And still Hashemi watched her. Beyond, in the hills, Michael would continue southward. It was a relief to know he was gone.
An ache grew in Khadija’s belly as she watched the men eat.
“Please. It’s been a day since I had food.” Hashemi nodded at one of the men who tossed a hunk of bread in her direction. It landed just out of reach.
“May…may I get it,” she whispered and was instantly furious for at herself for being cowed. She was strong. She had completed medical school. Well—almost. She had traveled to a far country when she was barely more than a child. She had lived through that experience. Not well—but lived.
Ignoring the men, she retrieved the bread, stuffing it into her mouth, ignoring the grit of dust and gravel. Hashemi treated her like nothing—like less than nothing. She might be flawed, but she was worth more than that.
“You say the Amrikaayi wants you.”
She nodded at Hashemi around the food. He stabbed the earth near his feet with the point of his knife, but his gaze never left her.
“I’d thought I’d have to kill him without knowing his secrets. He gets too close to the Panjshir and the Panjshiri have never been our friends, though things have changed some since the Lion’s death.” He peered at her from the tops of his eyes. “Perhaps you offer us another way.”
Khadija stopped eating.
“You say he trusts you.”
“He did until today.” The bread suddenly rested heavy in her gut.
“What did he tell you of his work?”
Khadija frowned, trying to determine what Hashemi was getting at.
“His work? He’s like his great-great-grandfather who worked for the Amrikaayi.”
“He told you that?”
What could she say to keep him happy?
“He wanted to tell me more before I ran.”
“Good. Very good, in fact. You must build on his trust.”
But she was going home—back to Feyzabad and then Kaabul.
Hashemi stabbed a choice piece of bird flesh from the fire and devoured it as he walked. When he came back to her, his beard gleamed with grease.
“Everyone here is a tool of Islam, to be used to the cause.”
She nodded, uncertain even though, according to faith, he was right.
He suddenly caught her wrist, twisting it so hard she groveled on her knees. He was framed by the stars, his face ruddy with firelight.
“You will be a soldier, Khadija Siddiqui. You’ll learn Michael Bellis’s secrets, whatever it takes. Your body is your weapon. Do you understand?”
“No! Not that! I want to go home.” It escaped before she could stop it.
Hashemi backhanded her.
She sagged to the ground. When he hauled her to her feet, his hand was raised again.
“You’ve fallen so far there’s nothing further that can defile you. Only Allah can redeem you—if you do his work. You will do what is needed.”
Shame flushed up her neck. She heard low laughter from the men.
“But promiscuity is not permitted.” It came out a whisper.
His free hand formed a fist and she cringed away.
“Do you think suicide bombers were permitted in Islam? Times change. We use the weapons to hand and you are ours.”
She couldn’t do this. Not this. Not with Michael Bellis.
“Please…” she started, but his raised fist stopped her.
“You’ll escape this night. You’ll let the Amrikaayi find you and you will go with him. You’ll gain his trust, become his lover. In Skazar we’ll be waiting. By then you’ll know his secrets. Do you understand?”
Not this. Anything but this. She wanted her father. She wanted Yaqub. She wanted home. But her father was in Feyzabad and her brother was in Paradise, a victim of the kofr.
Hashemi’s grip demanded her answer. Her skin burned. “Do you understand?!”
She nodded.
“Good. As long as you obey, old men can be left in peace.”
Chapter 29
Michael left the horse far down the defile back from the rushing river. He tied the gelding there, for fear the thirsty beast might try to reach the water. Water would come later for them both—if he was successful in rescuing Khadija.
Frankly, he was a fool to even try. He took a chance he couldn’t afford. His path lay southward, in a race against time to get the message out, but something wouldn’t let him leave her even if she’d run away.
She’d looked back and seen him and even then she’d run.
He was a damned fool. She was the enemy who had lulled him into trust while waiting for her chance. He should know better—had known better.
Once.
