by Judith Price
She knew there was probably no Internet but she had nothing else to do. Pulling her laptop out of her bag, she waited to see if there was a wireless connection. She got out her notebook too, and began to review her visions. In the absence of “You’ve got mail,” “You’ve got no Internet” chimed back to Jill. Apprehensively, she leaned on her carry-on perched behind her against the wall and closed her eyes trying to think. David, where are you? There was no answer back.
The sound of a key unlocking the door woke Jill so fast she slipped off the edge of the bed and onto the dingy floor. Quickly jumping up, she brushed her hands down the back of her pants as Zayed walked in.
When he turned to lock the door, Jill saw a large black duffel bag draped over his left shoulder. He walked past her and tossed it onto the other cot. Small particles of sand fell off it and onto the bed cover. Before she could ask, Zayed unzipped the dirt-ridden zipper and began to sort through the bag, revealing several guns, grenades, some paper, and maps.
Perplexed, Jill asked, “Where did you get this stuff?”
Without looking in Jill’s direction Zayed responded, “I hired an intelligence broker in Doha to help us here in Kushka.”
Jill stared at him, mouth agape. “How did you hire an intelligence broker when we had to leave the hotel so fast?” She tried to remember when they first talked about Kushka. Was it on the way to the fishing village in Doha?
“Before we left Doha, while we were on the boat, I called a friend who knew an IB, one that dealt with this kind of information over here,” he said. “He arranged to have the GPS coordinates left for me at the hotel.”
“But,” she paused, trying to think fast. Her head tilted slightly. “How did they know where we were going to be staying? And how can you trust anyone here, Zayed? You’re telling me that you potentially compromised our safety, my safety? Did you even think of David?”
“I have people I trust, Jill.” He smiled crookedly. This pissed off Jill even more. “Besides, the coordinates were in encrypted code. No one would know what they meant and the instructions were left for me under an alias.” Then, with a patronizing glare, he said, “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know this is the only hotel in Kushka, Jill.”
“How did you get a GPS?” she demanded suspiciously.
“Calm down, Jill. I asked the driver to wait so I could use his GPS. The geocache was buried quite close to the hotel and the marker was easy to spot.”
Geocache. Jill knew what a geocache was, but how did Zayed? Geocaching, now a popular high-tech treasure hunter’s sport, began in World War I, but it wasn’t called geocaching back then. Markers were left for men on the frontlines to hide what they needed to hide. Nowadays in military operations, GPS coordinates give almost the precise location with predetermined markers to mark the exact spot where something of value was buried.
More than one million caches from all over the world were listed on websites where would-be Indiana Jones’ would hunt via GPS. Contained in the geocaches was a nominal treasure. They didn’t normally contain anything of monetary value, but something a treasure hunter would value—perhaps a coin or trinket. Included in these caches was a logbook and pen, for the finder to log their discovery, they then had to replace the treasure with something of a higher value. There were more than a hundred countries with geocaches, and over five million ‘geocachers’ playing the game the last time Jill read about it.
Airplane parts my ass. There was no way Zayed worked in the airplane parts industry as he had told her. This man had too many connections, too much knowledge, and too many secrets. Jill’s brow furrowed as she thought of what to do next. She knew that he wasn’t a simple salesman or PRO and tried to give him the benefit of her paranoia. She tried. But alarm bells kept ringing in her head. “Where did you get the money to hire a broker?”
He began to speak, but before he got a sound out Jill could see him mouth the word David … as if in slow motion … then she felt the back of her neck tingle. Jill tried to keep her poker face as she stared at Zayed, silent. No flicker in her eye. Her only thought, and she had thought it before: bullshit!
Jill knew David’s spending habits, and there was no way in hell he would leave money in someone’s hands—let alone someone in the Middle East of whom Jill had never heard of. To put it mildly, David was a tightwad. Not to mention Jill would have noticed a large amount of money missing from their joint account. She didn’t monitor David’s spending habits very often, but she would have noticed something out of sync, something that didn’t mesh. And he didn’t use their joint credit card; otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to afford the first-class trip to Doha. David made good money as a freelance journalist, but Jill would have noticed anything unusual.
Her gaze turned to the bed on which sat the Glocks. She just confirmed Zayed’s bullshit. It wasn’t her paranoia. It was blatant and now she knew for sure. Somehow, now more than ever, she needed to trust herself. She needed to get off that goddamn shrinks couch. Screw the pity party. She needed to take control and she needed to do it now.
With this newfound information, Jill needed to figure out what to do about Zayed. She was in the middle of the end of the world with a man she did not trust.
Why did Zayed come all this way for a man he barely knows? Think, Jill, think.
Zayed went into the bathroom leaving her alone with the armory on the bed. Her hand reached for a gun. Caressing the cold metal and tapping her foot, Jill began to recall her time with Zayed. Whatever was nagging her brain grated hard like a child’s whine. First, his stance, the way he held himself. Second was his scanning. He knew a military surveillance tactic and used it well. And now with the geocache too, all of this confirmed her suspicions. She wanted so much to believe Zayed was helping because he was David’s PRO. But that was just foolish, and she now knew for sure that this was not true. What kind of training would he have? Before she could factor a conclusion, Zayed returned from the bathroom.
