The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “Did you get it? Do you have it?”

  “Not yet, I had to put in my request and I’m waiting for the police to approve that, and then they’ll e-mail it. That could take weeks. You never said what she looked like. Do you remember?”

  “I remember, and the eerie thing is, to me she looks like every woman here—long black hair, olive skin, delicate almost. I think I’d know her if I saw a photo.”

  Nick nodded. “I don’t know how we can connect her to my guy, but it’s worth a look.”

  “So what is this guy Rousseau like?”

  “For starters, he’s got quite a pedigree. Swiss businessman and philanthropist on the surface, but he’s got quite a past—an international financier and likely crook who has somehow evaded the authorities all these years through his philanthropic work. Every time it seems the jig is up, he donates a fortune and his troubles are over.” Nick shook his head and paused for effect. “Interestingly, on the side, he’s a diamond broker involved in the sale of blood diamonds, so we know ethics aren’t an issue for him.”

  “And the body was found near his office?” Abby could barely hold back the rush of excitement she felt at having a likely suspect for the murder.

  Nick held up his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but hold your horses. I checked with his office and he wasn’t in town. He was in Paris brokering some big-money deal, but there’s no real proof of that. The police in Geneva never questioned him.” Nick threw up his hands in mock resignation. “So who knows? Maybe someone in his office is the real culprit—you know, a murderer and a connection to Imtiaz. On the other hand, it may be just a pack of lies. Rousseau’s office releases what he tells them to release.” Nick sipped at his drink. “In a perfect world, we’d wrap it up just like that, but this is a veritable web of lies, and snaring the spider is no easy task.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain Imtiaz is involved?” Abby picked at her sandwich.

  “No doubt. I’ve had him in my sights for more than a year.”

  “A year? You’ve been working on this for a year?”

  Nick nodded. “In between my other stuff. And the buzz on Imtiaz is that he replaced Hamid Karzai’s brother on the CIA payroll.”

  “The CIA? So, doesn’t that put him in the good column?”

  Nick shook his head. “Not this time it doesn’t. The rumors swirled that President Karzai’s half brother was into drug trafficking, and that he got away with it courtesy of the CIA. When he was assassinated, Imtiaz stepped into the void.”

  Abby’s mouth fell open.

  “Exactly,” Nick said. “But I don’t think the CIA will stand by if they catch him trafficking people. Shit, they have to draw the line somewhere.”

  “But that actually fits. I thought it was crazy when Najeela told me that Imtiaz wanted her father to replace Karzai once he steps down from the presidency, but that kind of makes sense now. Jesus, that web of yours just grows and grows.”

  “It does, and now you know why I’m so intent on getting him. It’s taken a year of background work, and when I finally had enough to take to my editor, I got the green light for Peshawar. And the rest, as they say, is history.” Nick lifted his drink to his lips and took a long, slow sip. “Let me tell you, I had no idea my aid-worker assignment would bring me to you.”

  Abby smiled. “You should be paying me.”

  “I should—but I won’t. Although I could try to slip you in on my expense voucher as a consultant. But, for now”—he gestured to the food—“consider this an installment.”

  “Are you going to speak with Imtiaz?”

  “Not alone, I’m not. I’m not sure what to do. I’d like to catch him in a crowd in the full light of day, but that’s probably a pipe dream.”

  “What if I speak to him? I mean, he likes me. Maybe he’d let something slip.”

  Nick put his glass down. “Abby, hear this—stay away from that SOB. Do you hear me? He’s dangerous, and I don’t want you in his line of fire.”

  “I know. I just want to do something. What about the girls? Can we look again?”

  Nick shook his head. “They’re gone. And they’re better off than they were just a few weeks ago. I think they’ll probably make it home, though I’m not sure about Anyu. And though I hope she stays out of Delhi, and away from her village, I think the only people looking for her are the thugs who ran her brothel.”

  Abby sat back and wondered what Emily would think if she e-mailed her about everything that was happening. She closed her eyes. It was pretty incredible, the murder in Geneva, the tragedy of trafficking, the intrigue with Uncle Imtiaz, and Nick’s suspect. Nick would probably kill her, but Em would be impressed as hell, and she was halfway around the world. It wasn’t as if Em would tell people anyway. What could it hurt?

