Prism (Story of CI Book 1)

by Rachel Moschell

  Wara wandered closer, ignoring the cool glances of the nurses. Alejo had stopped shaking and lay flat on the bed, face the color of white clay. “He’s dying?” she repeated, moving so close one hand touched the edge of the bed near Alejo’s elbow.

  “The bullet didn’t enter his brain,” the doctor said, speaking loudly over the frantic beep of Alejo’s heart rate. “But the impact still caused this swelling. It’s much worse than we thought. His heart can’t keep this up much longer. I’m sorry.”

  Wara didn’t even look at the doctor, but her face crumpled as she watched Alejo.

  I should leave. Just leave. I don’t have to watch this.

  But her heart surged to her throat, vibrating with what she realized was compassion. She clutched the bed sheet with white knuckles. Alejo’s heart rate accelerated further and his back arched.

  And then his eyes flew open, leaving Wara absolutely shocked, staring into a sea of hazel. He was sitting, suddenly, gasping and leaning forward onto the pale blue blanket. The monitor’s beeping dove from a constant beep to deep electronic thuds. And stayed that way.

  Dr. Ortega had flown to the bedside and was leaning over Alejo’s shoulder, trying to support him. Behind the gold-rimmed glasses, the doctor’s eyes were round and about to pop. “His heart rate’s normal,” he stammered. “Where did it…what happened to the tachycardia?” The nurses had drawn back and were gaping at Alejo sitting up on the bed. And then they jumped. Because Alejo grinned. At Wara.

  It was weak and lop-sided, and looked out of place on his pale face. But the smile caused his eyes to spark, and he glued his gaze on Wara, who gawked back at him, knee propped against the side of his bed.

  “You!” he croaked. Then coughed and tried another grin. “He told me I wouldn’t remember your name. Doesn’t matter. They’re coming for us. Two of them. And he said we’re just supposed to go, and do whatever they say. Come with me!”

  And then the grin faded and Alejo hunched farther over, as if just now feeling the pain traveling down the nerve pathways from his head. “What hospital is this?” he moaned, leaning over onto his knees with head in his hands. “I remember everything. I can’t believe I’m here.”

  The nurses rushed towards him, firm hands admonishing the patient to lie back down. Wara forced her mouth to shut and backed up a few feet from the bed. She ripped her gaze away from Alejo towards the doctor, who was still watching wide-eyed and incredulous.

  “I can’t believe…I was sure he was…dying.” As if realizing he had just said that out loud, Dr. Ortega snapped his mouth shut and rubbed his temple. “This is really unusual. We’ll have to run some more tests. I’d say we’re not out of the woods yet, after that little speech our patient just made. He’s obviously delirious. It’s to be expected with the brain trauma.”

  Delirious. Of course. “They’re coming for us?” That had sounded like a line out of Terminator.

  A skinny nurse butted into Wara’s line of sight, cutting off the conversation with the doctor. “Doctor,” she clipped nervously. “The patient he…can’t see.”

  Wara blinked, staying where she was as Dr. Ortega moved towards Alejo and tried to check his sight. “You can’t see?” the doctor asked with concern. Alejo was lying still on the rumpled pillow, eyes opened narrowly.

  “I can’t see anything,” he answered.

  “There you go.” Dr. Ortega turned his head towards Wara. “It’s still the swelling. Considering the loss of sight and that delirious talk, I’m going to have the lab come up and do some more tests right away.”

  But he looked right at me. When he woke up, Wara thought, stunned. That grin, half-crazed but out of his mind with delight about something. He knew she was there. And now he couldn’t see.

  “It’s late,” the doctor told Wara. “Why don’t you try to get some rest, while we draw some blood for the tests.” Everyone shuffled out into the hallway, leaving Wara alone with Alejo, lying still and pale in the bed. Staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing.

  “Get some rest,” the doctor says.

  Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Wara needed to escape to Lima.

  27

  sapphire

  GABRIEL SHARA FORCED HIMSELF TO EAT breakfast that morning purely out of habit. His stomach was full of butterflies with razor wings and his hands tingled as he sat at the table near the large picture window in the kitchen.

