Chandra turned on her heels and strode out of the room.
Bernadette let her head fall back on her pillow. She needed to think. How badly hurt was she? She knew about head trauma. She lifted her hand to her head and felt her entire forehead. She had no outward sign of injury. The bomb blast would have produced a wave that would have bounced off her body. She thought it would be similar to having three to four big 280-pound hockey guys hit her full force in the rink. She always thought in hockey terms.
She’d had a head trauma years ago when she was sixteen. Three girls had given her a beating. She survived, took up karate and never had to take another beating. But a rocket propelled grenade was different. She would have to wait and see and develop a plan. Bernadette always had plans. She let herself fall asleep.
5
Sardar Agha walked into the grand hall and let his eyes slowly take in the room. This day was the Loya Jirga, the grand assembly of the tribes of Afghanistan.
Normally, it would be in Kabul, but the theft of the holy robe of the Prophet Mohammad made Kandahar the central focus. Sardar Agha was both blessed and cursed. His presence was sought after. He’d been the one who’d seen the robe last. He knew everything about it, but if he failed to have it returned…?
He moved confidently into the hall, his son, Barlas beside him. He’d picked out his name; it meant strong, powerful, and authoritative. Barlas was none of these. He suffered from a weak chin that his patchy beard did not cover, eyes that were too close together, and hunched over shoulders that seemed to be an apology when he spoke.
At 70, Sardar was tall for his years. His fierce eyes were hooded beneath bushy eyebrows that were still jet-black. The Koran was the cornerstone of his life, but politics and power coursed through his veins. It was how you survived in Afghanistan. He’d outlived the Russian occupation, their scurrying home, and then the warlords followed by the Taliban. Finally, here he was amongst the tribes while the last vestiges of the mighty American military camped on their doorstep.
His dream was to banish all foreigners from their soil. The Americans and their NATO allies would have to go, with their cursed government contractors that brought bribes and despair to the people. The Afghanis were pure people, when left alone they fought and haggled amongst themselves, but they left their blood in the soil of this desert and mountainous country. It made them strong.
He would bring the faithful back, banish the warlords, and bring the Taliban to their senses. To Sardar, the Taliban had been right to rise up against the warlords, but they went too far. If he could reason with them, he would make them once again the guardians of the faith. Afghanistan would be the great country it was meant to be.
“Come, Barlas,” Sardar commanded. “Pull back your shoulders and follow me. We have much to talk about with the many tribes. See how I do this and take note.”
Barlas pulled his shoulders back, stood ramrod straight and followed his father. As soon as his father turned his back, his shoulders slumped as if he really didn’t have it in him.
They made their way across the sea of men, many in clusters of deep conversation. Barlas noted the men all looked as his father walked past. Some gave a nod. Some muttered a Muslim greeting of “Peace be upon you,” casting their eyes down in reverence. Sardar muttered back a wa’alaikum assalam, the Muslim reply of “and unto you be peace,” to some and nodded at others. To others, he gave no reply to show his indifference of their low position.
Sardar was seeking Jamshed Rabbini. He found him engrossed with three other men in heated conversation.
Rabbini lifted his head when he saw Sardar. “As-salam alaykom.”
Sardar touched Rabbini’s sleeve. “Wa’alaikum assalam. We have much to discuss.”
One of the men, Abdul-Bari, looked at Sardar in surprise. “I’m sure you have much to talk about. The sacred robe of Mohammed has gone missing right from under your nose. How do you intend to deal with such an insult to the Afghan people?”
Sardar looked at Abdul-Bari. He was an imam from the second largest mosque in Kabul. He was related to the president, so he could not be disrespectful to this man.
He bowed his head and placed his hand over his heart. “My revered brother, Abdul-Bari has made a good point. The robe was under the care of my disciples and it was stolen.” He looked directly into the group of men. “You must know that I have already placed a fatwa on the men, the foreign infidels that stole the robe.”