  “The murder again?” Nick asked.

  Abby’s eyes snapped open. “No, just thinking.”

  “Ah,” he sighed. “A thinking woman, the bane of every man’s existence.”

  Abby threw her napkin at him and smiled when it landed in his scotch. “You’re a tad out of touch for a hotshot reporter.”

  Chapter 24

  She peered through a tiny gap in the hedge and watched as the man appeared. He stood for a minute in the doorway, squinting and looking this way and that. Finally, he approached the body and knelt over the woman. Abby could see his shoulders and arms moving, pulling at something. The broken eyeglasses! He was pulling them from her hand. He tugged again, and Abby could see the woman’s glistening bracelet in the palm of his hand before his fingers curled around it.

  He stood and turned, his eyes scanning the street. Abby knew he was looking for her. She scrunched lower and tried to push farther against the wall. He turned toward the hedges and seemed to hesitate for a minute before he picked up his pace and moved purposefully toward her. Time seemed to stop, and Abby held her breath, the only sounds his footfalls as he approached, and the pounding of her racing heart.

  She watched him—memorizing every detail—the charcoal sweater, slender build, thinning hair, the small eyes lost in pale flesh. When he turned abruptly and dashed back into the building, Abby saw her chance.

  She pushed her way out of the hedge and turned, running faster than she had ever before. If he saw her, he would kill her. She knew it. She picked up her pace and wound her way through the streets and back to the area where the UN and government buildings were. She pumped her arms ferociously and moved at what felt like lightning speed.

  • • •

  Her legs jerking wildly, Abby sat upright in her bed. Her mind registered that neither her heart nor her head was pounding, and a swell of relief washed over her. It was real, every bit of it, and that was how it had happened. The woman had been murdered, and the man had snatched the only connections to him—the glasses and the bracelet—from her lifeless hand. Abby was absolutely certain of that now.

  She was certain too that the woman who had died was Pakistani, or maybe from India. Her olive skin and her clothing indicated that, and though Abby had no proof, she wondered if the woman had been a trafficking victim, forgotten by all but her killer.

  Abby sighed and, throwing her covers aside, stood and stretched. She had to talk to Nick about returning to Geneva to tell the police what she’d seen. As miserable as the events had been, she hadn’t exaggerated them, and even if they couldn’t find Pari and Geeta and Anyu, she would make sure the police knew what had really happened to the woman in Geneva.

  A bead of perspiration formed on her brow and she dabbed at it before leaning in to the mirror. She took stock of her appearance and realized that, for the first time since she’d arrived, her eyes were clear, and her skin was flushed with the heat of the morning and not her angst. She pulled her hair into a long braid, drew a thin, brown line around her eyes, and ran clear gloss over her lips. She was renewed. She was no longer some lovesick nurse tormented by nightmares. She was . . . what was Nick’s word? A dame. She liked the sound of that—it suggested strength
and independence and substance. That’s what she was—a woman of substance. She smiled at her reflection and wondered what Nick saw when he looked at her. Oh hell, never mind that. That kind of silliness got her into trouble every time.

  She’d e-mail Emily today. That’s what she’d do.

  She pulled open the door and headed first to the kitchen, poking her head inside, but Hana was nowhere in sight. She strode softly to the dining room, and there sat Najeela, sipping tea. Her face brightened when Abby came into view.

  “Good morning, you.” Najeela’s voice had the sugary, thick tone that Abby had come to expect.

  “Morning, Najeela. No Hana?”

  “I gave her the day off. She works so hard.”

  Had Abby heard that right? “The day off? That was nice.” And unexpected.

  “Well, I thought you and I could spend some time together. It’s been so long, Abby, and the clinic’s closed today. What do you say?” Najeela pleaded.

  “I . . .” Abby wavered. She could go to the rescue house to check on things and come back. Maybe she could even pry some information about Imtiaz from Najeela, who wasn’t a bad sort after all. And Abby had been harsh with her. “I guess so,” Abby said, the words almost sticking in her throat.

