“Don’t move!” At least it wasn’t Hashemi’s voice.
But he couldn’t see them. Couldn’t see who held a weapon on him. Couldn’t see who came for him. Shoot at the man he had seen or at the other door. That was where their shooter was likely to be.
Michael kept the rifle raised, as he backed away. The wind seemed to shift, pause, as he tightened the weapon into his shoulder. Where was Hashemi? Let him take Hashemi and the viper’s head would be gone. Then he could die if he must.
Another step towards the darkness beyond the headlight-glare. Another.
Michael’s frozen feet tangled. He stumbled, his finger tightening on the trigger. The weapon bucked. The shot went wild into the night and more shots slammed into the cliff face next to him.
He half-fell, scrambled back and back. The rifle—where was it? Lost in his fall, in his scramble. He fumbled for the Enfield as the earth trembled under him. His head thundered with the sound of the shots, with voice.
The form of a man caught in the headlights. The shriek of the wind—he couldn’t get it out of his head. He had to get up, he had to get out of here. The roar increased and stone, snow, and mud rained down. The road shuddered. Shuddered again as if the earth took umbrage with his presence.
Then the mountain lurched, the cliff face tore loose and the avalanche slammed into the road.
Chapter 46
She shouldn’t have left him.
The thought filled Khadija’s head like the wind howling in the gorge. She had done so many other things wrong in her life and in her time with Michael. Her feelings for him were illicit according to Sharī‘ah laws, but didn’t the Prophet say the love between a man and a woman was an expression of the Divine? Didn’t that mean that what she felt for Michael was right and good, not evil? Could she, perhaps, have done one thing right?
Allah, show me your straight path.
She shouldn’t have left him.
The gelding kept its head down, its ears back as it picked its way along the gorge, but now the walls that had enclosed Khadija and her mount fell away. She was coming to the final pass—she must be, even though the snow swirled so thick and white she could barely see.
A sound behind made the gelding stop. It turned its head around, ears flicking forward as if trying to understand what it heard. Then Khadija heard it, too.
A gun shot, followed by others.
She’d heard them on the lower slope as she urged the horse to the road and upwards along the gorge as Michael had instructed. Then Michael had drawn Hashemi’s men away.
Now? The shots sounded like the wind carried them along the gorge. She wouldn’t be able to hear them so clearly if they were still on the lower slope. That meant Michael was in the gorge.
That meant he was trying to get free, to her.
A low rumble vibrated through the air and the earth trembled under the horse—another of the small quakes so frequent in this part of her country. The gelding raised its head and trotted a few steps from the river gorge.
Not small. The rumble became a roar that filled the air so even the snow seemed to dance on changed currents of air. The landscape lurched. Lurched again and the gelding stumbled. Khadija yanked its head up and turned the horse back the way she had come. Judging by the sound, it had caused part of the cliff to collapse.
Michael. She shouldn’t have left him.
She kicked the gelding and twisted his head around to head downslope. The way lay slick under the snow and the horse slipped, had to use its tender foot for balance, but continued gamely under her guidance. The snow seemed thicker. In the darkness it blanked her vision, her breath, everything, so the world disappeared. There was only her steaming breath and that of the horse, and the roar as the wind tried to strip away her petu and rip away all warmth.
The walls of the gorge rose steep around her once more. Falling rock still bounced from the road. The gelding hesitated, but she urged him forward. The horse hesitated again. She squeezed with her legs.
The animal stumbled, stumbled again, and Khadija heard the clatter of rock shifting underfoot. Ahead, through the swirling snow, there was a greater darkness backlit by light beyond.
She blinked and then realized the light was probably headlights, that downslope the road was blocked by a wall of rock and snow. Through the wind and the river she heard shouting. Had Michael been trapped by the avalanche? Had Hashemi caught him?
“Inshallah, no,” she whispered. “Don’t take him from me.”
Perhaps—perhaps he’d been caught in the slide of stone. She would not let herself think it. He had to have gotten free. Even if he were captured, at least he still lived and she could pray for his escape.
The horse stumbled again and something clattered with a metallic ring. The horse snorted and flicked its ears.
There shouldn’t be metal up here.
Khadija slid off the horse into snow that was up over her ankles. She was momentarily glad for the silly city boots she wore. She dragged her feet forward and her toe struck something. Rock. Something rattled like metal.
She plunged her hand through snow and her fingers closed around something cold and slick. She pulled it free and knew what she held even before she could see.
The old rifle Michael had carried. After so many days, she recognized it. Michael would not discard his only weapon.
That meant…
Fear choked her breath as she recovered the rifle and swung its strap gingerly over her head, not liking the feel of something meant for killing. Through the billows of snow, she took in the mass of rock and earth. The cold stung the tears that refused to be denied.
“Allah, no. Please, no.” She dropped the reins and took a step towards the rock fall. “Please. La Elaha Ellallahu Muhammad-u-Rasoollullah—there is no god but God, and Muhammad is his prophet. Please, Allah, not the man I love.”
In the blurred light beyond the avalanche, a figure picked its way across the rock, unsteady footing suddenly sliding so the figure slipped, slid, half fell.
Michael? She took a step forward.