“I reviewed the information in this document,” Zayed said. “There is a man in the old souk about two blocks from the hotel.”
“Hotel, my ass,” Jill blurted gruffly. Zayed frowned and reopened the document.
She needed to figure out who he was, what he knew, and what his motive was for dragging her along with him. I need to get closer to him to find out more information about him. She considered her options. She could just outright ask him—Jill style. But then she didn’t want him to know that this new information confirmed her suspicions. Not until she knew exactly who he was.
The hundred-watt light glowed down on them as Zayed, still reading, sank onto the cot across from Jill. He looked up to find Jill staring through him. He leaned his back against the wall not caring.
“How much money did David give you, Zayed?” Jill said matter-of-factly.
Zayed began to blink slightly faster. “He gave me $25,000 US dollars.”
“Twenty-five grand? Why would he need to give you that much money?”
“Contacts costs money, Jill. A lot of money. Don’t worry, I am sure he got the money from Time. If not I am sure they’ll reimburse him. They pay well for information.”
Jill caught the blinks and continued pressing. “You said you knew David for a couple of years and helped him with introductions to key people so he could get the story. When was this? When did you meet him?”
The right side of Zayed’s mouth crinkled up but he said nothing. She looked back. The pregnant pause made Zayed growl, “You don’t trust me.” His accent was thick with anger.
Then Jill did something that didn’t make sense to herself. She pulled herself up fast, walked over to the cot beside Zayed, and sat Indian style with her boots crisscrossed under her legs.
“I know I asked you this before, Zayed, but why are you going to such lengths to help me, to help David?”
With his head cocked, he looked at her inquisitively then said. “Miss Jill, you must not think I am the enemy. Why would I stop the Chechens from takin
g you?” His lusty eyes brightened as he leaned forward.
A knock on the door caused Zayed to jump up, grab a gun, and rush to the door. Just before he grabbed the grungy knob, he glanced back at Jill and hand gestured her to move behind him. Jill did as he asked and watched Zayed fling open the door.
Before he was about to square a bullet between the door-knocker’s eyes, Zayed whipped the gun behind his back.
“Si-si-si-sir,” the young man stuttered. “Here is the map you asked for.” His shaky hand presented a bright baby-blue map.
Jill sat back on the cot next to the geocache listening to the faint talk at the door. She knew he had lied about where he got the money; that was an easy read. Blinking speeds up when a person is lying. She enjoyed confirming this by studying politicians giving their campaign promises or their version of the truth. Especially the infamous line from the one who said, “I did not have sexual relations.” He boasted seventy-nine blinks.
For now, she had to keep Zayed at bay and for now, she needed his help. Jill felt, in the core of her being, that even in his presence, she was alone.
With the timid delivery boy gone, Zayed locked the door and pulled out the key. He said in a somewhat impatient manner, “I will go find the café.” Jill didn’t say anything. “We found the café on the map,” he said. “I’ll go to see if the informant will speak to me.” His domineering attitude was back. “And I will go alone.”
“I will not have it, Zayed,” Jill said in a way that made him know she meant it.
“He will not speak to a woman,” he rebutted.
Jill turned her back to him and crossed her arms. Less than a minute later she had come up with a plan. “I can dress like a man, and I will.” Without waiting to hear what he thought, Jill pulled out her switchblade from her pants and marched to the bathroom. “Give me one of your larger shirts. If I don’t speak, no one will know I am a female.” She didn’t look back for acceptance.
Inside the dingy bathroom, Jill stood in front of the mirror and for a brief moment reconsidered. No, I have to do this. The tap was dripping into a bowl, at the bottom of which was wet sludge. There were no windows in the bathroom and she didn’t want to consider what was inside the square open hole on the side of the stained tub. Jill shuddered and looked into the cracked mirror. She couldn’t remember the last time she had short hair. David loved her long, jet-black locks. For some reason she could never grow it past her bra line, but she loved how straight it was, compliments of her Navajo ancestors. The sound of the blade cutting away the hair grated to the bone. As the long tangled locks fell into the sink, she thought of David. She could see in the mirror that Zayed was curiously watching her, glancing, intrigued by her boldness. But he stayed silent. She looked back, continuing to cut until her hair was spiky short. Angling her head in different directions as if posing for a photo shoot, Jill tried to find any sort of comfort looking back at her. There was none. Her body was athletic and strong and her angular face could pass as a man’s with this haircut. A pretty one, but a man nonetheless.
Jill passed the room with the broken toilet on her way out. Something scurried on the floor in her peripheral vision, but she told herself not to recognize it. She became anxious when Zayed handed her his shirt.
“I think it is a bad idea, Jill. David would not approve.”
“I won’t get in the way.” She snatched the shirt from him and lifted the worn black T-shirt over her head, covering her fatigues to make her look more bulky. His smell lingered for just a few seconds. Jill couldn’t help but notice a man’s smell. From a stale musky sweat to a sweet musk, to her they all smelled similar.
“When do we go?” she asked impatiently.
