In the operating room she described more disaster, but her father only identified ways to make the place functional. He would settle for Afghanistan being a backwater of the world, a second-class place.
Damnation, why were tears so close to the surface? Because she had been forced to accept the leavings of Dr. James Hartness? Given fewer and fewer chances to do her work until she had finally complained and then he had said her competence was in question. In her shame, she’d believed him.
Well, she would see her father never knew. When she had redeemed herself she would be released from her past. She would be whole again. Perhaps then things would be better between them.
“Khadija?”
Her father’s hand fell on her shoulder, but she couldn’t let him know how upset she was. She pulled away.
“Aah. There you are.” The cultured voice of Ahmad Mali Khan rescued her. “Mohammed, I’ve come to take you to tea and discuss our key needs. We must spread the resources as far as possible.” He glance slid to Khadija in dismissal. “My Aisha is at reception. She enjoyed your chatter so much the other day, she hopes you might walk together this afternoon.”
“Father?”
His shoulders slumped a little more. A horrible grief radiated across on his face and she had to look away.
“We are done, I think. You go. Do your woman things.”
Ahmad Mali Khan gripped his wrist and the two men left.
She listened to her father’s voice down the hall, knowing she had hurt him. A part of her ached at the knowledge, but she had to finish this. Satisfy her family’s revenge.
“The friend of my enemy is my enemy, as well,” she whispered. And yet—and yet—how could the gentle old man ever be her enemy?
Someday he might know the truth and appreciate her for her strength of faith and how she had redeemed herself.
Now that faith demanded antibiotic.
Surely one vial of chloramphenicol would not be missed. She hurried back through the hospital corridors. She had never stolen anything in her life. Under Islamic Law she could lose a hand for this, but it was for Allah, just as Hashemi had said.
She stopped around the corner from the nursing station where the pharmaceuticals were stored and took a deep breath.
Show me your straight path,
not the path of those who earn your wrath
nor those who go astray.
The nurse—a young Afghani woman with her hair hidden under a scarf, but her face still woefully exposed—looked up at Khadija. “May I help you?”
“Mohammed Siddiqui asks that I check how you have stored the supplies. Unlock the door.” She went straight to the supply room entrance.
The young woman stood. “We’ve stored everything as it should be. We know our business.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
The nurse fumbled with keys. She unlocked the door and went to lead Khadija inside.
“I don’t need your help.” Khadija pushed past and eased the door shut behind her.
Shelves held neat boxes of bandages, syringes, medical tubing, stethoscope, blood pressure monitors, and jars of pills. The nurse was right. The hospital might be falling apart, but they did know their business. The pills should be locked in a proper pharmacy, but that was beyond this dismal place.
Her gaze reached a box that held medicated dressings. Michael could use those. She checked over her shoulder, but the nurse had returned to her desk, though the stiffness of her shoulders showed she wasn’t happy with Khadija’s invasion.
Half the dressings slid under her burka into her pockets. Then she slid the box to the back of the stacked supplies, hoping her theft wouldn’t be discovered.
A small, ancient fridge gurgled and chugged in the back corner of the room. She yanked it open because the nurse would expect to hear the sound. Inside, the shelves were still almost bare, even with the supplies her father had brought. The vials of ampicillin were tempting, but she had no way to refrigerate them if she took them. No, better to find the chloramphenicol as she’d planned.
Voices at the nursing station: she glanced over her shoulder and caught the flash of one of the hospital security men through the small window. She froze.
If she was caught, she didn’t think she could lie her way free. She’d never been good at fabrications and with the dressings in her pockets there was no way to hide her intent. Just find what she needed and get out.
The precious antibiotic sat on the lone shelf above the fridge. She fumbled one of the small glass bottles free, then patted the box closed. She dared not take more. There were too many others in need. She shoved the ampoule into the pocket with the bandages.
She should leave now.
Needles.
She had a few syringes in the medical supplies at the cave, but the sharps were not there. She needed to make sure she had sterile supplies to make use of the chloramphenicol.
She stuck her hand in one of the boxes and pulled out a handful of capped syringes, then pushed them into her pocket as well. She was trembling, damn it, and her legs felt weak. Just get this over with. She ran a practiced eye over the boxes, straightening a corner here and there. Not bad. The nurse who had arranged things had an orderly mind.
She let herself out the door and nodded at the nurse who was still in conversation with the guard. The way her face stiffened, Khadija knew she’d made an enemy of the woman. Let her not check the supplies.
“I’ll advise my father you’ve done well. It will be reported to the administrator and to the government.”
She strode down the hallway, feeling their hostile gazes on her back until she turned the corner. Then she almost ran to reception and Aisha.
“Let’s go. I’ve got what’s needed.” She grabbed Aisha’s arm and glanced at the nurse behind the counter—a man. At least that was more proper.
Cool air waited outside, but charcoal smoke quickly soured Khadija’s throat. The poplar along the rushing river were still deeply green, but closer to the base of the mountains the aspens had a lovely, but telling, tinge of gold.
“Fall comes early here.”
