There was silence for about thirty seconds while Jill wondered if Karine had actually just said that to her. “Crap, like I need this now,” Jill responded ambivalently. And with that, Jill hung up and turned around, hoping no one had been listening. There was no sound of a typewriter, something you might expect in a typing shop. But nobody was looking her way. There was just the odd click-clack of the mouse and keyboard strokes. The woman at the desk lifted her head, more out of curiosity than suspicion, Jill figured.
Exiting the shop, her eyes swept the street and noted no more headlights behind the café. Jill stood there unmoving. She was in over her head and she knew it. Damn.
She needed a minute to go over her thoughts about Petrovich, David, and what the hell to do next. Jill moved to the doorway of the closed shop next to the typing shop.
She was no pushover. Well, at least not now, not after Matthew McGregor. Perplexed at what to do next, it was McGregor who now inspired her. She tensed just thinking about those last few hours with him. He had drugged her she thought and for that she was thankful. It distorted her memory of the truth. She closed her eyes and tried to see.
She had to go back to the dress shop. She could trust the old man. That much she knew. As she wandered back, being careful not to draw attention, she thought of her belongings back at the hotel. The hotel might be easy to get to with directions, but she couldn’t risk being seen. It was bad enough she involved the man in the dress shop. Kushka isn’t that big, she thought. Her stuff would have to wait until she could get back there, if at all. At least her laptop was impossible to crack. The fail-safe mechanism would erase her hard drive if anyone attempted to break in. Then she thought about her numbers. Her notebook.
The old man smiled when she walked in, oblivious to the danger that surrounded her. She lifted off her burqa and smiled back. She walked over and held out five one-hundred dollar bills. The man looked at the money and then up at Jill. She held out the note in the other hand and said “Towraghond” as best as her American dialect would allow. “Driver, need driver.”
He didn’t touch the money or the note; his eyes met hers as if searching for a hint of no good. He held up his hands, palms facing her—a clear signal for Jill to wait. Seconds later he came back with his wife and pointed at the offering in Jill’s hands. The old couple’s native tongue filled the small shop with debate. From what Jill could gauge by judging the body language, the old woman wanted the money. The old man was hesitant but relented, and the old woman waddled out the back door. He shuffled over and Jill pushed the money in his direction, gesturing that she would keep the cherished note as he motioned her to sit on an old wooden chair next to the cash desk.
As she watched the old man fumble and fold clothes, her adrenaline began to ebb and she found herself drifting from alertness to thinking of the past few hours, the past few days. It was the adrenaline that kept her tiredness at bay. Jill wanted to think of David, but thoughts of Zayed took over. Questions about what had happened at the café raced through her head. Who were those men at the café, and were they there for us, or the money that we paid the shadow man? There was no answer to her questions, just more questions.
The door of the shop jingled open. Jill looked up but did not move. She had put the burqa back on, so she was not too worried. But still, after what just happened - the recognition of David’s photo from the shadow man, and the death of Zayed–she knew David had been here and she was determined to find him. Screw you, McGregor, her mantra continued.
Ducking his head to get through the door, a tall yet stocky young man stepped in and closed the door behind him. He was wearing a dark brown vest over his pajamas.
The old man hurried over to the tall kid, grabbed both his arms, and pulled him close for a hug. The smiles on their faces displayed genuine happiness to see each other when the young man leaned in and touched his nose to the nose of the shrinking man. The similarity of their features, but obvious difference in age, suggested to Jill that these men were grandfather and grandson. Both men turned and walked toward her. As she began to stand, the old man’s arms began to flail, and he shared the colorful story.
The tall kid nodded respect at Jill and then pointed his chubby finger to his chest and said, “Is me, Mohammed.”
With relief she replied, “Is me, Jill,” and pointed back to herself. An accomplished smile lifted the kid's innocent face and he motioned her to the door. He looked around outside and Jill cautiously followed him out.
