Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

“Did he?”

  “No. But what we found was far worse. He was acting as a brokerage. The children were sold on if they survived his induction. His words, not mine. He told us he was preparing them for their futures, for the destinies that Allah had seen fit to grant them.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “No, he had nothing to do with this guy. He honestly thought that he was doing these kids a favour.”

  “Sick bastard.”

  “Yeah. After that, my focus changed. I didn’t care as much about terrorists anymore. I wanted to help those kids.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  Kenzie’s face reddened and Charlie could see the rage that burned so close to the surface.

  “We can’t save them all, Kenzie. As hard as we try, you have to be prepared for those times when this process fails. Because it will.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “Sometimes it does.”

  “No. I can’t accept that. They deserve better.”

  “Yes, they do. But remember that of the children we are going to help here, the vast majority aren’t abused. Very few occasions have I suspected anything had ever happened to the children I’ve rescued. They’re with fathers, usually, who do care for them in their own way.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “For us, no. But for them, it isn’t bad either. This isn’t a game of black and white, Kenzie. This is all about the grey in between and the shades along the human spectrum. Very little is good or evil. We’re all just people, after all.” Charlie held up the file she’d been looking at before Kenzie arrived. “This is a pretty standard case that we deal with.” She smiled wryly. “Well, on paper anyway. You can never be sure of the reality until you’re in the middle of it.” She handed Kenzie the file. “Hillary has located an address for the father of these two boys. Their mother was awarded custody in 2010 after the divorce was finalised in late 2009. The father was granted visitation rights. Two nights a week and every other weekend.”

  “The father snatched them on a visitation weekend?”

  “Yes. Very common means of taking kids.”

  “Makes sense. Customs would never think anything was wrong because the kids would be excited about going on a holiday with their dad.” She scowled. “It’d be really easy.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The kids generally don’t have any idea there’s anything wrong until they’re already in Pakistan and they start asking when they’re going to see their mum again.”

  “These boys have been with their father for a while now. Won’t they have adapted?” Kenzie scanned the file quickly.

  “To some extent, sure. And there’s no reason to think they don’t have good lives with a father who loves them. But the fact remains that he’s kidnapped these boys. Legally, they belong with their mother. If he were on English soil, we could arrest him and have the police question him to reveal the location of the children and return them to their mother.”

  “But we aren’t.”

  “No, we aren’t. Here, their father has all the rights and the power. And if he wants to keep them, as long as he, and they, remain in Pakistan, we can’t do anything about it.”

  “Surely the Pakistani authorities recognize legal rights of the mothers.”

  “They do recognize international law in theory, but in practice Pakistani law and Sharia law grant all parental rights to the father. There is no extradition between the UK and Pakistan, so we have no other choice but to negotiate with the men who have kidnapped their own children.”

  Kenzie snorted. “We can’t just go and take the kids when we find where they are?”

  “No. Like I said, we aren’t a rescue team, Kenzie. Doing that would make us the kidnappers, and we aren’t criminals. We can’t just barge in and snatch them. We have to get them to hand the children over to us. It’s about diplomacy.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “Depends on the situation. Take a look at the case there for example. When sons are involved, it’s much more difficult to get the fathers to surrender the children. We need to find out more about his current circumstances. Has he remarried? Does he have work? Where is he living? And so on. When we have that information, we can start to form a strategy for first contact.” The phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. “Let me just get this.” Kenzie nodded as she picked up the handset. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Charlie, it’s Pam on reception. I’ve got a woman on line one who wants to speak to someone about leaving Pakistan to go home to England.”

  “You didn’t give her the number for the travel agent?”

  “Seems like there’s more to the story than that.”

  “One second.” She covered the mouthpiece and looked at Kenzie. “Are you clear about the background you’re looking for on the case?” She nodded at the file.

  “I’ve got it.” Kenzie threw a mock salute at her and closed the door behind her.