Abdul-Bari laughed “You have placed a death threat on the infidels? How will that see the return of the robe?” He looked at the other men to prove his point. They nodded in agreement.
Sardar’s face turned red, and he sputtered, “The fatwa will have the many tribes give up the hiding place of the infidels and return the robe to its proper place in Kandahar.”
Abdul-Bari raised his hand to Sardar to make a point. “My brother, if fatwas worked, then Jamshed Rabbini’s uncle would still be alive today.”
Sardar stared at Jamshed. He could see the hurt that the man’s words had brought. In 2011, Taliban suicide bombers had assassinated his uncle, Burhanuddin Rabbani. His uncle had served as the President of Afghanistan from 1992 to 1996 and had tried to get a fatwa placed on all suicide bombers. He was not successful. The Talban had approached him to make peace; one of them had a bomb in his turban. Sardar told himself to never embrace a Taliban with a turban.
Jamshed shook his head at Abdul-Bari’s inference. “This reference makes no sense my brother, and it is not the same. Now, please excuse me, I must speak with Sardar.”
They walked away from the other men. To Sardar, it couldn’t have been a moment too soon. Abdul-Bari was a presumptuous little turd. He used his connection to the president for his benefit. Without the president as his protector he would be lucky to get a job as a goat herder.
His son, Barlas, correctly knowing he was not needed or wanted, melted away into the crowd.
“How is it with you, Sardar?” Jamshed asked.
“These are troubling times, my friend,” Sardar said as he looked around the room. He limited his expressions and his gestures, as if he was discussing the weather.
“How will you deal with the missing robe? Do you have any leads?”
“Yes, I believe the infidels were put up to the theft.”
“By whom?”
“Our friends in the Hazara tribe.”
Jamshed adjusted his cap. He wore a black cap and black robe, similar to what his uncle had worn. Jamshed was a Tajik, the second largest ethnic group in Afghanistan. That Sardar, a Pashtun of the largest ethnic group and Jamshed were able to get along was a mystery to many. There was distrust between the Tajiks and Pashtuns, as the Tajiks had always been in power when foreigners had ruled the land.
Sardar had sought out Jamshed many years ago; he told him it was to unite the tribes. He never told him it was because he could not get along with his uncle. Secretly he’d rejoiced when the Taliban had murdered him.
“You think the Hazara tribe is behind the theft. You have some proof of this?” Jamshed asked.
Sardar stroked his beard lightly; he had to be careful with these next words. “I heard a rumor that the Hazara would like more prominence in Loya Jirga. They feel that their voices are not heard. If they had the robe, they would have that power.”
Jamshed rubbed his eye. “If this were true it would make sense. The Hazara are Shia Muslims. They believe they are left out of many of our sacred religious practices and not represented in our parliament.”
“What if they used the stealing of the robe to unsettle our country? This might have all the tribes at war. A civil war might bring in our neighbors to the west,” Sardar said.
Jamshed’s eyes went wide. “You think that Iran would dare attack Afghanistan?”
“No, they would not need to attack. They would walk in to protect their fellow Shia Muslims. Where would we be if this happened?”
“The Americans would never let it happen.”
Sardar look
ed around to see if they were being overheard. “If you were a student of history as I am, you’ll remember that America supported South Vietnam for years until they got sick of hemorrhaging money and losing their sons and daughters. When North Vietnam attacked they did nothing but remove their army and as many of those who had been faithful to them.”
Jamshed bowed his head, letting Sardar’s words take hold. “Yes, you are right. There is much talk in America that they are tired of our wars. I cannot say I blame them.”
They both looked across the room where Abdul Ali Balkihi was huddled with the others of his Hazara tribe. He looked just like the rest of his clan; a mixture of Mongolian and central Asian ancestry made them easily identifiable. There were close to three million Hazara in Afghanistan and much bad blood between the Hazara and the Pashtuns. The Hazara had been subjected to massive killings when they refused to be ruled and staged an uprising in 1883. Since then, mistrust, and that they followed the Shia and not the Sunni branch of Islam, kept many of them as outsiders.