They moved to the side of the shop, where there was a small walkway between the store and the adjacent building. The alley was dark. Water glistened and trickled on the walls—the remains of someone dumping water from a wash bucket above. She followed him out to an empty parking area past the building and over to an old white Toyota Corolla.
So much for the four-wheel drive Karine recommended for the donkey trail. As Jill approached the car, she could see rust holes covering its flank, and one look at the tires made her heart sink.
She pointed at the car and made a motion with her hands clasped, as if going over bumps. “Do you think the car will be okay?”
“Good, good,” he beamed, doing a happy-go-lucky fist pump. “Strong, no problem.” Without further hesitation, he signaled her to get into the backseat.
Leaving Kushka was speedy with little to no traffic. They didn’t pass the café on the way out and after about four minutes of twists and turns they were out of town and speeding along a gravel road. There were no streetlights on the back road, and ghostly specks of dust floated in front of the headlights. Jill bounced around in the backseat as the rattling car struggled to stay on the trail. She was holding on to the front passenger headrest, trying to keep steady. It was dark on both sides of the trail, making it impossible to make out what was past the edge of the shoulder banks. Mohammed did his best to keep them on the road despite a few near misses when they came close to the edge of the unknown abyss. They passed no checkpoints, making it likely that not many traveled this road. Mohammed appeared nonchalant driving to nowhere in the dark and even he, with his size, bounced wildly.
Jill squinted through the abaya when Mohammed pointed at the dark shapes of buildings highlighted by the moon about a mile away. As the shapes grew bigger, it became clear that the village they were traveling to was not a bustling community. They drove into a humble village, that appeared to have only one main road. It must have been close to midnight by then, Jill assumed, and there was not one soul on the street. But this town was far from asleep. The town was deserted. Jill sighed. There were two-story, baby-blue-colored buildings on the right side of the road. Broken, rusted air conditioners were the only things left in the cracked windows. An old dead tree rested by the steps, stretching up into the deserted shop’s landing. One of the flats on the second floor was missing the broken air conditioner altogether.
At the end of the main street a bent sign indicating a T intersection dangled on one screw. Mohammed stopped at the sign, reached back his jumbo-sized hand and said, “Paper,” his tongue rolling on the 'r'. Jill was unsure if it would help him at this point as there were no street signs that she could see, but she gave it to him anyway.
To their right was a dirt trail with several abandoned shanties. To their left, the road looked more traveled. Mohammed’s door creaked open so he could use the interior light to read the note. He held it close to his face. Farsighted, she surmised. Mohammed closed the door, passed the note back to Jill and looked around, lost. He decided to turn left. It was as good a choice as any. As they coasted along, Jill noticed something in the distance. About a mile up ahead was the glow of a light. The weather had become foggy just before reaching the abandoned village, and Mohammed made another left and drove slowly up the road. He stopped when they saw the light and its origin. Mohammed quickly turned off the headlights and pulled into a field. The car sputtered when he shut down the engine. He did not bother to get out of the lopsided car. He simply looked back at Jill and said, “Khalas,” and p
ointed in the direction of the light.
Jill sat quietly trying to figure out her next move. Every three seconds or so, Mohammed’s eyes flicked to hers in the rear-view mirror.
Jill decided that whatever came next, she could do it in her own clothes. “I need to get this damn thing off,” she mumbled. Stepping out of the car, her boots crunched on gravel. She stood behind the back door and lifted the heavy dress off and tossed it into the backseat. She grabbed her black cap out of her pocket and lowered it to her eyebrows. The rusted door creaked as she quietly clicked it shut. She stood motionless for a second and looked around. The air sent a chill over her body as she walked across the desolate road towards the light of the large villa. She felt for the gun, pulled it out of her pocket, and flicked open the clip. How she wished she had checked how many rounds she had left when she had light. By her calculations there should be around six rounds left. “Shit.” She pushed the clip back in and pulled back the slide. Clasping the gun in both hands, she hastily crunched across the field towards the light. The place was littered with garbage. There were several tires strewn about and a small plastic bag scurried across the hard sand in the gentle breeze and flapped when it got stuck on an abandoned car. Jill maneuvered her way towards the house. There was no sound except for a generator humming in the background.
