The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “I will write about them, but Americans like to read about Americans. Human interest gets them every time.”

  Abby crossed her arms and stood firm. “I think maybe you don’t really know what readers want. Why not just help refugees?”

  “I am here to help the refuges—just not in the usual way.”

  “Can you just get to the point?” she asked, her words dripping with sarcasm.

  “I am here for the refugees. I’m as committed to helping them as you are. There’s just something else I’m working on, and being here is the best way to do that.”

  Abby shook her head. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t have to, and you don’t have to help me either. Just let me hang around and I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll even do a great fluff piece on you.” He held out his hand. “Truce?”

  Abby hesitated. “As long as you’re not hanging over my shoulder, we’ll get on fine. If you want to call that a truce, then you have one.” She fixed him with a steely gaze, hoping that he knew she meant business. Nick dropped his hand. She didn’t much like him, but she wondered if she’d gone too far. She’d never been so prickly before. She shook her head; it was the combination of everything that had happened recently, and that woman’s death in Geneva. All of it just made her suspicious and quick to anger. She had to get a grip. She looked up, about to apologize when she heard Nick mutter, “Jeez, get over yourself.”

  “Jerk,” she spat, as she turned on her heel and stormed off.

  • • •

  Najeela caught up with her halfway down the hall. “I heard. It didn’t go so well, no?”

  “Sorry, Najeela. I don’t know why I’m so touchy.”

  “Not to worry,” Najeela said just as they heard the front door slam. “He’ll be back. They always are.” She took Abby’s hand. “I’m sorry that you didn’t like him.” Najeela’s voice was soothing. “Just put it all out of your mind. I’ll find a good man for you.”

  Abby bristled at the thought. A man was the last thing she needed.

  Chapter 6

  Six days after his first appearance, Nick returned. Abby groaned when she heard his voice in the hall. Najeela had yet to arrive so Hana plodded to Abby’s office to announce his arrival. “The reporter is here,” Hana said with a hint of a smile, her lips curling upward. “Says he’s looking for you.”

  Abby saw her carefully planned day dissolve with the news. “Tell him . . .” she started to say just as Nick appeared in the doorway.

  She stiffened at the sight of him and restrained her desire to tell him to get lost.

  “Two things,” he said. “First, I’m sorry about last week. Sometimes I get carried away with my work, and I come on stronger than I should.”

  “I guess you do. Apology accepted,” she said reluctantly. But if he thought she’d reciprocate, he had another think coming.

  “Glad that’s out of the way,” he said. “I’m here on my way to the camp, to Safar. Thought I’d see if you might be interested in joining me?”

  Abby hesitated. She’d been impatient to get back to the camp, but Najeela had the car most days. “UN work,” she always said, leaving Abby to work alone in the house. She’d felt confined, isolated almost, and Nick’s appearance, much as she detested him, presented her with the perfect opportunity to get back there, maybe arrange a work schedule with Simi in the clinic.

  “I do need to go back,” she said. “Sure, why not? Just let me get my stuff.” She was almost giddy with delight to be getting out, but she wouldn’t let him see that. In her room, she grabbed her bag and, almost as an afterthought, checked her reflection in the mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair and swiped a line of clear gloss over her lips before heading to the front of the house in search of Nick.

  “He’s outside,” Hana said as though reading her mind.

  Nick was behind the wheel of a rusting hulk of a sedan. Abby pulled open the door and cringed at the loud creaking sound. “Love your car,” she said, inhaling the musty scent of old smoke and stale sweat.

  “Hey, my expense account will only go so far,” he said, easing the car onto the main road. “Not gonna spend big on wheels when there’s all that scotch to buy.” He winked.

  Abby turned and looked out at the passing street.

  “Well, I’m still glad to be out. There’s only the one car, and Najeela has dibs. I think too with all the street riots the UN is just as happy to keep me in the office.”