  Najeela jumped from her chair and came around to Abby. “You are my true friend.” She kissed Abby four times, twice on each cheek.

  Abby smiled. It was hard not to like Najeela. Pouty princess that she was, she was nevertheless harmless. And who knew? Today might be just what Abby needed too.

  “Okay.” Abby pulled herself up. “You’re on. I’m going to send a few e-mails, then run out for a bit, and when I come back, we’ll go.” She didn’t mention the rescue house. It might be too late to keep it a secret, but she wouldn’t bring it up again. Nick was right, the less Najeela knew, the better it was for everyone.

  Najeela clapped her hands together. “Oh, Abby, we’ll have a wonderful day!”

  “We will.” Abby headed to the office. She sat and clicked on the computer, and after an eternity, the screen opened, and she had access to her e-mails. Funny, it seemed so long ago she’d received the e-mail from Eric.

  She typed her messages, filling Emily in on the details of the incident in Geneva, and Nick’s trafficking story. I know you won’t share this with anyone, she wrote. Nick’s investigation is still a work in progress. She typed out another e-mail, a quick I miss you and love you to her parents before she logged off and grabbed her bag.

  She stopped for a minute by the phone in the hallway. She’d call Nick if she could, but the only number she had was for his hotel. She was halfway out the door when she thought she should probably say good-bye to Najeela.

  “Najeela, see you soon,” she called out, not waiting for a reply as she pulled the door shut behind her.

  Abby squinted as she stepped into the full glare of the morning sun. She and Mohammed exchanged greetings, and Abby paused before deciding that Nick’s suspicions were over-the-top where Mohammed was concerned. She smiled and started to slide into the rear seat, then hesitated. “Mohammed, it seems stupid for me to sit back here by myself. Can’t I just sit up front with you?”

  Mohammed’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, no, miss. It would not be proper, and Miss Najeela would not like it.” He shook his head. “Not at all,” he mumbled, closing the rear door. Abby settled back for the ride to the house, her eyes automatically scanning the streets for signs of the missing girls. A ragtag group of tiny beggars caught her eye, and she sat forward, intending to ask Mohammed to stop the car, but she hesitated a moment too long, and the car glided past the children onto Ring Road. She craned her neck to watch them from the rear window, but they were gone as quickly as they’d appeared, gobbled up by the crowds.

  At the house, Mohammed parked the car just outside the gate. “I’ll be here, miss,” he said softly.

  A flash of guilt for her own doubts about Mohammed surged through Abby. “I won’t be long. Thank you, Mohammed, thank you.”

  The house seemed quiet. “Hello?” Abby called.

  Bina appeared at the door. “Come,” she said, holding the door open. “Come, Abby.”

  Abby entered the house, and the quiet closed in, heavy and depressing. “Salaam,” she said as Mariyah emerged from the kitchen. They exchanged greetings and pleasantries, then Abby asked if there was any news.

  “Nothing,” Bina said, and Mariyah tilted her head in agreement.

  “How are you two doing?” Abby spoke slowly, not sure how much they’d understand, but realizing they’d been neglected over the last few days.

  “Acha,” Mariyah whispered, a smile cutting through her scar.

  Bina’s hand hurried to cover the wide smile that had broken out on her face. “We cooking.” She held her hand out to Abby. “Come.”

  Abby followed the two into the small kitchen, which was covered from ceiling to floor in flour dust and a yellow film. Pots and pans covered the table, and the stovetop was littered with the remnants of their cooking. Mariyah held out a burnt disk for Abby to examine and said, “Naan. Pakistani naan.”

  Abby let slip an unintended laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that it looks like something I’d cook. That’s why I stick to the microwave.”

  “We buy naan, now,” Bina said, looking around the kitchen, surveying the damage. “Today, we clean.”

  Abby began to roll up her sleeves. “I’ll help.”

  “No, no,” Mariyah crowed. “We clean.

  Acha?” “Acha,” Abby said. “Then I’m going, if that’s okay? I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe later, okay? Khoda khafez.”

