Praise for Lipstick in Afghanistan
“An Afghanistan that . . . has the tang of the real deal.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Utterly engrossing.”
—Booklist
“Keeps you captivated with the details of Afghanistan and its way of life.”
—Sacramento Book Review
“Vividly depicts a place and a way of life that will be both foreign and fascinating to many readers. . . . An excellent choice for book club discussions.”
—Bookreporter
“A supremely gifted writer and eloquent ambassador for the people who have been banished from civilized society.”
—Mark Fritz, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and author of Lost on Earth: Nomads in the New World
Thank you for purchasing this Gallery Books eBook.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author’s Note
Readers Group Guide
About Roberta Gately
For Dennis Lucyniak, who will live forever in the hearts of the people he touched.
Acknowledgments
My deepest gratitude goes first to my incredible agents, Judy Hansen and Cynthia Manson, whose advice and vision have guided me through every step. I will be forever grateful for their wisdom and their wonderful friendship.
To Louise Burke and her extraordinary team at Simon & Schuster/Gallery, including Jen Bergstrom, an enormous thankyou. That team includes my wonderfully insightful editor, Abby Zidle, who not only makes me a better writer, she makes me laugh out loud in the process. To her dauntless assistant, Parisa Zolfaghari, thank you for your rapid response to everything. And endless thanks to the people who take my words and magically craft a beautiful book—Lisa Keim, Lisa Litwack, Carole Schwindeller, Regina Starace, Davina Mock, and Steve Boldt.
To Lauren Kuczala, my thanks again for your dazzling attention to detail. To the many book clubs, libraries, and groups that have invited me to speak, I am enormously grateful for your support, and to Suzanne Dana, Laurie Craparotta, and the Marine wives and families of Camp Lejeune, boundless thanks for inviting me to your Ball and into your lives and homes.
As always, to my family and friends, thank you for your support, your laughter, and your willingness to read page after page of first drafts.
Prologue
A silvery haze shrouded the streets of Geneva when Abby set out on her early-morning run. The sky was still dark, the air still crisp with the night’s last breeze, as she stepped from her hotel into the quiet of the street. The doorman tipped his hat in greeting.
“Bonjour, Miss Monroe. Another run?”
“Morning, Claude. My last one here in Geneva. Tomorrow, I’m off to Pakistan.”
“Ah, good luck, miss. Enjoy your run.”
Abby waved as she glanced at her watch and eased into her morning routine. Since this would be her last run, she wanted it to be her best. Tomorrow, she’d board a flight to Dubai and, from there, head to a UN program in northern Pakistan.
“No running there,” she’d been warned. “Too dangerous. Probably no time for it anyway.”
Abby would be evaluating an immunization program for UNICEF. It would be her first overseas assignment, and she wanted to make a great impression, show that she could do this kind of work, that she was capable and professional.
Geneva was deadly quiet this Sunday morning, and she ran in solitude, no cars or noise or people about just yet. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, the city still struggling to shake off the night’s long sleep. The streets and the scenery faded from her view as she focused all her energies on pushing forward, step after step. With every footfall, her legs throbbed, and her heart pounded. She wanted to stop, but in a day or a week or a month, she’d ache for the misery she felt now, so she picked up her pace, willing her muscles to remember this final sprint.
Abby’s legs ached with the exertion but she pushed harder, thrusting her arms out grabbing the air. She felt her breathing ease as she crested a small hill and coasted on a level surface. Here the street narrowed as she passed the graceful old UN buildings. The government buildings that had loomed large in the shadowy morning light soon gave way to quiet residential streets bordered by trees, hedges, and privacy gates.
She turned her attention back to the road, wishing she’d brought her iPod. Running to the sounds of her own panting was a distraction. She turned back toward the hotel and found herself running along a wider street lined with high-rise office buildings. The street, framed by the buildings, was deserted and utterly quiet this Sunday morning. Steam seeped from the buildings’ grates and rose lazily before evaporating in the morning air. Abby inhaled deeply. This indefinable time, the hour between night and day, was her favorite time to run at home. Everything was so peaceful, and that was especially true here in Geneva. Lost in the steady cadence of her footfalls, Abby savored the way her body moved and felt.
Suddenly, voices raised in anger broke through the morning hush. Abby, her senses alert, came to a full stop. She looked around, but caught here in a street of soaring office towers, she saw only blank walls of granite and steel. She hesitated, the voices rising again, an urgency spiking the sounds, and she realized they were coming from somewhere above her. She looked up, and there, framed at the edge of a fourth-floor balcony, a man had a woman pinned, her back bent over the railing.
Abby’s hands flew to her mouth. She was frozen to the spot, unable to move.
