The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  Abby grunted in reply. She was in no mood for Najeela today. She wanted to get back to the rescue house and the search for the girls, but today was Thursday and she had to get to the clinic first.

  “What is it?” Najeela asked. “You look so sad.”

  “I didn’t sleep well. The heat.”

  “You poor thing, you look terrible. I’ll ask Hana to keep the generator on. Here, have something to eat.” Najeela pushed the tray of bread to Abby.

  Abby pulled her hair back from her face. “Just coffee for me. I have to get going.”

  “Oh, Abby, you don’t have to go to the clinic today, do you?”

  Something about Najeela’s syrupy tone nettled Abby. “I do, yes,” she snapped in reply.

  Najeela looked away and dabbed at the beads of sweat that had collected on her face. “The heat is affecting all of us.”

  Abby sighed. Still, she couldn’t afford to ruffle Najeela’s feathers. “Sorry, Najeela. I have a lot to do. We’ll spend time together later this week, I promise,” Abby said, crossing her fingers.

  “You should take today off, that’s what you should do.” Najeela reached up and smoothed the waves in her hair.

  “I don’t think the UN would like that, do you?”

  Najeela frowned. “After clinic?”

  “Going to the house,” Abby said, a little too quickly.

  “Ohh,” Najeela cooed. “Really, Abby, aren’t you spending a little too much time there?”

  “No, Najeela, I’m not, and I’m keeping up with my immunization work.” Abby took a sip of coffee. “I don’t mean to sound abrupt, but I’m doing my work.”

  “What do you do at that house anyway?” Najeela asked, a pout playing on her lips.

  “Nothing, yet. I’m just meeting the victims, listening. It’s all so sad. I mean, these women are so young and they’ve gone through just unimaginable pain. Najeela, the stories would break your heart. They’ve been kidnapped or sold or lied to. Some creep tells these poorest of the poor he has a great job for them and then throws them into a brothel.” Abby took a deep breath. “I can’t even imagine what they’ve been through.”

  Najeela rolled her eyes. “Don’t be too naive, Abby. Not all the missing are taken against their will. They leave looking for something better, and when things don’t work out the way they’d hoped, they cry rape or kidnapping or whatever.”

  Abby’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “Well, I guess I’m not sure,” Najeela replied nervously. “I told you that my Lars helps these women, didn’t I?”

  “You did. But you never said exactly what it is he does.”

  “He works with the UN. Well, he volunteers really, and he helps the women by speaking to them, taking them under his wing. I think he’s hired one or two as housekeepers. He’s a very good man. He donates a large amount of money to the UN. To tell you the truth,” Najeela said conspiratorially, “I think I’ll put a stop to that. We’ll need the money to get started in married life.”

  “You must be proud of him, but the problem of trafficking is huge, you must see that.” Abby’s gaze burned into Najeela’s kohl-lined eyes.

  Najeela seemed to squirm in her seat. “Suit yourself,” she said testily. “I think it is a small problem, not so big as you think.” She stood and draped her veil over her head. “Remember, it is the vaccines that should consume your time. Not a silly program for these women.”

  Abby looked away, afraid that if she spoke again, she’d cross the line. She chewed on her lip and watched as Najeela headed to the door.

  “See you later, Abby,” she said peevishly.

  Abby gulped down her coffee and stewed. She knew her damn job, and she knew she was doing it well. But she knew too that she felt compelled to work at the rescue house. There was no way she’d give that up just to assuage Najeela’s feelings. Abby finished her breakfast and grabbed her bag before heading out to the car.

  “Morning, Mohammed,” she said, remembering Nick’s question from the day before. Did Mohammed know, she wondered, what that house was for, that there were girls there? She eyed him suspiciously before she caught him watching her just as carefully.

  “Morning, miss,” he said cheerfully. “Are you all right today?”

  “I am, Mohammed, thanks for asking. Sorry if I seem out of it. Just tired, I guess.” She settled into the rear seat.

  She looked up and saw Mohammed watching her through the rearview mirror. “Camp or the house again?”