“If the Hazara tribe is trying to incite the rest of Afghanistan, the stealing of the robe would be the thing to put the match to fuel,” Sardar said.
“You must be very careful, Sardar,” Jamshed said. “If you are right, you will have to do this quietly. We would have to strike quickly. But if you were wrong, it would be your head. You know that?”
Sardar made a tight smile and put his hand over his chest. “Jamshed, I am only a poor servant of God. I assure you, that everything I do is only for the good of Afghanistan. I will make sure I work in quiet until this is resolved.”
“I have my faith in you, my friend. Let me know what you find.”
“Yes, my friend, inshallah, I will have an answer soon,” Sardar said. He walked back to the group of men and waved for his son to follow him. He tried not to show the feeling of joy that was brimming inside of him. He’d been able to place the theft onto the Hazara.
Jamshed would discuss this with others in his close family this evening. Afghanis could keep nothing secret. This rumor he’d started would be common knowledge by the end of week.
6
Bernadette Callahan realized she had made a mistake and needed to fix it. For the past three days she had languished in the hospital, a policeman outside and the nurses watching her every move.
She would have to accept her return to Canada. That was all there was to it. The nurse arrived with her breakfast and Bernadette smiled.
“Nurse Sharbat, I want to apologize for my attitude. I’m truly sorry.”
The nurse put down the breakfast tray. She looked at Bernadette’s sad eyes and took her hand. “You have been through much trauma. I know you have come to search for your fiancé, and I cannot know what you must feel now that you must return to your country.”
Bernadette brushed a tear from her eye. “Yes, it is sad, but you nurses and the doctor have been wonderful. I have not been the best patient, and for that I’m truly sorry.”
“Please, do not be sorry. This will only hamper your recovery. You must now eat and get better. We will have you back home to your own doctors soon.”
She was a pretty, young woman of twenty-six with light brown skin, a cascade of dark brown hair that showed under her hijab, and bright green eyes. For days she had tried to communicate with Bernadette, but to no avail. Now that Bernadette had accepted her fate, she seemed much happier.
“Will you try to walk a bit today?” Sharbat asked.
“Yes, of course, will you help me?”
“It will be my honor. Now you must eat your halleem and drink your tea.”
Bernadette looked at the meal called halleem. It was oatmeal with chicken and cardamom. The tea was green with cardamom and ginger. Neither was appealing to her. Bacon and eggs with rye toast would be preferable. She smiled and took a large spoonful of halleem, put it in her mouth, and winked at Sharbat. Never had she eaten anything as weird as this. To add to the dish, the cook had put a dollop of oil on top.
She finished her tea and oatmeal; Sharbat cleared her tray and then helped her out of bed. Bernadette’s feet were wobbly at first. She’d been in bed for five days. The headaches had ceased, but now she had vertigo and the room spun when she turned her head to one side.
Sometimes a crazy slow motion thing happened with her eyes, as if she was watching a movie screen in a jerky frame by frame. It made her sick to her stomach. She hadn’t told the doctors or the nurses. She knew they’d keep her longer if she did.
With Nurse Sharbat at her side, she made it down the hall. Other patients, nurses, and a few doctors greeted her as she walked. They came to a stop at the nursing station. Bernadette had to hold onto the counter to steady her trembling legs.
“I will get a wheel chair to take you back to your room,” Sharbat said.
Bernadette smiled weakly. “Let me see how far I can get before you help me. I need to exercise these legs.” She turned, walked four more steps, and collapsed.
Sharbat called to the other nurses, “Sisters, please help me get her back to her room.”
Two nurses and an orderly picked up Bernadette, put her in a wheel chair, and got her back into bed. Bernadette thanked each of them as they tucked her in.
“Now, you must rest,” Sharbat said.
Bernadette nodded and went to sleep.