  “Could be,” he said. “Were you here for the demonstrations two weeks ago?”

  Abby nodded. “I wasn’t out, but I heard about them.”

  “You have to be careful. I mean, I don’t think you should even be here, but it’s not my call.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. Here we go, she thought.

  The car wound through the crowded streets to Safar, where Nick pulled in and parked. “You’ve been here, right?”

  “Two quick visits,” she answered.

  “Just want to be sure you can find your way around. I’m gonna walk around and have a look.” He leaned back and pulled out his backpack, settling it onto his shoulder. “I’ll find you later.”

  Abby strode to the Immunization Clinic and poked her head inside. The rooms were quiet and dark. “Anyone here? Simi?” she called out, but her voice echoed in the empty space. Damn, she hadn’t even thought to ask which two days the clinic opened. Well, she thought, at least it gave her a chance to explore and maybe return to the Protection Tent.

  She turned and headed back through the camp, passing rows and rows of raggedy tents, some covered with tarpaulins, some taped together. Tiny children, maybe the same ones she’d seen on her first visit, giggled and waved when they saw her. Abby smiled in turn, and when she spied the now familiar Protection Tent, she stepped inside. Out of the sun’s glare, she blinked to adjust her eyes. There, squatting before a row of pictures placed at the lowest edge of the poster board, she saw Nick. He was scribbling furiously into his notebook, looking up every now and then before bending to his writing again. Abby watched as he stood and moved to the next row of pictures, intent on the subjects. Somehow, from this vantage point, he didn’t seem like such a jerk, and Abby moved to his side.

  “This is a sad place, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Nick seemed startled to be interrupted. He rose quickly. “What? Yeah, yeah, sorry. I was reading.” He pointed to the pictures. “And having a look at Hana’s boy. You know she put his picture here?”

  “She told you about him?” Abby asked incredulously. He’d only just met Hana. How in the world did he get that out of her? Hana had hardly acknowledged Abby’s existence, yet she’d shared her tragedy with Nick?

  “She did.” Nick looked away. “She’s pretty desperate to find him. Sad story.”

  “Which is he?” Abby asked, looking around at the rows and rows of pictures.

  Nick turned back and pointed to a picture taped low on the wall. Abby bent down and peered closely at the black-and-white photo of the smiling boy. He was small and thin with a head of untidy, thick black hair. He’d looked directly into the camera when the picture was taken, giving the impression that he was looking right back at Abby. She touched the picture and gently stroked the glossy paper cheek. “Sweet child,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. She leaned back on her heels and looked up at Nick. “This tent is filled with these pictures, these stories. Well, I guess you know that.” She rose to stand beside him.

  “This is compelling stuff, isn’t it?”

  “Not to bring up old arguments, but isn’t this what you should be writing about?”

  Nick chuckled. “And here I thought you were just another pretty face.”

  Oh, jeez, here we go again, Abby thought. “I’m going to look around in here. Let me know when you’re ready to leave,” she said, bending down again to inspect the picture of Hana’s son. She was just as glad to be out of Nick’s line of fire. There was just no way to have a c
ivilized conversation with him.

  Abby leaned in closer to the wall and read the small bit of information posted with Hana’s picture: Malik Khan, age 7 years—disappeared 1 year ago, may be a camel jockey in one of the Arab nations. If you have information, please contact Hana Khan. Beneath that, someone had printed the address of the UN house. Abby sighed. Malik seemed so real here, not just a story, but a real boy whose disappearance had broken his mother’s heart.

  Most pictures had achingly similar messages. One scribbled under the picture of a beautiful young woman read, Jehan, age 16 years, disappeared from the village of Darra. A rustle of movement from somewhere behind her startled Abby.

  “She’s beautiful, and probably sold already.” Nick shook his head.

  Abby had been so absorbed in the photos, she hadn’t noticed Nick standing next to her until he’d spoken.

  “Sold?” she asked.

