Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  She opened it. “My alias is Madison Walker. My place of birth is Edmonton, Canada? Who forged this?”

  “I may be only an interpreter, but I do work for the best spy agency in the world. What do you think about your new identity? You should be able to remember it.”

  “Madison, Wisconsin, is my hometown, and my father’s name was Walker.” She managed an amused smile that lit her face with a striking glow. “Very clever for an interpreter. You’re sure you’re not a special agent?”

  A clammy sweat formed on the palm of Altan’s hands. He somehow smiled, albeit awkwardly. She was kidding, wasn’t she? “I’ve been on too many missions with undercover officers,” he said. “Look, forget about my crazy idea. I thought we’d need these if you went with me, but I understand your reluctance.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what I was thinking. The surgery on your ear is next week.”

  Portia twirled her engagement ring with her right forefinger and thumb. “The surgery can wait. I have a custom molded earplug for my bad ear. I’ll bring that and avoid loud noises.” She stopped twirling her engagement ring and leaned forward. “What if we go to Zimbabwe only to discover that Imma was executed?”

  Altan stood. “You’ll know her true fate. There’ll be no more guessing, and you can move on with your life.”

  “I’ve been thinking about joining an upcoming ZIRP medical mission, but after I saw that video—”

  “You lived Imma’s death again. It was too much.”

  “It was overwhelming, and I wasn’t prepared, and now I’m just confused.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you that Riley is wrong and I’m right, which means I may be doing a foolish thing because Imma—”

  “Could be dead.”

  “Maybe it’s best that you stay here.”

  Portia watched him intently. “Given that you think Riley can’t be trusted, I assume you haven’t told him you’re traveling to Zimbabwe.”

  “He thinks I’m going on a vacation to Mexico.” The lies now freely slipped out, as if Altan’s tongue were Teflon. He picked up the passports and put them in his briefcase. “I have an early start tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll stay in touch.”

  Altan picked up his briefcase and began walking toward the front door. A hand grabbed his upper arm from behind. His muscular body felt strangely weak. His ploy might’ve worked after all. He turned around.

  “I’m going with you,” Portia’s beautiful face was firm with conviction. “I need to know what happened to Imma. Everything else can wait. What time will you pick me up in the morning?”

  “Five a.m. sharp,” he said.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  * * *

  In the pouring rain, Altan hurried to his parked Ford Mustang and jumped inside just as his cell phone rang with an incoming call from Jackie Horn.

  “Portia has agreed to go,” he said.

  “Good.” Her voice sounded somber over the line. “I have bad news, though.”

  “What?”

  “Your contact in Zimbabwe was killed a few hours ago.”

  “How?”

  “The story is that he was killed during a burglary at his home. Our intelligence, however, says that he was murdered by the People’s Revolution.”

  He squeezed the steering wheel. “So the mission has been cancelled or at least postponed. This is bad news for Imma.”

  “No,” she said. “Time is a luxury we don’t have, and Marks is the perfect bait to pull Thoms and Marsik out of hiding.” She paused. “Listen, Altan, it’s important that you don’t go soft.”

  Her insult was a slap to his face. “Who the hell said I was soft?”

  “I’m just saying that this mission will be difficult for you.”

  He took a deep breath. “Who’s my new contact?”

  “You don’t have one yet, but don’t worry,” she said. “The arrangements will be made.”

  “What do I do in the meantime?”

  “Do what you do best—improvise.”

  Altan ended the call and closed his eyes. That damn sticky sweat on the palms of his hands had returned with an unpleasant gusto.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Apply more pressure.” Imma’s voice was firm.

  “Okay.” Portia pressed the bandage against the gash on the sleeping boy’s upper arm with increased effort.

  As bad as it was, the arm wound wasn’t nearly as nasty as the one on the top of his head. Zigzagging trails of blood rushed over his ear and across his bony cheeks. He appeared to be no older than twelve and wore only mud-stained cargo shorts. Unlike other boys his age that Portia had seen in the countryside, their rib cages poking through their chests, and their legs stick-like, he was lean but solid.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “A road blast,” Imma said.

  “Where?”

  “Does it matter?” The hopelessness in Imma’s voice was tearful, yet, she continued stitching her young patient’s head wound with meticulous care. “None of these roads are safe.”

  “Wherever this poor boy traveled,” Portia said, “we don’t want to follow.”

  “I suppose you’re right. It happened on a paved road from Harare to Bulawayo. He was lucky to survive. He was thrown into a tall grassy area underneath munhondo trees. The partial shade protected him from the heat. Unfortunately, his father and mother were killed. His sister is currently in surgery. There were another eight people in the bed of the Mazda truck.”

  Portia didn’t bother to ask why so many people had crammed themselves into a pickup truck—the answer was painfully obvious. Fuel prices were exorbitant, and as a result, people overloaded themselves into any vehicle that had a tank of gas. “Did they survive?” she asked.

  “No,” Imma said in a shallow voice.

  “That’s terrible. Will the boy be all right?”

  “Luckily, he’ll be fine. His wounds look bad, but they’re not life threatening.” Imma finished the final stitch on his head and looked up, the usual sparkle in her deep-set eyes miserably faint. “Let me take care of that gash on his arm.”