  He was waiting for Manuel, and Manuel was not coming.

  Gabriel realized that the hot water in his ceramic mug was getting cold, and he distractedly unscrewed the red plastic lid of the Nescafe jar and scooped a generous heap of instant coffee into the water. He added two tiny spoons of sugar and a stream of cream, stirring it around without thinking. A tightly-sealed bag of crusty marraqueta bread had been delivered this morning and was sitting on the middle of the white lacquer table. Gabriel extracted one of them, sliced it open with a serrated knife from the table, and began to spread Regia margarine and strawberry jam on each side. As he bit into the chewy, warm bread, the thought crossed his mind: These are exactly like the ones my mom used to make, in the clay oven in the back yard.

  Gabriel’s mouth twitched into a smile at the image of his fashionable, upper-class mother, standing in the backyard in a pink apron and huge oven mitts, waiting for the crust of the marraquetas to reach just the right texture so she could snatch them from the steaming mouth of the oven in the corner of their backyard. The Shara family had maids and servants to do every kind of manual labor, but baking bread had been his mother’s hobby. Gabriel thought it was in her blood, passed down from her Arab ancestors who had baked flat bread in outdoor ovens in Palestine.

  He sighed deeply at the memory of his mom.

  It stunk that she couldn’t know about his work, and especially about the assignment Gabriel was on today. It was such an honor that the Khan had thought of him for this job.

  His mom would be so proud. But she would probably never find out.

  Gabriel frowned in frustration and slowly chewed his bread, then glanced nervously out the window, watching for Manuel.

  Gabriel was waiting in a large, newly-constructed house on a high slope at the north of Cochabamba, one of many rented by the Khan’s foundation. No one else was here besides Gabriel, and that fact was beginning to make Gabriel sweat.

  He swore silently as he took a swig of Nescafe and stood up again to try to see over the concrete wall surrounding the house and down the hill where a car could be coming up the cobblestone street.

  Nothing. The morning was silent, except for the sound of a few song birds flitting around the coral and white flowering trees in the neighborhood.

  Where was Manuel?

  After the disastrous scene with Alejo at Pairumani and the subsequent rush to Univalle, Gabriel and Stalin had made it just in time to the Jorge Wilstermann airport to meet Benjamin and Ishmael. Until the moment that the men were to check in for their flight to Asuncion, where they would meet Lázaro after his three-day sabbatical and regroup, only Ishmael had known that Gabriel would be staying behind. As he clapped all his friends on the back good-bye, Gabriel had casually explained that he had a contract for a job, and would meet them in Asuncion after the weekend, Inshallah. Allah willing.

  Okay, so Gabriel wouldn’t carry out the actual mission today, of course. That was where Manuel came in. Gabriel was the mastermind behind the whole thing, providing all the technical support.

  The client who had hired him was going to pay him a cartload of money. Last night Gabriel had stayed up much later than he should have, playing the violin much too fast while dreaming what he would buy for Ambrin with the money. He was thinking maybe a trip to Europe for the honeymoon, because what girl didn’t want to go to Europe?

  In two more months, Ambrin would graduate from nursing school and Ishmael had said the wedding could happen after that. The whole idea was enough to make Gabriel downright delirious.

  But he really didn’t feel at peace. Of course he wanted to marr
y her! But that was just the problem. Allah had given Gabriel back his life that night in Peshawar when his throat had been slit. What right did he have to just marry Ambrin and go on honeymoon to Paris and live happily ever after? The world was full of people suffering, their daily lives full of misery.

  A good example was the people of Palestine, where his grandparents had lived before immigrating to Bolivia. He probably still had relatives there, whom he had never met, trapped in what many considered the world’s largest jail. Conditions there were abject poverty, as the Palestinians had been forced off their land by the Israelis and left with nowhere to go. They belonged to no country, thus had no passport and could never leave that place to study overseas or work. And in Palestine, there was no work.