That afternoon, she was pulling herself out of bed after lunch. She got to her feet and moved down the hall using a wheel chair in front for stability. She made it to the nursing station and halfway back before Nurse Sharbat found her and scolded her.
“You must wait for someone from physiotherapy to come and work with you. They will help to train your legs. Please let us do our job for you.”
Bernadette nodded. “You all work so hard, you have so many patients that are much worse. I have only a mild head trauma. Many of your patients have the wounds of war. I’m trying to heal myself so I will not be a burden on you.”
“My dear sister, please, you are so brave. Please let me help you,” Sharbat said, helping her back into bed.
Bernadette let tears fall freely. Sharbat put her head on her shoulder and rubbed her back as Bernadette fell asleep.
The next day, Bernadette was up and walking without the wheelchair. She was now going to and from the nursing station. The other nurses marveled at her quick recovery.
Chandra Gupta arrived that afternoon. “I’ve heard of your recovery and your attitude change.” She was wearing the same blue overcoat as before with a different color headscarf, her lipstick a bright red.
Bernadette smiled at Gupta. “Yes, I’m so sorry for my attitude. I realized that in my condition, I should not be running around Afghanistan trying to find Chris. You’re doing everything you can and I thank you for that.”
Chandra let out a sigh of relief. “We so rarely get thanks in the consulate. Everyone thinks we move at a snail’s pace. No one realizes what we are faced with here in Afghanistan.”
“Yes, I’m sure you must have a massive task before you. I’ll be on my way in a few days once I’ve made arrangements for my return. Now, if I could just have my passport and my clothes, I’ll be getting myself ready.”
Chandra stopped. She gave Bernadette a penetrating look as if trying to see into her mind. “Your passport and clothes will be returned to you on your day of departure and you will then be escorted to the airport by either myself or someone from our consulate.”
Bernadette nodded and smiled. “Of course. I’m sorry to rush you on that. Thanks again for all of your help.”
Chandra seemed to have expected a confrontation, but Bernadette gave her none. She shook hands with Bernadette and left the hospital.
Chandra met with a co-worker that evening for dinner. They were about to dig into a savory dish of lamb and rice when her cell phone rang. “Your Canadian detective has escaped our hospital.” Dr. Ahmed said.
Chandra shook her head. “Doctor, she has no passport, she will not get far without that and her visa.”
> “She picked the lock and took her things from the nursing station. She somehow got past the police. We have no idea where she is.”
Chandra rubbed her forehead. “You must alert the police to search for her.”
“No,” Dr. Ahmed said. “This is a Canadian Consulate matter. The police will not get involved. You will need to find her yourself. If she feels she is well enough to leave, then we cannot stop her. We are only a hospital, not a prison.”
Chandra ended her call. Her friend looked at her. “What will you do?”
“Nothing. She has her passport and her visa. I would have to apply to the Afghanis to have her visa revoked. That could take weeks… She got past me with her lie. I underestimated her. I won’t do that again.”
7
Bernadette’s escape had taken her three days to plan. The trips to and from the nursing station allowed her to find out that her passport and documents were in a locked cupboard under a counter.
The sturdy-looking lock on the cupboard had “American Lock” inscribed on it. A criminal she’d arrested many times had told her wiggling a paper clip might work on television, but it was a lie. You needed proper tools.
He’d also told her, “No lock is safe—it’s only the time it takes to open it. All you need is time.”
In the three days of roaming the halls, she found an unlocked room with surgical supplies. She picked up a surgical tool with a slight bend and a long wire. In the middle of the night, while the nurses did their rounds, she picked the lock. Her criminal acquaintance would have been proud of her.
She retrieved her passport, visa, and wallet with all of her cash and credit cards. Her clothes were a problem, but she’d found a solution.
On the day of her escape, she waited until the night shift change. She slipped out of bed and hurried to the supply room. Donning a set of surgical scrubs, she covered them with a lab coat. The hospital mosque and the evening prayer solved the shoe problem. The shoes were left outside the room.
Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery Page 3