  Portia watched as Imma examined the wound and began cleaning it.

  “Fortunately,” Imma said, “this is a superficial abrasion that looks worse than it is. Stitches aren’t needed.” She grabbed gauze and white tape from a nearby table and wrapped the wound. “Thanks for helping.”

  “Of course,” Portia said. The romantic dinner they’d had last night in their tent to celebrate their upcoming wedding, complete with boxed white wine, macaroni and cheese, and chocolate chip cookies, sped through her mind, as did their intense and passionate lovemaking. “I’m here to serve and protect and to perform other duties as required.”

  Imma’s eyes sparkled, and her lips, chapped and dry from the heat, briefly turned upward into a pleased smile. “You perform your duties very well.” Her expression turned solemn again, as she gestured behind her. “It’s been a busy day, as you can see.”

  Portia kept her eyes pinned on Imma rather than turning around. She didn’t like looking at the faces of the patients too closely. The sadness in their expressions, their individual pain and grief, somehow became her own. That intimate tether could immobilize her with crushing emotion. So she only made a hasty glance around the room.

  Some of the patients were old, some young, some slept while others groaned, coughed, or begged for help. Some prayed.

  “There are more and more cases of malnutrition and cholera.” Imma reached out and held Portia’s left hand so that their engagement rings touched. “I know we’re supposed to leave in a couple days, and we need to start planning our wedding, but maybe we should—”

  A clap of thunder jolted Portia, and soon, a downpour of rain pinged repeatedly at the metal roof. She covered her bad ear with her hand, fearing that awful ringing sound. Fortunately, her bad ear was fine. She looked out a nearby window and wasn’t surprised at what she saw.

  The clay ground outside didn’t try
to defend itself from the fierce storm, but instead turned into a muddy mess. It was the rainy season.

  “Are you okay?” Imma asked. “Is your inner ear still bothering you? I’ll look at it after I’m finished here.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She lowered her hand. “It can—”

  “Portia!” George’s Irish brogue yelled at her from near the front door where he stood. “We’re losing time.” He waved frantically for her to follow him. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  “What’s going on?” Imma asked. “Where does George want you to go?”

  “I was just about to tell you,” she said. “There’s been a bus accident. About thirty people are injured, including children.”

  “Where?”

  “It happened about a mile away from here. Dr. Tilden asked for volunteers, and so I said I’d join them.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Why? ZIRP has approved security volunteers to assist with emergencies like this.”

  “I know, but there’s been talk of raids on clinics. The police are searching for members of an opposition group, and we’ve treated a number of them for various ailments.”

  “With the cholera outbreak, I doubt they’d bother us. There are too many innocents who are sick and dying in the clinic. Besides, there are children seriously injured in the accident. We can’t ignore their plight.”

  “How do you know about the bus accident?”

  “Farai told us. He learned about it from a friend who had passed by the scene.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so. Why do you ask?”

  “My patients have told me that the police pay informants a two-month salary for information.”

  “Farai has never lied to us before.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  Portia started to respond, but a firm grip squeezed her left shoulder. She turned.

  George stood next to her. He was tall and wiry, and his face, etched with deep lines from years of living under Zimbabwe’s harsh sun, had a stern look.

  “We’ve gathered our team and supplies,” he said. “So we’re ready to go. Dr. Thoms, everything will be all right. Two guards are staying here at the clinic. They’re well armed.”

  Imma opened her mouth to protest.

  “I won’t be long,” Portia said. “Everything will be fine. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Imma whispered without hesitation. “Stay safe.”

  * * *

  “Wake up, Portia,” Altan said. “You’ve been in a deep sleep.”

  She popped open her eyes and took in the Airbus around her. Other passengers were chatting with excitement and some were closing their laptops in preparation for the landing. Altan sat next to the window and stared out at the approaching skyline of Harare, Zimbabwe. Dark circles underneath his amber eyes betrayed his fatigue from their two-day journey.

  The Airbus touched down on the runway with the smoothness of a luxury Cadillac rather than a gigantic aircraft. Outside, the sky was a deep blue and streaked with billowy, white clouds. Coming into view was the air traffic control tower, a massive white cylinder with a cone top that appeared more as an oversized robot than a concrete building.

  “We’ve finally made it,” Portia said.

  “And not a minute too soon,” Altan said. “My back is killing me from all this sitting. Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine.” That was a practiced lie. The dream Portia had just had was a returning nightmare that only amplified the guilt she felt over leaving the medical clinic on the day of the police raid. She’d left Imma defenseless. If only she could reverse time. “It’s just been a long trip.”

  Altan reached under the seat in front of him and grabbed a fist-sized gift box. He handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “It’s something for you. You’ll need it.”

  Portia opened the surprise present. Inside was a large black wristwatch with a green face and gold hands.

  “It’s quite…well…handsome,” she said, “but don’t you think it’s too big for me?”

  “No.” He extended his wrist. “These are the best watches in the world, because they always keep the exact time.” He leaned toward her. “There’ll be times when we’ll need to synchronize our watches without being a millisecond off. So, don’t ever take this timepiece off. Understand?”