  Wouldn’t Allah be more than a little mad if Gabriel just married Ambrin and sat around drinking coffee with her in the mornings and laughing about all their kids’ cute little antics? The thought caused Gabriel’s stomach to churn. What if Allah wasn’t pleased with his decision to live out his own desires and marry Ambrin? What if He wouldn’t let him into Paradise?

  The taste of the fresh bread soured in Gabriel’s mouth and he gulped down the last inch of coffee, then glanced once more at the window. The brick-colored stones of the street were still silent. He carried his dishes over to the sink, where later they would be washed by someone the Khan hired to keep this place up. He dropped the margarine and cream off in the refrigerator, carefully tied up the bread in its bag with a perfect little knot. All the rooms of the huge house were absolutely silent, and the slapping of Gabriel’s bare feet across the shiny black tiles echoed loud. He pulled a cell phone out of his jean pocket and punched in the number for Manuel, holding his breath.

  He’ll probably answer and say that he is just pulling up to the gate any minute. He wouldn’t be late for this, would he? Not after all the time we’ve spent.

  Manuel Choque’s family lived in a one-room hut of adobe out in the mountains around Potosi His father had not been home since he was two. Somehow, while packed into a classroom of seventy kids out in the countryside, he’d been picked out as having musical talent. Manuel had been given a full scholarship to attend the Iranian-Bolivian Conservatory, founded five years back in Cochabamba. The short, swarthy seventeen-year old was now a beautiful classical violin player, as well as a devoted Muslim. When he wasn’t studying, he made a small amount of cash playing at concerts and parties. He also took occasional jobs playing at upscale restaurants, who requested musicians from the Conservatory.

  Today, beginning at 12:00, Manuel was to play at a luncheon. On his way to the job, Manuel was to stop here at the house, to take care of some vital matters with Gabriel, who had prepped him for this day in several important meetings. Manuel was supposed to arrive at 9:30. As the cell phone kept ringing, Gabriel pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time.

  9:42.

  How could he be late, today of all days? There was so much to do.

  Manuel knew what today meant. He’d said he wanted his life to mean something.

  Sighing crossly, Gabriel hung up and redialed. As the ringing began again, he padded across the wide entryway into a room that lay behind a heavy wooden door. He pushed it open and strode over to a thick table, glancing for the hundredth time that morning at his creations from the past twenty-four hours of work.

  In the corner of the room, boxes of explosives and electronics were scattered, like a kids’ Legos dumped out onto the tiles. The contents of Gabriel’s tool boxes were sprawled across the dusty black tile of the floor, signs that a madman/half-genius had been at work, putting together things from raw ingredients with the inspiration of an artist. But the most important item for today’s mission was laid out on a crude wooden workbench, awaiting the arrival of Manuel.

  Gabriel’s violin was also resting on sapphire velvet in its case on a clean work table. He almost choked up, seeing the instrument and remembering last night, how he’d played for Ambrin and dreamed of Europe.

  I’ve slept in so many strange places like this house, that are home to no one; full of generic dishes, fresh instant coffee, and beds that are always mysteriously made up with clean sheets by some unknown hand. But as long as I’m with my violin, it feels like home. Things aren’t so bad.

  Gabriel pressed his lips together as the cell continued ringing, now for the fifth time. He felt a little faint as it occurred to him that Manuel was not coming.

  No! How could he do this? How could he not understand how important this is? Ok, yes, it’s a little scary. But he said he was prepared! Everything depends on him!

  Gabriel slammed a fist into the wooden doorframe and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

  Manuel, how dare you chicken out on me!

  There wasn’t much time, and he really needed to think. The only way near the targets was as the musical entertainment, sent by the Conservatory. And the Iranian-Bolivian Conservatory had lined up Manuel, per Gabriel’s instructions.

  I can’t believe this! This is so important—I was so sure this is what Allah wanted! How can we let this opportunity slip away, just because Manuel didn’t show? We are so close!

  But without him, there’s no way to get close enough to the targets.

  Gabriel blinked as his eyes fell upon the honey-colored wood of his violin, resting on top of sapphire velvet.

  Of course there’s a way. I can replace Manuel, tell them the conservatory sent me. When they hear me play, there won’t be a single complaint.