But he’d seen the way Hashemi dragged her to his camp. She hadn’t been welcomed as a comrade of the jihad.
He shook his head as he finished his careful crawl to the ridge and peered down to the river. As he’d waited for darkness, he’d prayed that Hashemi was bold enough to camp nearby. Now, his prayers answered, he counted six men at the fire. Of course, that meant nothing. There were probably at least that many again, up in the hills. They waited for him, just as he watched for them.
The weight of his Enfield and the weapon of the man he’d killed rested comfortably against his back. The dead man had carried a copy of an Uzi manufactured in Pakistan, but the piece had been cared for by a man who lived by his weapon. It had the shine of new gun oil, and a sweet balance in the hands that the ancient Lee Enfield did not.
But neither weapon helped him a damn bit in rescuing Khadija. There were just too many of them for a frontal attack.
From where he crouched all he could hear was the wind and the rushing river, but the air carried the scent of their food, and the tea they drank. He could see the gleam off the hoods of the two vehicles—and how they treated Khadija.
There was no question she was a prisoner. The way she sat apart, the way the men denied her food, said her status was worse than that of “woman.” And then there was Hashemi’s lording behavior. He remembered it all too well.
When Khadija stood to face her captor, he knew she was in danger. When Hashemi struck her, Michael’s hands tightened on the Uzi. One shot and Hashemi would be done—paid back for all the things he’d done. But if he did that, Hashemi’s men would kill Khadija. So get her first.
“You’re a fool, Bellis. You should be riding hard, not trying to rescue a woman who runs from you.”
He grinned. When had he ever claimed wisdom? The wise man would have said “no” to Ron Hall all those years ago.
A less-wise man would have gotten out of the game years ago.
A man with a small light of wisdom would have left after things fell apart in Bamiyan.
He could almost laugh at his idiocy. But a man had to do what was right, and this was more than. It was maktūb—it was written—he was meant to do this or die trying. For Khadija, for her father. For his own salvation. That took precedence even over his mission. Soon.
God help him, if he was wrong. He closed his eyes. Just a small wisdom? Please?
A rattle of stones interrupted him. He scanned the spur of mountain below him. Yellow khaki soil stained grey, rock black in the remnants of the moonlight, boulders in their pools of shadows. Was that movement? The glow of a cigarette?
Michael sank lower to the ground, his body suddenly taut. The man hadn’t seen him silhouetted against the night sky, thank God, but he could have.
Michael knew he was getting sloppy, and sloppiness was the surest way to get yourself dead. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t ready for that inevitability.
He lowered himself down the slope. The camp was guarded. The hillsides were guarded. That left only the river that ran swift and deep in this spot, compressed between the jut of the mountainsides.
He shuddered, remembering the cold of the Wakhan, but he had survived that and he would survive another dozen dousings as well, he supposed. Not much of a plan, but the only one he had.
He slipped back down the slope, gliding from shadow to shadow, back to the brown horse. The animal snorted at his arrival.
Michael ran a hand down the gelding’s neck. “We’ll get you water, old friend. A little farther and you can drink.”
Mounted, he turned the horse up one of the defiles that headed north, back the way he had come, knowing that there were other breaks in the hills that gave onto the river. When he had traveled far enough, he tied the horse again and climbed the ridge to study the landscape.
Nothing moved. The peaks of the mountains across the Kowkcheh ranged back and back and back, the snow on their crests gleaming white in the thin moonlight. Once, many millions of years before, they had been islands in a primordial ocean, but the world had shifted under them. Below him, the dark cord of the river curved sharply westward.
Michael stopped. That made no sense. The Kowkcheh ran almost due north through its entire length, except for a single jog westward just south, of the town of Ferghamu. He sat back on his heels.