Duck! her intuition commanded. She crouched down fast and looked towards a deep pink cement house. Square lines and a large arched door held a small dome on its flat roof. Windows checkered the house, with floodlights from the yard bouncing off them. Looking up she could see a figure on the rooftop. A bright red flicker deepened; the unknown rooftop man was sucking on a cigarette. Her feet were frozen to the ground. Jill quickly assessed his line of vision and decided she could see him, but he couldn’t see her. He wasn’t looking her way and his stance was one of boredom. He must be guarding the house. Everyone must be asleep. Jill knew she was in over her head and the slight shake of her hands confirmed this. What was she going to do? A lone USM in Afghanistan? Hand-to-hand combat. This was something Jill enjoyed, she liked learning and practicing in the USM training and compliance program. To become a USM it was only necessary to take the introductory unarmed course, and it was rigorous. But after Jill’s experience with her Mr. Matthew, she wanted more training. She spent additional hours learning jujitsu, muay Thai, and kali. And although the trainers knew she was female, they drove her hard. She had become an expert … with the exception of one little problem. She could fight well on the mats, but here, live, with the bogeymen? What was she supposed to do in this house? Was David being held against his will? What the hell was going on? If she stood any longer she would not be able to stop the list of endless questions. Jill had a choice. She was still alive, right? Move.
Jill crab-walked stealthily past the entrance to the fence and closed in on the house. Pressing her body against the building she inched forward then stopped, and waited. Inched forward and then stopped, waited. Jill didn’t hear anything but the fast pumping of her heart. She reached the front door and what she saw made her instantly depressed.
The solid wood door leaned against the jamb, unattached. Someone had beaten her to the place. She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. Looking into the hallway it was obvious, even with what little illumination poured in the windows, that no one was in the house. Not tonight anyway. No one had been in this house for some time, Jill thought as she stepped in and moved slowly down the hall. Why the hell is that watchman on the roof then? He's guarding something … but what?
The shit smell pinched her nose shut from unused drains. Rays of dim light slowly guided her from one room to the next. She found the kitchen. It was small with plastic cupboards and no appliances. Moving out of the room, her foot hit a tin lid. Jill jumped and froze her back to the wall. The gun was now in both hands and leaned against her right cheek. She held her breath and listened. Did anyone hear me? She waited for another moment, released her breath, then sucked in another. She looked up at a large winding staircase that twisted up to the second floor, expecting someone to come barreling down when the sound echoed. But no one came.
Jill tiptoed up the winding stairs, disturbing the dust. Twenty-five steps later the sound of the generator wheezed through an open window, and she had reached the second floor. The curdled smell indicated that there was no running water in the house and the stench was almost unbearable. The stairs continued up to a third floor, where the bored man stood watching. She had no idea how long he would be up there, or what the hell was he watching over. Jill needed to search the rooms for something … anything that would help her find David.
As she peered into the last room on the second floor she noticed it was furnished, unlike the other four empty rooms. The light from outside beamed onto a beat-up desk covered with yellowed papers in the corner. The room looked ransacked and a surge of hope fueled her.
She swiftly approached the desk and began to rifle through the papers in search of something that she could understand. She uncrumpled one of the paper balls and saw that it had a drawing on it with Russian words. She folded it and put it in her pocket. She gazed around the dark room. Her eyes panned to the right. Wait! She panned back, and there in the corner was a brown leather notebook, open-faced down on the floor. She blinked several times and gasped. It was David’s notebook! He had been here!
Jill quickly moved to the cluttered corner and picked it up. The world went silent. She lifted the notebook to the light coming through the window. She shoved the gun into her pocket. Her fingers brushed the familiar leather-laced binding. She began to falter when she sifted through the familiar pages her own face smiling back at her from the cover. Suddenly she felt faint, and almost dropped the precious notebook.