  For a moment he felt a little woozy, the only thing holding him back a memory of deep, sapphire blue eyes framed by a lilac veil in a beautiful garden in Pakistan. But there really was no other way.

  Steeling himself, Gabriel knelt, then prostrated himself on the ground, feeling dirty and unclean, knowing he had not washed himself properly for prayer. If only Allah could forgive him this one time, in this hour of greatest need.

  Unbidden, the scene from Pairumani flashed through his mind: Alejo, who had always cared about him, dead because he had refused to return to Allah. The bile of that betrayal threatened to rise up Gabriel’s throat, along with crazy sorrow over losing his friend. But greater than that was the concern that squeezed Gabriel as he remembered his own betrayal: he had lied to the Khan and let that girl go, out of pity. She could cause all kind of damage to the cause of Allah.

  And Allah knew all about it.

  Gabriel turned his hands up towards heaven, supplicating, then closed his eyes. There was no more time.

  He waited there on the floor, hoping for wisdom, feeling the burden of pleasing Allah pressing him into the ground. Then he clenched his jaw, sure, and climbed to his feet, staring at the workbench.

  I should never have trusted Manuel to do this. I will go.

  With deliberation, Gabriel unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the floor, feeling the chill of the morning air on his bare chest.

  Time to get dressed.

  The violin would be going with him, just as it always did to every place he called home. This wouldn’t be so bad.

  28

  fiery

  WARA WOKE IN THE MORNING TO luke-warm anise tea on a breakfast tray next to her bed. She slit her eyes and saw Alejo Martir sitting cross-legged on the other bed in the hospital room, staring at nothing, wearing sweat pants under a blue plaid hospital gown.

  She really didn’t want to open her eyes.

  Alejo couldn’t see. Last night the doctor had ordered a lot of tests, but of course it was because of the gun shot to the head. It was unbelievable he was even alive.

  The only thing that convinced Wara to sit up in bed was remembering that today she would get away from this place and be on her way back to see the Martirs, then to the U.S. She tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed but her head spun like a ballerina practicing pirouettes. Her eyes felt like sandpaper and her nose still felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Thank God, Dr. Ortega said it wasn’t actually broken.

  Wara slapped at t
he cooling mug of tea on her tray and gulped it down, shuddering at the sickly sweet brew. Alejo heard the clatter of ceramic on the table and turned towards her, expression pained.

  She needed to say something to him.

  After all, this was good-bye. Or good riddance.

  “Are you…are you ok?” she asked tentatively. Of course he wasn’t ok. He was blind and rather out of his mind. Wara frowned and slumped back into the headboard, remembering the silly grin of yesterday and Alejo’s rambling about two something coming for us. Had it been two people? Or aliens?

  Alejo sighed and tried to smile towards her, but it was a sad smile. “The tests from yesterday show the swelling is down. Dr. Ortega came in while you were sleeping. He couldn’t believe it. Guess it’s supposed to take three or four days for the swelling to die down. I still can’t see though. For that, he said just wait and see. He said maybe my sight’ll come back. From the way he said it, I think he’s just trying to be nice.”

  Wara winced and forced herself to eat two round Maria cookies from the white china plate next to the anise tea. She was wiped out, barely keeping herself together. What was she supposed to say?

  “I’m sorry this happened to you?”

  “It sure was awful watching your blood splatter everywhere, and I’m sorry all your friends just sat by and watched?”

  She had already talked with Alejo a tiny bit last night, when just the two of them were left alone in the room after all the lab tests. He remembered being shot and was obviously relieved that Wara was alive and well. Wara filled him in on how Stalin and Gabriel had saved his life by dropping them off here at Univalle.

  There really wasn’t much else to say, was there?

  Oh yeah.

  “I’m going to Lima, to see your family,” she announced, watching his reaction while breaking another Maria cookie up into tiny little bits. “Tonight. Yesterday I found out the bus is leaving at six.”

  Alejo’s face was impassive as he said he agreed with her decision. Wara slowly fed herself bites of cookie, willing the day to go by quickly.