“You came farther than you thought, Bellis. You were fucking lost in the hills.” He didn’t understand how that could be, but perhaps leaving the valleys near the river had found him a more direct route southwest. That was all it could be. It gave him a chance. Maybe. Just maybe, he’d still get his warning out in time. If only he knew when the bloody “accident” would occur. An accident at that power plant would devastate huge tracts of oil and mineral-rich land and if not cripple, at least lame, the Chinese industrial complex. The usual American reassurances of innocence would not placate the Chinese after taking such a hit.
Soon.
He looked back at the river and the sere mountainsides that rose from its banks. Just get this done. This far from Hashemi’s camp, there was a lower chance of sentries, but he still had to be careful.
He studied each shadow, each crevice in the rock, then retreated to the horse. He took the gelding for water, allowing the horse to dive its nose into the cold liquid, sucking up the water in desperate gulps. Michael drank beside it.
When he was done, he pulled the horse’s head up.
“Not too much. You’ll give yourself a belly ache.”
He marked the way by how a jut of the mountainside looked from beside the water, and then led the horse back to where he’d been. He retied the animal, doffed his petu, vest, and turban, and returned to the road.
Now came the hard part. He started southward, upriver, following the watercourse until he knew if he went any further he’d probably be spotted by Hashemi’s men.
He waded into the river. The cold shocked his breath away. His salwar kameez stuck to his legs. His boots filled with cold water. When the force of the river struck his chest, he turned upriver towards Hashemi’s camp. He was counting on them not watching the river. After all, only a fool or a madman would subject himself to the frigid water for the sake of a woman who was his enemy. If Hashemi’s men spotted him, he’d be a sitting duck: easy to pick off in the water, and still easier to pick off when he came to shore.
The river ran deep and strong, almost tearing his feet out from under him as he slipped, tripped on unseen rock, and kept wading against the current. How much easier the Wakhan dousing had been. He’d only had to let the water take him.
Already the cold sapped his strength. He could barely feel his feet. His hands he kept curled against his chest for warmth—not that it gave much when the water stripped away any body heat.
Twenty minutes later he didn’t know if his plan had been such a good one after all. Ahead lay the glow of Hashemi’s fire and the bulk of the two Jeeps, but the cold had left him without any feeling in his legs. He had to get out of the river before the hypothermia was severe. Already his breath came in ragged shudders. How the hell was he going to rescue Khadija when he damn well needed rescuing himself?
He’d been in enough Mujehaddin camps to know how things operated. Hashemi ran a tight operation, from what he’d seen. When the Taliban ruled, Hashemi had been an advisor to the Mullahs while at the same time leading the “cleansing raids” in the Shi’ite Hazzara villages. He’d still have to run tight operations to survive as a hunted man.
Michael scanned the area for sentries, but found none. Instead there were only the humps of bodies rolled in blankets. Not as it should be. More as if Hashemi had set a stage for viewing. A tempting stage and there could be only one audience in these hills—him.
His senses prickled. Were the sentries watching his approach even now? He sank down to his chin, his breath catching in his lungs. In the moonlit current his head probably looked like another stone—except it was a stone that shifted against the current.
In the camp a form—low to the ground—shifted slowly towards the river. Michael tensed. A scarfed head lifted and was caught in the moonlight. Then there was swift movement.
Khadija threw herself into the river.
The wind carried her soft splash. Then there were limbs flailing in the swift-moving current. A cry from the camp. Men leapt to their feet. A lantern suddenly bloomed, sending light glittered towards Michael as the water rushed Khadija towards him. If he didn’t move, they’d see him.
He let the current tear his deadened legs from the bottom. The water slammed him into a boulder. Air burst from his lungs. The pain in his side denied him new breath. An eddy pulled him under.
He grabbed for the surface, for air, and something slammed into him. Something soft. Something struggling. Khadija. He grabbed for her and she fought him; her small fist found the side of his head with surprising force.
He wrapped one arm around her and burst into air. God, where were they? How far had the water taken them? Where were Hashemi’s men? Khadija’s face streamed water beside him. Her eyes were clamped shut. She clawed at his face.