  Bina and Mariyah nodded in agreement and began to sweep up the mess that had claimed the kitchen.

  Once outside, Abby slipped into the rear seat of the car. “Home for now, Mohammed.” She leaned forward. “But I’m going out with Najeela. Will you be able to take us?”

  “Of course.”

  At home, she found a smiling Najeela poring over a magazine in the dining room. When she saw Abby, she held it up. Bride, the cover declared. The magazine had been a staple in Abby’s apartment not so long ago, though she’d hidden it from Eric.

  “Where did you get that? Surely not here.”

  Najeela shook her head. “I ordered it from New York. It came just today.” The pages slipped through her fingers and Najeela’s eyes grew wider. “Come, Abby, have a look. This is just what I want.”

  Abby leaned in and saw that Najeela’s finger hovered over a satin Cinderella gown with layers of ruffles and lace and sequins sewn into every available piece of fabric. “It certainly is . . . well, impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it is,” Najeela purred, and slammed the magazine shut. “Let’s hurry. I want to see the dress designer at the Pearl, then we can have lunch. What do you say?”

  Abby hurried to keep up with Najeela as she sailed through the front door. Mohammed held the car door open and sat quietly in front as he chauffeured them to the Pearl. He definitely changed around Najeela, Abby thought. Nothing she could do about that, but it still rankled her.

  Inside the hotel, Najeela led the way to a small, elegant shop tucked into a long hallway. Inside, she greeted the shopkeeper, Mr. François she called him, though he looked Pakistani to Abby, who watched as Najeela flipped through her magazine until she found the page with the dress.

  “This one,” she said, her voice quivering with happiness. “Would you be able to order it for me?”

  Mr. François lifted the magazine and seemed to study the picture for far longer than was probably necessary. Abby rolled her eyes, but Najeela was too preoccupied with Mr. François and his imminent verdict to notice. Finally, he opined, “Yes, I believe I can order that dress, which by the way, is stunning and so well suited to you, miss. But, you know, it will be, well, it will be very expensive.”

  Najeela seemed to explode with happiness. “Oh, Mr. François, price is no object. I don’t need it yet, but how long will it take once we’ve made the order?” />
  Mr. François scratched at his chin and seemed to be deep in thought. “I would say about three months, maybe less.”

  A frown settled heavily on Najeela’s lips. “Can’t you do better?” she asked sadly.

  “Well, of course we can. For you. Let me look into it. Come back next week, acha?”

  His words swept the frown from Najeela’s face, and she turned to Abby. “Let’s have lunch, and you can look through the magazine and choose your dress.”

  Najeela’s exuberance was infectious, and Abby found herself flipping through the pages as they walked back to the main lobby and into the restaurant. Inside, they settled themselves at the farthest table so that Najeela could see everyone who came and went. Abby chuckled to herself. She’d been in Peshawar for two months, and already she was something of a regular at not one but two restaurants. At home, she was only a regular at the hospital cafeteria and her corner Starbucks. How things had changed. Najeela ordered the lamb korma and curried rice, and a tomato and cucumber salata, while Abby looked through the magazine and wistfully glanced at the wedding gowns. Not so long ago . . .

  Abby shook herself free of her what-ifs and put down the magazine, looking up in time to see Imtiaz strolling to their table. Her heart began to pound. Relax, she reminded herself. He doesn’t know anything, and even if he does, he’s not about to do anything in public. Even Nick had said he’d like to speak with him in a public place. Suddenly, she knew that if she worked this moment to her advantage and asked Imtiaz the questions Nick would ask, she might come away with something useful, something Nick could use. She exhaled slowly and forced a smile as Imtiaz pulled up a chair and slid it close to hers.

  Najeela’s mouth was agape in genuine surprise, Abby thought. “Uncle!” Najeela exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Here for a business meeting, and who do I spy but my favorite niece and her dear friend, thanks be to Allah.” He leaned in and kissed Najeela on the cheek, before turning to Abby, who thwarted a kiss by folding her hands in front of her face in a formal namaste.