She frantically went through the pages; some were torn out and the ones left had nothing written on them. The hardness of the wall braced her back as she slid to the floor. Her eyes stung as tears pooled. Jill was finally numb. She didn’t feel the tears drop on her cheeks. She just sat in silence. She clutched a piece of David and tried to surrender. But something happened that she did not understand, something she couldn’t register. She blinked back the remaining tears and chided, “Focus, Jill, focus.”
In the dark room, a beam of light penetrated another pile of papers. She pulled herself up slowly and zombie-walked over to see what they were. The glow had highlighted a yellowed folded newspaper. Jill picked it up and turned it over. She gasped and took a step back. On the back was a picture of someone she recognized. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, the figures in the photo were still there.
Stan Brown, David’s father, stood shaking the hand of a man. Another stood beside them. The paper was written in Russian and the picture looked as if they were celebrating something. “What the …”
The slam of a door above jolted Jill so hard she almost dropped everything. Jill stuffed the paper and notebook into her shirt, pulled out her gun, and backed up against the wall behind the door. She could hear boots coming down the marble stairs rapidly. She did not move, she did not breathe. Through the crack of the door jamb she could make out the hallway. She heard the man hit the landing and he walked past the room where Jill hid, with no hesitation in his steps. The door handle of the room opposite turned, and she could hear the door creak open. The sound of ruffled clothes followed, then a zip. Liquid noise hitting a hollow bowl continued for at least thirty seconds and then the man sighed. Zip, ruffle, and he rapidly ascended back to the roof, slamming the door.
Jill heard herself sigh. She needed to get out of there, and now. She took one last look around for anything recognizable, then slipped down the stairs and back out the broken door.
Outside, Jill looked around and then up. She could not see the guard and there were no other sounds other than the generator. The lights were now her enemy, and Jill contemplated what to do. She had no choice really. She must make a run for it across the lit courtyard. One deep breath, and she ran softly to the edge of the
gate and slithered around it. She stopped, looking upwards in the direction of the guard. He was not there. She waited. Did he hear her leaving? Was he following her? Nothing. No sounds. Nothing. Jill turned and headed towards the car. She stayed close to the thick cement fence that surrounded the other villas. When the lit villa was out of view, she headed across the dirt plot towards the car.
At the end of the lane, Jill could see Mohammed waiting. His king-sized thumbs tapped the top of the steering wheel, fidgeting. Mohammed smiled innocently, and as soon as she got in, he swiftly revved the engine and pulled a U-turn to head back to Kushka. As they quietly left the abandoned town, Jill held the notebook on her lap and thought of David.
***
Jill remembered the day she had given him the notebook. He had just finished a highly reviewed story on Maslamberg, located two hours outside of Chicago, a suspected Al Qaeda training encampment. The smile on his face broadened when Jill pushed the present across the table. It was garnished with a bright red ribbon. A quirky look followed when he saw the picture she pasted onto the inside cover. They had not yet told each other “I love you.” They didn’t have to; they knew. David said, “Must be love!” as he lifted his glass of Cab Sav to toast. “Must be love,” Jill repeated as they clinked glasses…
***
The pain in her heart tugged. Why is there a picture of David’s father, of all people, on the floor where David was supposed to be? Especially since it was halfway around the world from Texas? Jill had known David’s dad had some international contracts, given that he was in the oil and gas pipeline business. Jill was back in the tunnels but could not pull up the file on exactly what David’s dad did in that industry. He was always vague about it. She knew this couldn’t be a coincidence, as there was no such thing as coincidences, not to this degree anyway. Just as Jill was about to pull up another memory file, the lights of Kushka appeared and guided their descent on the rough hilly road. Mohammed kept looking back at her, his dark eyes concerned. Jill’s eyes looked dead. It was all she could do to stop from letting go when she said to Mohammed, “Vodka?”
Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers Page 15