  “Okay, Pam. Put her through.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  She heard the telltale click that signalled Pam hanging up and the transfer of the outside line. “Hello, my name’s Charlotte Porter. Who am I speaking to?”

  There was a gasp down the line, then silence.

  Charlie waited a beat before continuing. “Hello?” She could hear breathing down the line. “I’d like to help if I can.”

  “I can’t tell you my name.” The woman’s voice was barely a whisper, and Charlie strained to make out the words.

  Charlie was a little disappointed but not surprised. She understood the fear that always seemed to accompany calls like this. Simple enquiries were rarely simple. “Okay, that’s okay. Do you have a name I can call you by while we talk?”

  The woman laughed softly. “Call me Maya.”

  “Maya?” Charlie smiled, hoping she had correctly interpreted the woman’s little joke. “Do you like to read, Maya?”

  “Yes. I mean no.” A sad laugh echoed down the line. “I used to read a lot. Not so much anymore.”

  “Are you a caged bird, then, Maya? Do you seek freedom?” Charlie referred to Maya Angelou’s book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

  “Yes.”

  Charlie was struggling to hear, the whisper was so quiet. “I’m sorry. I can barely hear you.”

  “I said yes. For both myself and my daughter.”

  Charlie grabbed a pen and started to make some notes. “How long have you been in Pakistan?”

  “Two and a half years.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Peshawar. The old city.”

  “Okay, and did you marry here?”

  “No, we married in England. We were supposed to stay there.”

  “Why did you come to Pakistan?”

  The lengthy pause told Charlie that Maya was weighing her words carefully before she spoke.

  “My husband made the choice when he discovered I was pregnant. He wanted his children to be born here.”

  “So your daughter was born in Pakistan?” Charlie closed her eyes and turned her face to the ceiling, knowing two things for certain. That Maya’s explanation was an exceptionally condensed version of events, and that getting her daughter out of Pakistan would be very difficult indeed.

  “Yes.”

  Charlie bit off the groan, knowing how much more difficult this would be now. “Do you have any of her documentation?”

  “No. My husband keeps it locked away in a safe.”

  There were times that Charlie hated being right, and this was one of them. “That you don’t have access to.” Charlie set her elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand.

  “That is correct.”

  “Do you have your passport?” Charlie knew the answer, but she had to ask every question.

  “No. I tried to leave him once before.” Maya’s whispered voice faltered. “I am not trusted to even go to market to buy food. I have no access to money, and the doors are locked when my father-in-law and husband go to work or to mosque.”
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  Charlie’s heart bled as she pictured the prison the woman was living in. “As your daughter wasn’t born in the UK, I can’t issue her a British passport outright.”

  “But she is my daughter.” Maya’s voice rose to almost normal level and something in the tone tickled at the back of Charlie’s memory. “I have a British passport.”

  “I know. And because of that we can grant her dual nationality and get her a passport after that. But to do so we need several things that I think you will find very difficult to get hold of.”

  “Such as?”

  Charlie heard the frustration and despair in Maya’s voice and had to close her eyes. The tone reminded her so much of Hazaar’s, but Charlie pushed away the memories of her lost love and tried to focus on the woman talking to her, the woman she could help—or at least try to help—rather than the one who was beyond her reach. “You’ll need her birth certificate, your passport, and if possible, your birth certificate too.” Charlie listened and heard Maya swallow, undoubtedly contemplating everything she’d have to go through in order to get the necessary paperwork, things that Charlie couldn’t even contemplate.

  “And if I get those things? Can you come and get us?”

  Charlie wanted to cry. She wanted to tell her yes, they would come for them. That she and her team would ride in with tanks, and planes, and helicopters, and anything else that might be needed and free Maya from her prison. But it couldn’t be. Legally, they could do no such thing. “I’m sorry, Maya. It isn’t quite that simple. We can’t break you out of your home. You must come to the British Embassy and present yourself, then we can help you.”

  “You don’t understand. He has the key!”

