrugged. “Bohr and Waage were on a long drive and stopped in the desert so the sergeant could have a shit. The sergeant went behind some rocks, and when he didn’t come back after twenty minutes and didn’t answer when he was called, Bohr said in his report that he got out of the car to look for him. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t budge.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because there’s not that fucking much that can happen in a desert. Because one or two Taliban farmers with basic rifles and a knife were sitting behind the rocks waiting for Bohr to come looking. And Bohr obviously knew that. And he was safe in the bulletproof car with open ground between him and the rocks. He knew there wouldn’t be any witnesses to prove he was lying. So he locked all the doors and called the camp. They told him it was a five-hour drive from there. Two days later an Afghan unit found a trail of blood on the pavement, several kilometres long, a few hours farther north. Sometimes the Taliban torture prisoners by dragging them behind a cart. And outside a village even farther north, a head was found on a stake stuck in the ground by the side of the road. His face had been scraped off on the pavement, but DNA analysis in Paris confirmed that it was Sergeant Waage, of course.”
“Mm.” Harry toyed with his coffee cup. “Do you think that about Bohr because you’d have done the same thing if it had been you, Glenne?”
The military police officer shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not under any illusions. We’re human, we all take the path of least resistance. But it wasn’t me.”
“So?”
“So I judge other people just as hard as I would have judged myself. And maybe Bohr did that as well. It’s tough for a commanding officer to lose any of his troops. Bohr was never the same after that, anyway.”
“So you think he raped and murdered his interpreter, but what broke him was the fact that the Taliban took his sergeant?”
Glenne shrugged again. “Like I said, I wasn’t allowed to investigate, so all I’ve got are theories.”
“And what’s your best one?”
“That the business of the rape was just a cover-up to make it look like sexually motivated murder. To get the police to look among the usual suspects and perverts. Which is a fairly thin file in Kabul.”
“A cover-up for what?”
“For Bohr’s real project. To kill someone.”
“Someone?”
“Bohr had a problem with killing, as you already know by now. And when you’re in Special Forces, that’s abigproblem.”
“Really? I didn’t think they werethatbloodthirsty.”
“They’re not, but…how can I explain it?” Glenne shook his head. “The old school in Special Forces, the ones who came through paratrooper training, were picked because of their long-term intelligence-gathering behind enemy lines, where patience and stamina are the most important qualities. They were the Army’s long-distance runners, OK? That’s where Bohr fitted in. Now, the focus is on antiterrorism in urban settings. And you know what? The new Special Forces look like ice hockey players, if you see what I mean? And in this new environment, a rumour had gone around saying Bohr was…” Glenne pulled a face, as if he didn’t like the taste of the word on his tongue.
“A coward?” Harry asked.
“Impotent. Imagine the shame. You’re in command, but you’re still a virgin. And not a virgin because you’ve never had the opportunity, because there are still soldiers in Special Forces who have never found themselves in a situation where it’s been necessary to kill. But because you couldn’t get it up when it mattered. See what I mean?”
Harry nodded.
“As an old hand, Bohr knew that the first kill is the hardest,” Glenne went on. “After that first blood it gets easier. Much easier. So he chose an easy first victim. A woman who wouldn’t put up a fight, who trusted him and wouldn’t suspect anything. One of the hated Hazaras, a Shia in a Sunni Muslim country, someone plenty of people might have a motive to kill. And then maybe he got a taste for it. Killing is a very special feeling. Better than sex.”
“Is it?”
“So they say. Ask people in Special Forces. And tell them to answer honestly.”
Harry and Glenne looked at each other for a few moments before Glenne looked at Kaja. “All of this is just things I’ve thought to myself. But if Bohr has admitted to his wife that he killed Hela—”
“Hala.”
“…then you can count on my help.” Glenne drank the last of his coffee. “Connolly never rests. I need to get back to training.”
—
“Well?” Kaja asked when she and Harry were standing outside in the street. “What do you think about Glenne?”
“I think he hits too long because he doesn’t read the spin.”
“Funny.”