Suddenly the man leaned in to the woman. Was he kissing her? Abby couldn’t tell. No, she thought, they’re struggling. The woman pulled the man’s eyeglasses from his face, and the man exploded in anger, reaching for the woman’s neck. Just then the woman let out a piercing scream, and even from the street Abby could feel her terror. She looked around, desperate for help, for someone to stop whatever was happening. But this was a business district and the streets were empty, no buses or delivery trucks, not even a dog walker in sight. The woman screamed again, her arms flailing at the man. Was she pushing him away? With a twist, the woman seemed to free herself from his grasp.
A gout of steam from a sidewalk grate stung Abby’s eyes, and she blinked away tears. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in horror—the woman was plunging through the air.
Everything seemed to happen then in slow motion, and Abby’s heart pounded as she watched helplessly. The woman would fall directly onto concrete—there was no padding, no soft ground, nothing to break her fall. Panicked and helpless, Abby heard her own scream, but it was lost in the sudden whoosh of air as the woman hurtled past and landed just in front of her with a sickening thud.
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br /> Abby was paralyzed. She closed her eyes and tried to rub away the image, but when she opened them, the woman’s body was lying at an impossible angle, her neck twisted and broken. Abby edged closer and bent to the shattered form. She leaned over the body, and though her hands trembled wildly, she felt the woman’s neck, checking instinctively for a pulse. Of course there was none. The woman’s olive skin was laced with cuts and bruises, and blood seeped out from beneath her head. Abby reached her hand gently under the woman’s head and felt a large depression—her skull was shattered. Bits of gray matter leaked onto the street. The woman had landed on her back, her arms thrown out, her legs broken and bent, her face still contorted in fear, blood oozing from her ears and nose. One bloody wrist was adorned by thin, brightly colored bangles, and the other bore an ornate and intricately jeweled cuff bracelet. In her hand, she clutched a pair of splintered and shattered eyeglasses, the wire cutting into her skin. The woman’s long black hair, splattered now with blood, spilled around her, framing her face. Her clothes, loose and colorful like so many of the exotic dresses Abby had seen at the UN, were stippled with blood. Abby leaned over the woman’s chest and listened for any breath sounds. But there was nothing. She was dead, already beyond CPR.
Abby sat back on her heels and tried to think of what to do. She was a pediatric nurse, but she knew traumatic death when she saw it. The woman’s bracelet sparkled in the streetlight’s glow, and though Abby wanted to look away, she found herself riveted by the flashing gems.
“You!” A menacing voice cut through the quiet, and Abby looked up to see the man who’d thrown the woman. He was leaning far over the balcony, his hands planted firmly on the ledge. He teetered there for only an instant. “Don’t move!” he shouted, and Abby rose and stepped away from the body.
“You!” he called again. “Stay there—I’m coming down!”
Abby’s heart thumped wildly, and her eyes scanned the street. Surely, someone had heard the commotion, but the street remained empty, making the quiet seem all the more sinister.
Where was everyone? She had to get help. She stepped back and looked warily around. Should she run? Should she hide? She couldn’t think. There wasn’t time. She wouldn’t get far out in the open. She hurriedly looked for a place to hide. A row of full, unclipped hedges bordered the building just to her left, and she pushed her way through them to a spot low against the wall. She crouched low, pressed against the granite, willing herself to be invisible.
She huddled and waited, and then he appeared in the doorway, looking around, his head twitching as his eyes scanned the street. Abby watched as he bent over the body, pulling at something on the woman. Suddenly he stood and turned. Abby pushed herself against the old building and watched through the tiny gaps in the lush shrubbery. She tried to memorize the details of him—his slight build, the soft woolen sweater in a charcoal hue, the thinning gray hair. The man hesitated, then walked right toward the hedges where Abby hid. She held her breath and her thoughts raced. Did he see her? Surely he could hear the pounding of her heart. The street was still empty, Geneva was not yet awake. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her cries for help.
His footsteps drew closer. She held her breath and prayed for the pounding in her heart to stop. . . .
Abby crouched lower and watched as, inexplicably, he walked right past the shrub where she cowered. He hadn’t seen her after all. She listened as his footsteps faded and moved away. Abby squinted and kept him in her line of sight as he peered up and down the street, searching, she was certain, for her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, furiously punching in numbers. He turned then, and almost facing her, he spoke into the phone, his tone urgent and forceful.
“Allez, allez!” he barked. “Tu comprends?” He scratched at his head, his eyes locking then on the body in the street, and almost in response his voice rose, a swelling anger evident in his tone. “Immédiatement!” he shouted, turning abruptly. Abby watched as he headed back to the building, his footsteps fading, his silhouette lost in a sudden surge of steam from the grates. He disappeared into the building from which he’d just emerged.
Abby didn’t hesitate. This might be her only chance to escape, and she sprang to her feet, pushing through the hedges before taking flight, running madly through the streets and back to her hotel. After what seemed an eternity, she spied the smiling Claude at the door. Panting, she almost fell into him.
“Oh, miss, slow down. You’ve had a good run?”