  “Probably kidnapped, or maybe sold by her family and now probably sold yet again into the trade.”

  Abby was perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Human trafficking,” he said, his voice almost angry. “Most of these people have been kidnapped or sold or worse.”

  Abby’s stomach churned. “What could be worse?”

  “Well, off the top of my head, I’d say murder.”

  Murder. A fleeting image of the woman in Geneva nipped at her thoughts. “I . . .” She caught herself. She couldn’t tell him about the woman in Geneva, not now at least. He’d have a field day with her story and the missing body.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here. Time for lunch—and the New York Times is buying.” He slipped his hand under her elbow and guided her back to the car.

  Abby, absorbed again in the pictures, bristled slightly at his touch, but she didn’t pull away. Once in the car, she sat quietly, mulling over the pictures and Nick’s comments—human trafficking, murder. God, could that really be happening here?

  “Why so quiet? Finally speechless in the face of my charms?”

  “God, no,” Abby groaned. “I just want to hear more—the trafficking and the murders.”

  Nick leaned on the car’s horn, setting an unwitting dog howling. “Jesus, this place is too damn crowded. Sorry about that. You asked a question. Trafficking is the world’s dirty little secret. We don’t even know the exact numbers, but somewhere between seven hundred thousand and four million people are victims each year. For some inexplicable reason, we never talk about it and rarely write about it. We just ignore it.”

  “Why?”

  Nick shrugged. “Not sure, to tell you the truth. Maybe it’s just not appealing enough or maybe the victims aren’t white enough. Either way, the result is the same. It doesn’t get attention.”

  “What is it exactly?”

  “Trafficking?”

  Abby nodded.

  “Trafficking is today’s equivalent of slavery. Women, and sometimes children, in miserable situations or terrible poverty are kidnapped outright or sold or they’re promised safe passage to, say, Kuwait, where they are told they’ll be placed in good jobs. But once they reach their destination, they find themselves living as virtual slaves—often sex slaves in brothels. They’re sold again and again. They’re trapped and voiceless. They’re invisible to everyday people.”

  “How are they—how is this—invisible?”

  “Ever get a manicure at one of those little salons, the ones run by Asians? Well, the quiet woman polishing your nails may have been forced into that job, and at night she may be forced into prostitution. They’re invisible, Abby, that’s why traffickers choose them. They’re refugees—desperate to survive, desperate to get through another day. In Boston or New York, they’re the timid servants, and workers. They’re right under your nose, and you barely notice them.”

  Abby felt her shoulders sag. Could she have been so close to someone like that and not known? “Why wouldn’t they speak up?”

  “Why would they? And just who would they tell? They don’t know if you’re a good guy or if you’re part of their misery. If they open up, they could be killed.”

  Abby stiffened at his words.

  “These women, girls mostly, were desperate to leave wherever it was they were, and they believed, or maybe their families believed, some creep’s promises.” He paused and turned to Abby. “So they go quietly, happily even—smuggled across borders until they get where they’re going, and then they’re told, ‘You have no papers, and you owe thousands upon thousands of dollars to the bastard who helped you escape.’ They have to work it off, they’re told, but their debt only grows because now they need room and board and clothes, and so it goes on and on. There’s just no way out. It’s a never-ending bondage of debt.”

  “Why can’t they go to the police?”

  “They have no papers, they’re illegal. They’ll be arrested, or at least they think so. And on top of that, they’re afraid to report the abuse, afraid their families will be shamed and may not take them home. And maybe it was their own family that sold them to begin with. For so many, there’s just no escape, and the traffickers know it. And the victims don’t even speak the language of the place they’ve been shipped to. The reasons are endless.”

  Abby shook her head. “Jesus, that’s awful. Can I ask why you’re writing about me when there’s this tragedy to write about?”

  “You can ask, but I’m not saying, at least not yet.”

  Abby smiled. He was as distrustful of her as she was of him. At least they had that in common. “Fair enough,” she said.