The horse snorted. Snorted again and pawed the snow. She glanced to where the animal blew steaming breath at something covered in white.
A hand moving! She was on her knees in a moment, digging the snow away from the face she so dearly wanted to see.
“Michael! Oh, Michael!” Her chador slipped off the back of her head.
His eyes were closed. A jagged cut on his forehead leaked a trail of dark blood across his temple. His hand was cold; his face was so hot the snow ran from it in rivulets. Shivers wracked his body. But he breathed. His chest rose and fell as if he ran a great race.
She ran her hands over his neck, his chest, his limbs, nothing broken that she could tell in these primitive circumstances—just his dear body eaten by the fever within.
“Michael.” She glanced over her shoulder at the moving figure in the snow. “We have to go. You have to wake up.”
She plucked at his hand, tried to lift him but that was impossible. He was too large a man. She went to her knees again. Patted his cheeks, slapped him. Still nothing.
The mission. Oh Allah, they had to get away. But she could not, would not, leave him again. She put her arms around him, placed her cheek against his, urging him to wake, pleading with him.
He groaned. And then his arm came around her and pulled her to him, his lips were on her hair, were on her cheek, found her lips, and it was all the delights Allah promised…
…and she could not give herself to them.
She pulled away and saw his eyes were open, the need strong in them.
“They’re caught beyond the avalanche, but they come for you.” She motioned to the huge pile of rock.
He tried to follow her gesture and groaned. “I told you to deliver the message.”
“I couldn’t leave you. Are you hurt?”
That lopsided, sardonic grin. “Only from an infected wound and a rock on the head. Otherwise I’m a hundred percent.”
> She got her shoulder under his arm, slipped and fell as he tried to rise. The edge of the gorge was too near. The darkness of the chasm seemed to yawn towards her. She ignored it and braced herself against the unstable cliff face as she helped Michael up.
“Damnation,” he growled. “I shouldn’t be so weak.”
He was, though, and fear bloomed in Khadija’s gut. He could barely stand, even with most of his weight resting on her. She took a step and he nearly fell. Took another and caught the gelding’s reins.
If she could just get him up, they stood a chance. But the snow seemed to be lightening. They had to get out of here quickly or they’d be seen. Already she could hear the clatter of rock under the man on the debris pile. Already another figure had joined him, the rock grinding under their movements.
“Michael, you have to mount. I’ll lead the gelding out of here.”
He grunted his acknowledgement, but his body sagged more heavily against hers. What reserves of strength he had melted from him like the snow from his fever. She leaned him against the horse, helped his hands to the pommel of the saddle.
“Hold on.” She stepped out from under him, and felt him sway, start to slip, but somehow he managed to hold onto the horse and tried to lift a leg to the stirrup.
She had to help him; got her shoulder under him to hoist him to the gelding’s back.
He lost strength before he could swing a leg over and fell across the saddle. Slowly, slowly, he began to slide back towards her. She grabbed his hips and pushed until he lay across the saddle. His body was limp, unconscious again.
A shout came from a man on the debris pile and Khadija knew they’d been seen. She had to get them out of there.
She grabbed the reins and started to lead the gelding up the road, but Michael began to slide off the saddle’s other side. She grabbed his legs to pull him back. A gust of wind caught her, blew her against the horse, and the animal swayed.
A shot cracked in the darkness and the horse crow-hopped forward. They couldn’t move fast enough like this. She grabbed the empty stirrup and climbed up behind the saddle, grabbing hold of the cantle to stay on. She kicked the gelding and he jumped under her, nearly sending her sliding over his haunches, the rifle bouncing against her back.
Darkness closed around them as the horse trotted up the road. Another shot split the darkness and Khadija felt it part the air close by her head. She kicked the horse to a canter and the animal obliged, but almost fell on the slick footing. Michael slid forward onto the horse’s withers and Khadija scrabbled into the saddle, Michael half-laying in her lap. She leaned forward to shelter him, hoping this would make them a smaller target.
Another shot. Another. Shouts behind her and more shots. Men ran behind.
And then the road curved, blocking the bullets. Their path began the final climb towards the open area she’d reached before.
It was cold, so cold it seemed to eat at her bones.
The snow swirled around her, but it was like the unseasonable storm had blown itself out. Still, the wind howled like wolves, tearing the fresh snow off the ground, tearing at her petu and chador and the collar of her jalabiyya. It tore Michael’s turban from his head.
Billows of fresh snow were stinging needles in her face. Around her, the night was black. She pulled the petu higher to shield her face.
She gave the gelding its head as the ground continued upwards. The horse broke into a jarring trot as if it knew to get distance between them and Hashemi’s men.
She peered over her shoulder. No sign of the pursuit—yet. Just keep going. Aim forward. Around them the snow lessened until suddenly she could see the sky.
The wind tore the clouds apart, revealing a glittering net of stars. Even in the darkest night of Kaabul she had not seen so many. Encircling her rose a crown of mountain peaks, glittering white, and in the east, the faintest of outlines of the moon—a crescent that would probably not be seen by those who told when the new month began, but surely the harbinger that Rajab would begin in only a day—two at most.