“That is the way of the mountains.” Aisha shrugged. “We should hurry. You’ll not be able to stay as long with our leader as you did before. My family will expect us for the evening meal.”
They crossed the bridge where the old men still collected the gold of the mountains, and followed the road to the isolated farm house. The door opened before they reached it and the same Afghani stood there, in his dark turban.
“Come.”
Khadija followed him up the trail to the cavern. He left her at the entrance.
“You know the way. Hashemi waits.”
Khadija faced the darkness nervously. How the men lived buried in the ground, she didn’t know. One of the frequent earthquakes could crush them or trap them. But each did what they must, she supposed. She took a deep breath and stumbled into the darkness, her hand trailing the stone wall beside her.
The darkness went on too long, her fear bubbling inside her like a pot almost to boil. In the darkness she might have taken a wrong turn. Fear clogged her breath. Tears rose in her eyes. She was lost in the cavern. Lost and no one would find her.
Allah, she was strong! She swiped at her tears. This was the emotional weakness that had led to her shame. She was not like this. Allah had a purpose for her.
Suddenly there was light. Hope.
She fought back tears of relief as she stumbled into the room where all the crates had been stored. Most of them were gone. Abdullah Hashemi looked up from his reading, his features shadowed in the lantern light.
Nodding, he lit a second lantern and led her into the second tunnel. She knew they were at the cell even without the light. The air filled with the stench of burned flesh and copper like English pence.
The lantern swung shadows around the room where Michael Bellis lay splayed over the wooden bench. New purple-blue bruising masked his handsome face. Worse, horrific, blackened circles p
ocked his stomach and nipples and the tops of his feet—cigarette burns like she’d seen on abused children in London. Charred flesh wept near the bandages on his chest. There was no sign of movement, barely the rise and fall of his chest.
She rounded on Hashemi.
“I left him beginning to heal.”
“He was well enough to question.”
“He was weak. His wound is infected—has infected his whole body, and you do this?”
She went to the mutilated man’s side even as she wondered what she was doing. She worked for Hashemi. This was why she saved Michael Bellis. But there were medical oaths she had taken.
“If you want him dead, don’t bother with a doctor. Just do this again. He’ll not trouble you long.”
At least the man’s chest rose and fell, regular as sunrise.
“You dare to question me?”
Her anger turned to fear. Grabbing the medical bag, she knelt beside Michael Bellis.
“I’ll need hot water.”
“There’s no one to get it.”
She turned back to him and hated the arrogant carriage of his head, the haughty hook of his nose. He was no Afghani, no matter that he said he fought for her country.
“Sometimes one must do what one must—in the service of Islam—and if you want him to live.”
She turned back to the Michael Bellis, hoping her little barb would get the result she wanted.
When Hashemi left she almost collapsed, then lifted back her burka and set to work. The man was still strong, Inshallah, even after what had been done to him.
She lifted his eyelids and the pupils reacted. Good. The stench was so strong she could almost taste the burned flesh, but she’d seen burn victims before.
The lantern’s light swung shadows across the room and across Michael Bellis’s face as if death was trying to get in.
She would not let it. Hashemi had brought her here because he needed a doctor, and a doctor she would be if it would earn her the knowledge she sought.
She focused on her patient. Blood had pooled into his wrists and hands. The bindings cut into the swelling so his fingers were blood-red sausages. She hoped they had gone numb.
Using the scalpel, she sawed through the rope. When his arms were free, he groaned and slipped. When his legs were loose he toppled to the floor. Khadija dropped the scalpel to roll him over.
An elbow slammed her to the floor.
Michael Bellis knelt above her, hand on her throat. Pale eyes held only hunger and a promise that froze her struggle.
His other hand produced the scalpel.
“I should kill you,” he said.
Chapter 18
Michael knew he should just follow through on his threat. Khadija’s hate was as clear as her fear. She only kept him alive so he could be tortured again until he told everything in his need to leap into the cleansing abyss of death.
He had been so close he could almost see what waited beyond.
A warm breeze and peace. There had to be peace there, because there sure as hell hadn’t been any in this life.
And now she’d brought him back again.
Khadija squirmed in his hold and he watched her calculate her chances. Such darkness in this woman. A symbol of Yaqub’s death; or Yaqub’s revenge?
He glanced at the tunnel, but no one came. So far his pitiful plan had worked. Feigning near-death had not been hard, and it had gotten the result he wanted. He yanked the woman up and fought the slow spin of the cave. The wound in his side throbbed like a bitch, but there was no time for that.
When he released her, Khadija scooted backwards, her burka left in a tangle on the floor, her scarf yanked around her neck. A wave of soft, black hair fell around her shoulders that left her vulnerable, desirable. But even under the high collared, back wool of her jalabiyya, he could see the angry heave of her breast. Fury filled her heavy-lidded eyes.
They were so like Yaqub’s. He’d teased his friend many times about his “bedroom eyes” and how the British girls must have swooned over him when he was in medical school. He swallowed back the painful memory. Time to move.
