Free Danger Close by Charlie Flowers

hangar.
    The Taliban lad next to me said ‘Da lombrha Shahzadgai’ under his breath and laughed.
    I looked at him. ‘What was that?’
    Mo nudged me. ‘He said “The Fox Princess”’.
    I did a double take and he registered my confused and shocked look. ‘Yep. This is the talk. Up at the far north end of the site, in the women’s section, there’s a crazy girl called the Fox Princess, and they say she’s planning a prison break. Although that’s debatable. Could be the rumour mill on overdrive.’
    I sat down on a bench. Oh, my, God. I looked to the ceiling lights and laughed. Could it be?
    Mo glanced me up and down again. ‘So our new boy gets an orange jumpsuit. You jammy get. Thought they’d run out. They’re prized in here, makes people think they’ve been in Gitmo.’
    I looked back at him. ‘Mo. If you can get me into the far north end where the crazy people are, it’s all yours.’
    He grinned. ‘My man! You’re on.’
     
     

 
     
    14
     
    The next morning Mo, now proudly wearing my orange jumpsuit, took me for a guided tour round our section of the facility. He’d winked at me earlier and I’d inferred that he had a contact somewhere here. A fixer, maybe.
    We inspected the classrooms and the library, chatted to some inmates in the prison garden and then Mo haggled some cigarettes from a guard on the gate. Our wanderings took us back to the chow hall and we got served some unidentifiable vegetable slop and some crusty bread. The afternoon passed. Mo took me to the infirmary and I got my dressing changed. The bullet scar and livid rainbow bruising got a quizzical look from the nurse in charge, and I got a top-up shot of antibiotics. We did a walk of the razor-wired inner perimeter and ended up at the basketball court, where the southern Taliban guys were having a bounce-about against a team of what I was informed were common thieves from Kabul’s suburb of Shar-e Naw.
    The ball lazily smacked off the concrete and rattled off the wire fences. There were narrow walkways and serried rolls of concertina wire for as far as I could see in all directions. Mo fished out some fags and lit two. We smoked and watched the game. Mo spoke. ‘Hope your TB jab is up date, mate. It’s rife in here. That’s one thing me and you have got going for us, being Brits an’ all.’
    After an hour or so, there was a commotion at the blockhouse nearby. A guard snapped to attention and out came a big old bearded senior officer. Without any preamble he came and sat next to me and Mo. Mo stared straight ahead, suddenly deeply engrossed in the match.
    I studied the new arrival. Nicely-shaped beret. Mirror shades. Trimmed grey beard. Smart, pressed, digital-pattern fatigues.
    He spoke in perfect English. ‘You are Rizwan?’
    ‘I am.’
    He removed the shades, turned and smiled. ‘I am General Farukh, commander of Parwan Detention Facility.’
    Holy shit .
    He continued. ‘Mo tells me you have some crazy urge to get into the northern hangar to find some even crazier girl, is that correct?’
    I nodded.
    Everyone was quiet for a while. Someone in the court scored a slam-dunk and there was a cheer from the bleachers.
    ‘This crazy girl of yours has already killed one of my deputy commanders. You knew this?’
    ‘I did not.’
    ‘Yes. Mind you, he was an asshole.’
    We all laughed.
    ‘Let me tell you something about my command here, Rizwan. On the 10th of this month, the US military officially handed over control of this prison and its 3,082 occupants to me. And yet - when I arrive for work, the Americans on the perimeter take my phone from me. If I want to bring in a prisoner, I need American permission. That can take days. In fact for captured Pakistani or foreign national fighters, it’s almost impossible, and therefore I’m surprised you are here. When I conduct interviews, two American “advisors” sit with me. It is… a nonsense.’
    He seemed to be weighing things up. Finally he spoke. ‘Mo. Please could