  “Camp,” she said, deciding Nick’s suspicious view of the world was adversely affecting her behavior. He was right about one thing—she couldn’t just race off thinking she could rescue everyone. She sat back and watched the streets, filled this morning with beggar children, and her eyes followed a scruffy girl as she skipped along, darting around a merchant’s stacks. She watched as the girl snatched a small chicken. Dodging just out of reach of the bellowing shopkeeper, she disappeared into a long, dark passageway. Abby craned to see, but the girl had made good her escape.

  Mohammed guided the car into a shady spot in the Safar parking area. “Thanks, Mohammed.” Abby slid from her seat. “I’ll be here most of the day, but I have a ride with Nick this afternoon, so you’re free unless Najeela or Hana needs you.”

  “Khoda khafez, miss,” he said, smiling as he backed the car onto the dusty road and turned for home.

  Abby headed into the clinic expecting to see Mariyah, but she was nowhere in sight, and already the registration line snaked out the door. “Morning, Simi,” Abby said. “Is Mariyah here?”

  Simi shook her head. “No, so it is good we have you. Now that you are here, Shoma can register with me.”

  Abby hurried to the vaccination area, Mariyah’s absence hovering in the back of her mind. Had there been news? Was that what kept Mariyah away? No use dwelling on it right now, she had to get through the day first. “Good morning, Nasreen, Shoma,” she said, greeting the two nurses. “I’m going to be in here today, and Shoma can help in registration. Acha?”

  “Acha,” they giggled in unison, and Shoma scurried away.

  Abby bent to her work, distracted and anxious, and praying for the day to move quickly. The line of patients was endless, and before long Abby and Nasreen had settled into the smooth and now familiar rhythm of vaccines and check marks. “Next,” Abby called again and again, until the line of waiting patients had shrunk. Abby looked at Nasreen. “Finish?” she asked, hoping Nasreen would understand that she was ready to leave. It was one o’clock and she wanted to get to the Protection Tent to see if Zara was in.

  Nasreen smiled. “Acha, Abby.”

  “Shukria, Nasreen.” Abby ran sanitizer over her hands. “I’ll see you all next week.” She grabbed her bag and left the clinic. She hurried to the Protection Tent and stepped inside, where she spied Nick off to the side, deep in discussion with Zara. They both turned when Abby entered, and she hurried to join them.

  “Any news?” she asked eagerly.

  Zara shook her head. “Nothing, and in some ways, that is good news. I think they’ve made it safely out of Peshawar and probably out of Pakistan. Inshallah, they will all arrive safely to the place their hearts call home.”

  “But will they be safe there?”

  “We cannot know that, Abby, but if the girls find peace there, then they must try. Understand?”

  Abby nodded, though she wasn’t sure she understood why any of them would return to the places and people that had deceived them. She wouldn’t go back, and she didn’t think Anyu would either, but it wasn’t her choice, it was theirs. She sighed. “Is Mariyah all right?” she asked. “She wasn’t in today.”

  “She is fine, but we’ve decided that someone should always be at the house.”

  “Good idea,” Abby muttered, turning to Nick, who was now clean shaven, with clear eyes and even combed hair. He looked handsome, she thought, and caught herself before she stared right through him.

  “Lunch?�
�� he asked.

  “Yeah, I guess there’s nothing else to do right now.” Abby turned to Zara.

  “There is nothing right now for either of you to do. I think they are gone, but I will keep you informed, I promise. Acha?” Zara said.

  “Acha,” Abby replied, disappointed that there would be no search today.

  “Okay then,” Nick said. “Let’s go.” He nodded at Zara and guided Abby through the wall of pictures.

  She hesitated. “Can I check for Hana’s son? I know he’s still missing too.”

  Nick shuffled his feet, and she glanced quickly toward him, but a mask of indifference had slipped over his face. Abby scanned the rows of pictures, but Hana’s boy was nowhere to be found. Abby felt a tiny bubble of panic welling up and turned to Nick. “I don’t see his picture,” she said, worried. “Could something have happened?”

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know, Abby, maybe his picture’s been moved, maybe she found him.”