Had Hashemi really gone for water, or did he wait in another part of the cave?
His legs went weak and he slumped onto the bench as they studied each other. Strength come back to him, please, because whatever he did, by the look of her it wasn’t going to be easy.
“How many?” he demanded.
“How many what?” She almost spit her answer and it could have made him smile in another setting.
“Men in the cave. How many?”
“I—I only saw Hashemi.” The peaks of color in her cheeks were fading to white, her eyes huge and dark. “Please—let me go. My father needs me.”
Michael smiled at the ploy.
“And does your father know who your friends are?”
“My father’s blind.” Her full lips hardened, telling what he already knew. Mohammed Siddiqui had no idea what his daughter did. He dared not think of how Yaqub would be shamed.
“So you know who you work for? What you do?”
“I work for my people. For Allah.”
Michael winced at the words that had justified so much evil. It was hard enough to think, let alone argue such beliefs. She knew Hashemi and condoned his atrocities. This would be more difficult than he’d thought, but he needed to get out where there was light and hope and life.
Soon. He stood and fought his swaying.
“Get up.”
She stayed where she was.
God, his head was so fuzzy. He needed air.
“Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What do you think?” In one stride he crossed the room. Pain. Pain in his feet. The burns on their soles.
Didn’t matter.
He hauled her up, ignored her fists on his chest. He trapped her blows between them as he inhaled the faint scent of citrus and warm woman. A sudden memory of marigolds and golden dust on the hills almost made him release her.
Almost.
She struggled until he brought up the scalpel. Then fear bloomed larger in her wide-set eyes.
“The way I see it,” he grumbled, “I’ve got three choices. One, I take you with me and hope they treat you as a hostage they want alive. The second is I leave you behind so they can blame you for my escape. I can’t imagine they’ll be gentle. Or I can kill you myself, but I’m leaning towards option one. What d’you think?”
It was a stupid choice, he knew, but he wouldn’t be the reason Mohammed Siddiqui lost another child.
“My father needs me now.”
“You’re not with him now. He’ll manage, though he’ll worry. But then, he’d worry if he knew what you did, wouldn’t he?”
Suddenly he held a hell-cat. Somehow she got a hand loose. She clawed at his eyes. She kicked at him, punched the wounds she knew pocked his chest. She was stronger than he thought, or else he was weaker than he’d realized.
He grabbed her fists, twisted them behind her until she moaned, but she was still fighting mad.
“My father forgets his duty. He sells out to foreigners—like you. Bastard Amrikaayi.”
She spat the words. She barely missed stomping his bare foot and he jerked up on her arms until she cried out.
“Darlin’, you’ve got a thing or two to learn about manners.”
He pulled her into him until the trim muscle of her buttocks was against his groin. He forced her to pick up the medical pack, then he slung it over his shoulder and pushed her ahead of him into the tunnel. The pack bumped against his injured side.
“My burka.”
“You’ll have to make do with a scarf.”
“Galamjam,” she swore. He leaned into her, inhaling the scent of her hair.
“Does your father know you’ve got such a mouth?”
She twisted in his hold. “Just how far do you think you’ll get in the condition you’re in?”
“As far as my own personal doct
or can get me. Now shut up.”
Her chin came up in frustrating defiance. “I won’t treat you.”
“I said, shut up.”
The tunnel echoed. The air carried the scent of dampness from deep inside the hills and the scent of her fear. He clamped his hand over her mouth as they reached the main room. He peered around the corner. Empty, except for a large crate with Cyrillic lettering. He needed a weapon—something more than this bloody scalpel.
He dragged her forward and released her left arm.
“Open it.”
Her lips set in a straight line—until he twisted her right arm up a little farther. She pushed the lid back.
Ammunition, boxes of it, but no rifles. He swore and scanned the room again. An ornately bound Quran—that was it. Well, the Word was the biggest weapon, wasn’t it?—firing up a jihad that was sweeping the world.
He grabbed a petu from where it was discarded in the corner and found a treasure underneath. His boots, discarded for some reason. Perhaps they were too big for anyone here.
Still holding her arm, he stuffed his feet inside and forced Khadija to tie them. Ignore the pain. Ignore the fact it would be immeasurably worse taking the boots off once the wounds had oozed into the leather.
He pulled the petu over his shoulders to hide the tattered remains of his salwar kameez, then pushed Khadija towards the next tunnel. In the darkness she stumbled and her body temperature increased.
Afraid of the dark are you, little one? Good. As long as you’re afraid, you’ll be easier to control.
They pushed onto the sunlit mountainside where Michael hauled them around a boulder and leaned against the heated stone. The hillside seemed to tilt. The sudden light blinded. Only adrenaline kept him upright.
How long had he been here? The blue sky and dry hillside gave no clue. But they did to his location. Feyzabad—he remembered the way the mountains had slid away from the road when he was a prisoner in the Jeep. Feyzabad sat in a valley like that and Feyzabad explained how Khadija was here.
If he was right, there had to be a phone nearby. He could get the message out. He pushed Khadija ahead of him onto the trail.
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