Zayed picked up one of the guns and racked the slide, ensuring a bullet sat tightly in the chamber. Then he handed it to Jill.
“Just so you know, Jill,” Zayed warned, “this guy is a member of the Taliban, an unfriendly. We need to be careful. You need to be careful.”
Jill took the warning on board, but she wasn’t staying in the hotel. “You have a hat in that bag?” Her black fatigues complemented her newfound black ball cap, tilted down over her eyes.
Outside the run-down hotel, and with night upon them, Zayed did his scan. They moved down a side street, and were consumed by the gloom of the town. The backstreets were similar to the backstreets of Doha, with the addition of battlefield décor, which made them look slummy. A carpenter's shop door was opened wide, the sound of nails being hammered into wood escaping out to the night. A large pile of wood appeared to be stacked neatly until they walked past, giving Jill a close-up of wood with nails sticking out haphazardly. She wanted to ask about wooden structures in Afghanistan, but that was too trivial right now. On the left were broken down vehicles that had been obviously towed there. The front parts of unrecognizable trucks and decades-old cars were missing. A thick coating of dust and dirt indicated that they had been there a long time.
Large neon signs in the local language lit up the dismal streets and shop fronts where they walked. Jill followed Zayed across one small backstreet and then another, their boots clunking on the gravel. Then Zayed stopped fast.
“See over there,” he pointed, whispering. “See that café? That is where he is supposed to have coffee in the evenings.”
“Do we have a name?” Jill asked.
Zayed didn’t answer.
They stopped twenty or so yards from the building when a man in local attire stumbled out of the door, leaned up against the side of the building, and attempted to steady himself. A minute later, the drunk was staggering down the street.
Zayed’s hand shushed her as they approached the door. Without hesitation, Zayed walked in. Posturing, wishing she had a shot of testosterone, Jill followed. Inside, the café looked more like an old biker bar you would find behind a gas station somewhere on Route 66. The walls were covered in chipped orange paint in an attempt to mask the cement, which Jill could barely make out through the cloud of cigarette smoke anyway. To the left were a couple of stools at a makeshift bar. A large cracked mirror hung behind it extending to the right corner where two men sat smoking. They looked up through the smoke. She waited by the door and Zayed walked across the ten-foot-long room.
He mumbled something in Arabic and then, “Hamrain?” The sound of this name punched Jill in the gut. Adrenaline began to rush through her. It was the name that was on David’s notes back at the house. Poker face on, she tried not to show her interest or elation that they were getting closer to finding her husband. Focus. She rehearsed scenarios while watching Zayed. She scanned discreetly.
Three o’clock. Two Afghanis smoked, uninterested.
Six o’clock. No one was standing behind her. She began reciting the rules of engagement. You have the right to use force to defend yourself against an attacker. Hostile fire may be returned to stop a hostile attack. Use minimum force necessary. Check. She knew these rules, studied them. A thought flashed into Jill’s mind. She wondered if her potential opponents followed the same rules.
Nine o’clock. A blank wall.
Twelve o’clock. Zayed again. The man who sat in the corner responded in an Arabic-type dialect, slowly leaning back in his plastic chair. An automatic rifle rested leisurely on the man’s lap. Two men stood behind him in the shadows. One of the men glanced Jill’s way and she tilted her head down. The sound of a chair slowly scraping across the floor signaled cautious movement. Jill took one small step in the direction of Zayed. The men shifted and Jill noticed they were wearing worn leather army boots similar to hers. The two seedy men turned and walked back towards the wall. Zayed moved in unison and Jill followed past the man sitting in the chair. They followed the men through a door and stepped into an attached room that looked more like a store than a back room. To her left was a long glass door, something you would see in a retail strip mall, but it was tinted black. Bulletproof was Jill’s first thought. You could barely see out and you most certainly couldn’t see in. The two men stood on the rig
ht against a cement wall. The room was virtually empty except for short storage shelves in the middle of the floor and in the corner was a desk. The light from a desk lamp failed to illuminate the face of a dark figure sitting behind it. The sound of a grunt greeted them. Zayed took a step toward him, and Jill stood on the left side of the storage shelves. She scanned the shelves filled with army munitions boxes. Reading text on the boxes, Jill began to head around the other side of them but their escorts immediately cocked their guns. Jill stopped. Zayed held up his hands, palms facing the man in the shadow. “Marhaba, hello,” Zayed said in Arabic.
All eyes now on Zayed, Jill slid her hand into her side pocket and closed her grip on the gun. Zayed said something in Arabic, then slowly pulled out an envelope from the front of his jacket. He placed the thick envelope of cash on the dark table. On top of it he placed David’s photo. The room was tense, the air stale.
Jill saw the dark shadow’s nod when he looked at the photo. Her stomach flipped. Sliding the money-laced envelope into his top drawer, he shuffled through some papers on the cluttered desk and handed Zayed a torn post-it note. Zayed read it, and then tucked it into the top pocket of his black jacket.
Jill’s instinct tapped her on the shoulder. Something didn’t feel right. She stood silent. Then it happened, a loud crack. What had to be an armor-piercing bullet broke a sharp hole through the glass.
“Khalas, khalas!” one of the men screamed.