  The urgency in Altan’s eyes set off an internal alarm inside Portia, and she felt her neck stiffen. “I understand.” She put on the unexpected gift. “I won’t take this bad boy off. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The medical clinic where Imma had been arrested just over a year ago should’ve reeked of disinfectant and been a well of sick souls, their moans and gasps for life haunting. Yet, the building was abandoned. Portia looked out a grimy window that hadn’t been cleaned in eons.

  A narrow road wound its way through acres of open plain that were dotted with grand old trees sporting bushy flat tops and flamboyant outstretched branches. Wheat should’ve been growing there or perhaps tobacco. Instead, the soil was uncared for, pockmarked by dusty brown dirt that was as dry as stone. Not a person or car was in sight. This promising landscape was an unloved orphan.

  “We should’ve met Farai at our hotel.” A gloominess coated Altan’s voice.

  “Perhaps.” Portia knew he was right.

  “Why did you tell him to meet us here?”

  “He said the clinic has been deserted since the police raided it, so he thought it would be safe.”

  “Our hotel would’ve been safer.”

  Her absent-minded fiddling with her engagement ring said all she didn’t want to admit. She didn’t know how to explain her decision without sounding like a sentimental fool. Had she been thinking clearly yesterday, she would’ve told Farai to go to the Holiday Inn. But the return to Zimbabwe had dulled her common sense with overwhelming memories of Imma. She knew she wouldn’t find answers at this medical clinic, but she had longed to feel close to Imma again. But as she looked around the abandoned room with its empty cots and dirty floor, she realized how ridiculous she’d been. No part of Imma was still here—no part at all.

  “I was lucky to locate Farai.” Altan’s focus could sometimes be redirected.

  “I know,” he said, eyeing her closely. He opened his mouth to speak, but he took a deep breath instead. Perhaps he didn’t want to let her go that easily. “I met Dr. Tilden at a ZIRP fundraiser in London last year. He’s a nice guy.”

  This tame topic was a relief. Altan must’ve decided to curb his ire. “He’s a wonderful doctor,” she said. “He’s been volunteering for ZIRP for years.”

  “How did he know where to contact Farai?”

  “They have a special relationship.”

  “How so?”

  “Farai was helping us at the medical clinic on the day of the raid. Like the other volunteers, he was arrested and imprisoned. Eventually all the volunteers who were locals were released. Dr. Tilden gave them free medical services. He and Farai became friends and have stayed in touch.”

  “How long was Farai incarcerated?”

  “Ninety-seven days and two hours.”

  Altan started to respond, but a mosquito buzzed around his head, determined for a quick bite. He fanned away the attack with his hand. “At home we fight the traffic,” he finally said as he lowered his arm. “And here they fight mosquitoes carrying malaria.”

  That simple observation caused a flood of sadness to wash over Portia. She looked around.

  The discarded room had a row of cots, now only rusted frames, the quarter-thin mattresses and orange blankets long gone. Most of the screens on the awning windows had rips and tears, leaving the perfect space for invading parasites to launch an assault. The coughing and sobbing of patients echoed in Portia’s ears as if they were still present.

  “We used insecticide-treated nets,” she said, “but keeping the pat
ients completely protected from the mosquitoes was a near impossibility. There just weren’t easy or perfect solutions to anything.”

  “True enough.” Altan’s green cotton shirt was untucked and fell over his safari pants; he patted at a bulge at his backside. “So, Farai sounds like he’ll be on our side, but just in case we’re wrong, I’ve brought a friend.”

  “What are you talking about?” The mischief that lit his handsome face worried her. She hated surprises, since they reminded her too much of the hidden roadside bombs in Iraq. “Are you armed?”

  “I bought a 45 millimeter last night from a rather nice arms dealer. He also tried to sell me a Russian submachine gun, but I told him a Smith & Wesson handgun would be fine.” He flashed a boyish grin that showed off his dimples.

  “You lied to me.”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean? You said you were going downstairs to the bar for a gin and tonic.”

  “I did. I also bought us protection.”

  “From who?”

  “Before we left Chicago, I made inquiries about who we could trust in Harare. The fellow I met last night is—” He abruptly held his tongue, his thin lips glued in a straight line, as he wrinkled his brow in a look of confusion, as if he couldn’t decide what to say. “Well, it doesn’t matter who I contacted.” The lines of angst that creased his forehead suddenly eased. “Please, Portia, don’t hold this against me. I didn’t tell you because if something had gone wrong with the purchase, I didn’t want you to know anything about it and get into trouble. But I’m telling you now.”

  His explanation made sense, but still, her blood simmered with fret. Things could easily go wrong in this part of the world. Altan’s trusted buyer could’ve been playing him for the fool and might have actually worked for the police. How would Altan have known? He was an interpreter, not an experienced field agent. He could’ve been arrested for buying a weapon on the black market. What if that had happened? What would she have done? Their plan to discover if Imma was alive might’ve been ruined. “I wish you had told me what you were really up to,” she managed to say calmly. “That’s all, but I suppose I understand why you didn’t.”