  “Not with her moods, she hasn’t.” Abby thought for a minute. Wasn’t Hana friendlier, less angry, at least a little, or was she just imagining that? “Should I ask her?”

  “I wouldn’t. Just leave her alone. If she wants to share stuff with you, she will.”

  The sudden impatience in his tone made Abby wince. She’d thought they were past that antagonism by now.

  “Let’s go,” he said, “the club is calling my name, and there’s a medium-rare steak and tumbler full of expensive scotch waiting for me.”

  “The club has expensive scotch?”

  Nick shook his head. “Probably not, but any scotch is good scotch.”

  Abby smiled. “You’re either a raving alcoholic or a comedian, and I’m not sure which.”

  “I’m neither, Abby. I aspire to hard living and hard drinking. Isn’t that what all the best writers do?”

  Abby couldn’t hold back the smile that burst through her lips. “Could be. But it makes me glad I’m a nurse.”

  “And I bet you’re a damn fine nurse.” He opened the car door for her. “But you’re more than a nurse these days. You’re a bit of an investigator, aren’t you?” He slid his key into the ignition and groaned as the car rumbled to life. “Here’s another thing to be glad for—I’m grateful every time this old jalopy starts.”

  Chapter 23

  The old sedan grunted and squealed as they made their way to the club. Once they arrived, a smiling guard greeted Abby. “Good to have you back, miss. Nice to see you too, Nick.”

  “Looks like I have competition for favorite guest.” Nick steered her past the club’s dining room, to the stairway and their table in the corner, where Nick collapsed into a chair. “For once, I wish they had waiters.” He sighed noisily.

  Abby stood. “Steak, medium rare, and their finest scotch, right?” She turned and headed to the bar, returning with two glasses of scotch. She slid into her seat. “Food’s coming, but in the meantime”—she clinked her glass against his—“I’m glad you’re back. You’re a colossal pain in the ass, but I missed you, and I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I missed you too, Abby. Didn’t I tell you I’d win you over?” He threw back the scotch in one quick gulp.

  “Slow down. We have business, you and I. Tell me everything, and start at the beginning.”

  “There is a lot to tell.” Nick was suddenly serious. He leaned across the table. “Trafficking is a big business. It’s a damned bonanza—third-biggest illegal business in the world behind arms and drugs, and it has an endless supply of resources. While the supply of drugs and arms could dry up, there’ll always be girls and women to exploit. It’s a thirty-two-billion-dollar-a-year business.”

  “Thirty-two billion? Why the hell hasn’t it been stopped?”

  “Thirty-two billion reasons, I’d say. Let’s face it—that’s more than enough money to grease plenty of palms. Easy enough to look the other way if it doesn’t affect you directly.”

  “Tell me about India.” Abby took a slow sip of her scotch. Her mouth puckered into a frown, and she slid the glass to Nick. “God, I hate the taste of this stuff. I just like the way I sound when I order it—scotch straight up—makes me feel sophisticated.”

  Nick took the glass and raised it toward Abby. “You’re plenty sophisticated, young lady. Don’t forget that.” He settled back into his seat and looked around. “I missed this place, which I suppose doesn’t say much for my own sense of sophistication.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s move on, shall we? India?”

  “Incredibly easy to slip in and out. That border is porous as hell. No real oversight, and so few manned checkpoints you can just stroll across. The Pakistanis and Indians spend all their energy on the Kashmir border, each side convinced the other is going to steal some bit of land or power, and unfortunately, the result is that stolen people, our trafficking victims, can be slipped right through.”

  “Did you have a visa?”

  Nick shook his head. “Not for India. I wanted to check the borders, and I figured the best way to do that was to test them for myself. I slipped through, in and out, so if those girls are heading back, they can do it too.”

  Abby felt the ache in her heart throb at the mention of the three girls. “What’s it like there?”

  “It’s a tough place, Abby. It’s beautiful and desperate and packed with starving people. Not an easy place to make a life.”

  “Delhi?”