Chapter 47
The clatter of donkey carts, the cries of the hawkers, overlaid the bedlam in Kaabul’s Char Chata Bazaar as Mohammed held Zahra’s wrist. The rich scents of fresh produce and the spice wallah’s stalls filled the air. So much life after the destruction of not-so-long ago.
A testament to his people, Mohammed thought as Zahra aided him unevenly through the street. Hamidah was doing the marketing in preparation for her father and mother’s arrival in Kaabul. The family would stay with Mohammed through the preparations for Hamidah’s wedding over the next week.
Already his small house seemed both too large with Khadija’s absence and too small with the lively presence of the two young women. It would only be worse when Ahmad and his two wives came. Those women grated against each other like stones even if his old friend seemed oblivious to the friction between them.
It would also make it more difficult for Mohammed to make his enquiries. The girls had tried to help his search for Mirri, but Zahra’s youthful enthusiasm was no match for a few solid enquiries.
“Is all well, Uncle?” Zahra asked.
“Of course, daughter-of-my-friend. Why do you ask?”
“You sighed. It was a very sad sigh.”
He smiled. He might not be able to see, but he knew Zahra’s nature. She was a sensitive child with a flair for the dramatic and a mind almost as keen as Khadija’s. Indeed, she reminded him of a much younger Khadija.
“I’m fine. Tell me. How go the plans for Hamidah’s wedding?”
“The wedding?” He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Hamidah is like a chicken peck, peck, pecking at the things that need to be done without any real plan. For myself, I would make a list and check them off as I did each one.”
“Aah. A list-maker. Much too organized for a poet. I thought you would throw your heart to the wind and let the air carry you to whatever duties you would do.”
She stopped in the middle of the bazaar and people pushed around them, jostling him slightly. As she faced him, he caught the scent of Piran’s tea from his chai walla stand at the corner.
“I’m not a fool, Uncle. Even poetry must have structure, though the structure must help the meaning of the poem. It is like the community—it helps set the meaning of Islam.”
He patted her hand to hide his surprise. “Well said, and accept my pardon. I’d not meant to offend.”
He’d known she was bright, but this showed a thoughtfulness he’d not realized was there. It was young women like this who would help his country regain itself. They should be treasured.
Someone else jostled him.
“The marketers will trample us if we stand here. Just get me to the clinic and then come back for some tea. I fancy old Piran’s brew.”
She led him through the main part of the bazaar and up the hill to the vaguely seen shadows that were the line of people at his clinic. Inside, she fussed with his equipment until he shushed her out the door. She could not do things as Khadija did. Always when either Hamidah or Zahra tried to help, he found things were out of place and difficult to find. He hadn’t fully appreciated Khadija’s work before—because it was not the same as Yaqub’s. He recalled how he had always shifted equipment when she had set it out for him. Perhaps he had he pushed her away as well. And now these girls slowed his work. Their presence slowed him in other things as well.
In the past, when he needed to make contact with those to whom he passed information, or who fed it to him, he had sent a boy to old Hazim in the carpet bazaar. Then a certain man would join the line at the clinic and the information would be passed while Mohammed provided medical care.
The trouble with Zahra and Hamidah was they took their duties too seriously and would not allow him to pay a boy to carry such a message. Zahra would do it, they said. But if Zahra carried the message, Hazim would not respond.
His chance was now. He started for the door, but a sound from the back room and a change in the
clinic’s air flow told him someone was present.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Still silence, and suddenly the street noise from the open door disappeared. The lock clicked shut. Whoever it was could move with the stealth of a cat.
Uncertainty filled him even in this room he knew so well and he felt utterly blind. He stepped back. Back again, until he bumped against the table. At least he knew where he was. He held his breath, searching for any clue to the location of whoever was here.
“What do you want?”
“The question is, what do you want, Siddiqui?” The soft voice was right by his ear, the moist air of the tea-scented words on his cheek. He jerked sideways, knocking the small tray with his stethoscope and tongue depressors to the floor. The crash startled him as he stumbled sideways, then caught himself against the supply cupboard. He faced where the voice had been. It was male—not so old—late twenties or early thirties, he thought, and somehow familiar.
“If you’ve come to steal drugs, I’ve almost nothing and the people need it.”
“You’re not listening, old man,” the voice hissed. “Why are you trying to find Mirri Shahabuddin?” The voice was beside him again. So close he knew he could touch whoever spoke.
Mohammed went still. So—Zahra’s enquiries had brought a result. Just not the one he’d expected. He stood straighter and forgot his fear.
“She—is my daughter’s friend. I hoped she and her brothers might have information to help me find Khadija.”
There were footsteps, now. Soft, but discernable. “And why would she be able to do that?”
“My daughter—she disappeared in Feyzabad. I know she went to Mirri often. I know Mirri’s brother courted my daughter. I think Khadija—I think she helped Mirri in more than friendship. I thought—I thought perhaps Mirri could tell me something about the people Khadija befriended. Perhaps that could lead me to my daughter.”
Silence, then: “You ask dangerous questions. But then you have for a long time, haven’t you? We realize that now. Perhaps it is time to ask you more questions, neh, Doctor Siddiqui?”
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