  “I do have to ask that you repeat none of this to the Afghan princess. Deal?”

  “Who’s the Afghan princess?”

  “Najeela, and you have to promise.”

  “Najeela? She’s no princess. You’re wrong about her.”

  “I don’t think so, and I always trust my gut. I’d just like your word that you’ll keep your lovely mouth shut.”

  What a jerk, Abby thought. Just when she thought he might actually be a human being.

  “You promise?” His voice was insistent.

  Abby nodded and sighed.

  Nick guided the car through the maze of Peshawar’s streets to a quiet side street where a smiling policeman waved him into a spot right by a high privacy wall. Abby recognized the buildings. This was University Town, her own UN house just down the street.

  “The American Club,” Nick said. “I thought maybe you’d like to have lunch here, among friendly expats. Whaddaya say?”

  “Hot dogs?”

  “Yes, even beer or something stronger. Whatever you need, the American Club has it.”

  Abby relaxed. It would be a nice change from her never-ending diet of rice and toast, Hana’s specialties. “I’m game,” she said, alighting from the car and joining Nick at the gate. He showed his ID and they were ushered into a house that, at least from the outside, was not so different, although maybe larger, from her own UN staff house. On either side of the entry hall were dining rooms, and the air was filled with the comforting clatter of silverware and glasses mingling with the soothing hum of American voices raised in conversation.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Nick said, leading the way. “The bar’s there. There’s food too, but the bar is where everything happens, and where you hear everything you need to hear in Pakistan.”

  Nick steered her along the narrow, dim stairway, and at the top an old-fashioned pub beckoned. The smell of burgers and fries and beer filled the air, and Abby hadn’t realized until just then how much she missed home. She inhaled deeply and took a seat at a corner table alongside Nick. He turned, and an unexpected smile draped his lips.

  “A little slice of home,” he said, his eyes scanning the room. “A place like this helps to take the edge off when you just can’t stomach the misery another minute.”

  “Does it get to you?” Abby asked. “The trafficking and everything?”

  Nick nodded. “He
ll, yes. I’m not the ogre you think I am,” he said softly. “I’m as passionate about helping as you are.”

  Abby heaved a sigh. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe they’d just got off to a bad start. “I don’t think you’re an ogre, Nick. A royal pain in the ass, maybe.”

  Nick’s eyes crinkled with laughter as he picked up the menu.

  Abby ordered both a cheeseburger and a hot dog and swallowed them down with the coldest, best-tasting beer she’d ever had. Nick’s food order was almost demure—a chicken salad.

  “I’m saving myself for the liquor,” he said, ordering a double scotch straight up. “Don’t want to fill up on the food and miss the best part of the club.” He winked, and Abby laughed. It wasn’t so long ago she’d been filling up on vodka.

  “Great atmosphere, huh?” Nick looked around the dark room. Only three others, all men, huddled deep in conversation, shared the room with them.

  It looked like an average bar to Abby. It even had an old dartboard on one wall, but she nodded to keep the peace.

  “At one time, this place was the center of the expat universe. Still is, in a way,” he said. “Twenty years ago, if you were a serious journalist or spy or aid worker or even a mercenary, this was the only place to be. It was the most exciting place in the world.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You’re probably too young to remember, but during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the Soviets had trained missiles on this club, and even on Green’s Hotel, where I’m staying, so naturally everyone who was anyone hung out at those two places. It was like thumbing your nose at a superpower—and how often does anyone get to do that?” Folding his arms, he smiled smugly.

  “Were you here?” she asked, trying to figure out how old he was.

  “Hell, no, I was in high school, but my uncle was here, and I heard his stories. Even as a kid, I was desperate to get here. Look around, it’s still a place of intrigue—of spies and journalists and even a few terrorists. It’s like starring in a spy novel.”

  Abby laughed. “You do have an imagination.”