  “No more than I told you yesterday. Delhi is the crime capital of India, and two-thirds of those crimes are unsolved, but you can’t blame the police. It’s just, well, it’s an easy place to hide a murder.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “That’s good for Anyu. She’s probably safe as long as she stays out of Delhi.”

  “What about the brothels? Did you check them out?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he said with a wink. “I went to two in Delhi. I got into rooms in both under the guise of, well, business as usual. As soon as I started asking questions and looking around, the girls went screaming, convinced I was some kind of new Delhi policeman.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran like hell. No visa, and no business there either. Best just to get the hell out. If the police ever came, they’d realize I was the foreigner who’d been asking them questions about murder, and I’d be in the slammer. So I ran, and here I am.”

  “You didn’t go to Geneva?”

  “I did. I flew from Islamabad and stayed at your hotel, Les Armures Hôtel. Nice place, huh?”

  “It was nice, but I can’t take credit. The UN booked me there.”

  “So I walked all over the city—found the business district. And you’re right, it’s not far from the hotel. Anyway, I spent most of my time wandering through the UN offices. Quite a place. It’s big, too big almost to break through the bureaucracy.”

  “You didn’t get anything?”

  “I didn’t say that, but it wasn’t easy. There’s one guy, this Rousseau I told you about, a big-shot ex-diplomat and philanthropist. His virtual fingerprints and sponsorship are on so many forged documents it’s staggering, but when I tried to ask, I was rebuffed. The guy is some kind of god there.”

  Abby groaned. “So we’re at a roadblock?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no connection that I could find from Rousseau to Imtiaz or anyone else even remotely shady. Who knows? Maybe this guy’s a dupe, the unwitting front for the operation, but I have a hunch about him. I just couldn’t break through the UN’s barriers.”

  The scowling barman appeared with their food. “Didn’t ya hear me? Your food’s gonna be cold, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Sorry, Al,” Nick said. “How about another round?”

  “Diet Coke for me,” Abby said, picking up her burger. “The UN, Nick. Don’t lose your train of thought.”

  “I won’t,” he said through a mouthful of steak. “Perfection,” he murmured.

  “Geneva, Nick, Geneva.”

  “Right. Do you know how many people work for the U
N and its umbrella organizations? Well over a hundred thousand, and that doesn’t even include the consultants, the volunteers, the hangers-on, the visitors, the donors; the list is endless. The potential for corruption at every level is limitless, and it’s damn near impossible to investigate everyone. It’s the perfect place to hide—under the cover of UN staff. And I can’t find a single connection between Rousseau and Imtiaz. So who knows, maybe I’m looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Any chance Najeela’s father is the connection? He works for the UN.”

  “He does, but he’s squeaky-clean, and it looks like he’s planning a run for the presidency once Karzai’s out. I don’t think he’s my guy.”

  Abby wrinkled her brow. “What about the woman, the murder? Did you check it out?”

  “Ah, that’s where it gets very interesting, and very dicey. Turns out the body of a foreign woman was found in a Dumpster near my suspect’s office. The Dumpster explains why you couldn’t find the body when you went back with the police.”

  Abby’s jaw dropped. “Who was she?”

  “Not a clue, literally. No identification on her, and the police couldn’t find anyone who knew her. But her injuries were consistent with a fall, and they did find defensive wounds on her hands and arms. Whoever she was, she fought like hell. There’s no way she jumped, and the police have scrapings from under her fingernails—probably her attacker’s skin and DNA. They’ve left the case open, a questionable homicide, they said. But as of now, they have no suspects, no victim ID, and no witness, unless you come forward. I asked about you, not by name, but I asked if they’d connected it to the tourist who’d claimed she’d seen a woman fall. Know what they told me?”

  “They told you they had no record, right? No surprise, the police never wrote anything down that day, and they never did a report once they decided I was crazy.”

  Nick nodded. “We’ll go back and rectify that. Make sure there’s a record this time.”

  “Poor woman. But she was murdered, right, Nick? It really happened, it wasn’t my imagination?”

  “Looks like it. I asked the police for a photo of the woman, said I thought I might know her from India.”