“Stop it.”
Her eyes flashed open and then the water slammed his shoulder into another boulder. His arm went numb and the water tore them apart.
She was darkness and a white face Michael fought towards. She floundered in the river, her heavy jalabiyya weighing her down. She’d drown if he didn’t reach her.
Michael swam, but the river tore her lighter form away. He pulled his legs up to the surface, arrowing his body. It was dangerous if there were sentries watching. He would make a large target, but it was the only way to catch her.
The river tore them northward, northward. The stars overhead said he entered the great westward curve. It he didn’t get her out soon, he’d be past the horse, past safety. With every minute he lost ground in his need to go south. He lost sight of her as the river pulled her under again.
Then she burst through the water, struggling shoreward, even as the river yanked her down. Her struggles were weakening. The cold sapped her strength. Inshallah, he would reach her in time. Inshallah, he would save her.
He reached her as the moon fell behind the mountainside and a greater darkness fell. Cold wool in his fingers. The feel of warmth as his arms closed around her and her arms came around his neck. She almost pulled him under in her panic to breathe.
“Just hold on. Hold on and I’ll get us to shore.” Where was safety? Were Hashemi’s men tracking them? It didn’t matter. Saving her did.
His knee slammed against hidden stone. His feet touched down on gravel. He staggered through the water, the current still threatening to tear his feet out from under him. To dry land. The horse.
His knees gave in the shallows and Khadija fell beside him, her black hair a sodden curtain over her face. Their breath sobbed in counterpoint to the rush of the river. Michael pulled her to him as he scanned the shore. Khadija shuddered in his arms as he marked the outcropping he’d picked out on the far side of the river. His plan had worked—almost too well.
Nothing was ever this easy.
Unless it was a trap.
Chapter 30
Michael had to get them to the horse and to safety, and somehow find warmth in this landscape that gave almost nothing for fire.
He managed to find his
footing and hauled Khadija up. Her legs gave, so he lifted her into his arms, ignoring the knife-blade of pain in his side. He was surprised at how light she was even in her sodden coat. Then he clambered up the river bank and crossed the road.
The horse snorted as Michael set Khadija down in the lee of a rock. The wind was their enemy now. Each night since Feyzabad the temperature had dropped a little further. The autumn wind came swiftly in these mountains and said the wheat harvest should be well under way in the north.
The wind plastered his salwar kameez to his body, but it was Khadija who was most affected. Huge shudders wracked her so her teeth clacked together.
He had to get her out of the wet clothes, out of the worst of the cold, but there was no shelter anywhere near. All he could do was get them farther into the mountains and find a safe spot to light a fire.
“Khadija?” She peered up at him, abject misery on her face. “I’m going to take the horse for one more drink and them we have to go. We’ll make a fire in the hills.”
She nodded, her hair masking most of her face.
He wrapped their two dry petu around her shoulders, and pulled on his felted vest. Her eyes were dull as she huddled into the shawls. They wouldn’t do much, but it was something.
When he returned with the horse, he helped her mount, then climbed on the animal behind her. She flinched as his arms came around her, but his arms would warm her and hopefully save them both from hypothermia.
As the horse picked its way southwest he grew more concerned. Her shudders deepened. By the time he judged they were deep enough into the maze of hills, her shivers were constant and she was limp in his arms.
He reined in and slid off the gelding, feeling his side like a piece of jagged glass impaled him. Things did not go well there, but he had no time to attend to it. He hauled Khadija off the horse and carried her around a jut of hillside to a hollow that provided a meager shelter beyond.
The ground was flat, and the wind avoided sending the worst of its cold fingers here. In a back corner were signs of fire. So shepherds had used this place before. That was not so good, but there was no help for it. Khadija needed warmth and he wasn’t much better. He went back to the horse and claimed the medical pack and their supplies. The horse he set free to graze.
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