“Oh, Claude, call the police!” Abby gasped for air. “Something terrible’s happened.”
Chapter 1
Abby woke with a start and bolted upright, throwing her arms out for protection, but nothing was there, only lightweight covers, which fell away. She wiped her hand across her sweating brow and rose quickly, but a sudden dizziness caused her to stumble, and she sat back heavily. Inhaling deeply, she tried to get her bearings, but the sound of footsteps outside the door made her freeze.
“Who is it?” she whispered, but the footsteps faded, and a heavy silence settled in their place.
A dull throbbing erupted in her brain, and her hands trembled as she tried to rub away the goose bumps on her bare arms. She took a deep breath and looked around, trying to push away the fog of confusion that had settled in her thoughts. Streaming sunlight fell on a rickety wooden chair and the familiar suitcase it held.
Pakistan.
She was in Pakistan. The UN staff house. She’d arrived yesterday from Dubai. She’d been sleeping, though fitfully.
Sighing with relief, she rubbed at her eyes, still gummy with sleep. Had it only been forty-eight hours since her run in Geneva? She shuddered at the memory of the woman falling to her death. Though the police had initially seemed concerned and had taken her back through the streets, they’d quickly grown weary of Abby’s failure to find the body, and they’d raised their brows in disbelief.
“I was certain this was the street,” Abby said. “But—”
“Why are you confused, miss?” the younger policeman had interrupted her. “This is such an important detail. Was she thrown? Did she fall? Which was it? And where is she now? Bodies don’t just disappear.”
His rapid-fire questions and her failure to find the body had only fueled Abby’s growing alarm. Her eyes scanned the streets, but the same monotonous buildings, all granite and steel, had loomed above her, one building, one street, indistinguishable from the next. And without the body as a landmark, she’d felt her certainty fading. “One more time,” she’d pleaded. “There was a woman. I’m not making this up.”
A growing panic had nipped at her thoughts. Which road had it been? Perhaps it was the next street, she’d said. The police had taken her down one street and then another, filled now with cars and people, but there was nothing to see, no body, no blood or tissue in the street. Finally they’d driven her back to the hotel, derisive smirks playing at their lips.
“Get some sleep, miss, and you’ll forget this,” the younger policeman said, impatience dripping from his words.
“But—” she tried to protest, but the second policeman spoke up.
“Be sure to call us if you see the body again.” He broke into a wide grin that was almost a sneer.
But she’d neither slept nor forgotten. Even now she could clearly remember, in crisp detail, the woman’s olive skin, her thick black hair, and the bracelet that had sparkled almost obscenely on her shattered wrist. Abby could see too the face of the man as he’d searched for her in the street, and she shivered at the recollection.
On her overnight in Dubai, unable to sleep, and drenched in sweat despite the air-conditioning, she’d dialed the hotel operator and made a call to Emily, her best friend in Boston. Abby had forgotten the time difference until she heard Emily’s voice, heavy with sleep.
“Oh, Em, I’m sorry to wake you. It’s early morning here, and I was desperate to talk, to tell someone.”
“What’s wrong?” Emily said, the sleep suddenly gone from
her voice.
“I . . . oh, jeez. This will sound crazy, but I saw a woman fall from a balcony in Geneva, and, well—I don’t think she just fell. I think I may have witnessed a murder. My heart is pounding just telling you about it.”
Abby’s story spilled out quickly—the eerie quiet of Geneva, the arguing voices, the woman hurtling through the air to her death. “She wore this beautiful jeweled cuff, and I remember it so clearly. The thing is, I’m not sure if she fell or if the man threw her.” Abby paused, but Emily was silent.
“Em? Are you there?”
“Where are you?”
Abby heard the concern in Emily’s voice. “Dubai, I’m in the airport hotel. I came in last night from Geneva. I fly out to Pakistan later today. I just had to hear your voice. My hands are shaking.” Abby made a fist to quiet the tremors. “I reported it to the police, Em, and they took me back, but the body was gone.” She swallowed hard. “I know how it sounds, and I know the police thought I was a little bit off, but I am one hundred percent certain that I saw a woman fall to her death. I just don’t know if she was thrown or if she fell.”
“Why are you so worried now?”
“The man who was with her, he came looking for me in the street, and when I came back with the police, she was gone, just gone. I just . . .” Abby hesitated, hoping that Emily would say something reassuring. Instead, the line was quiet, and Abby thought she might have lost the connection. “Em, are you there?”
“I am. I’m just trying to understand what you’re telling me.”
“Oh, Christ, you don’t believe me either?”
Emily sighed heavily. “It isn’t that, but, well, you’re sure she was dead? I mean, maybe she did fall, and the man you saw was looking for help, and not for you. Otherwise, your story does sound a little crazy. Bodies don’t just disappear, right?”
“I don’t know,” Abby almost whispered. “Maybe he did call for help. I just don’t know.”
The Bracelet Page 1