  “I do understand, Maya. I wish I could change it, but—”

  “He has the key. I can’t get out of the house.”

  “Does the family live with you too?”

  “Yes. My husband’s father and his sister-in-law live here.”

  “He has a brother too?”

  “Yes, but he is…” Maya’s voice trailed away.

  “He’s where?”

  “Away. He’s just away.”

  Alarm bells sounded in Charlie’s head. The population of Peshawar had swollen over the past several years with an influx of people moving out of the mountains and deserts. People from the Pashtun tribe had found a particularly convenient home in Peshawar with its proximity to the Khyber Pass, routes through to Afghanistan, and there was significant evidence to link members of the Pashtun tribe to the Taliban. “Away” sounded suspicious to Charlie.

  “Please, you have to help me, Charlie. Please.”

  “I will do everything I can, Maya. But the British and Pakistani governments have certain protocols in place that we have to follow.”

  “How am I supposed to get out?”

  Charlie looked around the office. “How about a window?”

  “A window? Are you serious?”

  “How would you get out if there was a fire?”

  “I’d probably burn to death. The windows have bars.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Oh, no.” Maya’s breathing quickened and her whispered voice rose to a shrill pitch. “I have to go.”

  “Please call back when you can, Maya. We can work something out.”

  “I have to go, Charlie. I’ll call back—”

  Charlie stared at the handset as the dial tone continued to sound and she frowned.

  She called me Charlie. I told her my name was Charlotte.

  Chapter Twelve

  The North of England, then

  Hazaar ran her tongue along the ridge of Charlie’s ear, tugged the lobe between her teeth, and sucked hard. Her hand wandered slowly toward her firm breast as Charlie tried to read the pages of information in front of her.

  “Baby, you’re really not conducive to me getting this done.” Charlie turned her head and kissed Hazaar before she continued to fill out the forms for her room in the halls of residence in September.

  “I’m not trying to be conducive.” She smiled as Charlie shivered against her body. “I’m trying to distract you so you miss the deadline.” She trailed slow kisses down Charlie’s neck and tugged the collar of her shirt away so she could reach the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

  “And why do you want me to miss the deadline? I love my parents, but I’m totally ready to move out of there.”

  “Move in here. Stay with me.” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about them, and she slowly squeezed Charlie’s breast as she used her tongue and lips continued to explore Charlie’s tender throat. Charlie swatted her head with pages in her hand.

  “Be serious. Just give me five minutes and I’ll be done, sweetheart.” Charlie clicked the top of her pen and filled in the final few boxes, scribbled her signature across the page, folded the paper, and slid it into the envelope.

  “I am being serious.” Hazaar grabbed the envelope from her and tossed it onto the coffee table. “I’m being perfectly serious.” She shifted, straddled Charlie’s legs, and threaded their fingers together as she bent to kiss her lips. “Stay here with me, baby.” She trailed her fingers slowly along the hem of Charlie’s shirt, and brushed them across her hips and belly before she slipped them inside the fabric and traced a gentle random pattern across her silken skin. Charlie’s eyes closed as her head rested against the back of the couch. The buttons of Charlie’s shorts quickly gave way beneath her nimble fingers and bared her flesh for more intimate exploration. All Hazaar could think about was exposing Charlie’s body. She needed to touch her, kiss her, and possess her. She barely thought about the offer she’d made to Charlie. She was beyond thinking. She was sensation and want personified, her desire to please all consuming.

  Hazaar pushed aside the scant lacy fabric of Charlie’s bra and lifted each breast from its confines with a reverence that verged on sacred. She stared down at them—at Charlie—with wonder, amazed that she was here with her, that they were together. And she never wanted it to end. She pressed her breasts as close together as she could and suckled each rapidly in turn. Charlie gasped and wrapped her hands in Hazaar’s hair.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Hazaar released Charlie’s breasts and grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head. “Keep them there.” Her eyes twinkled as Charlie curled her fingers around the back of the sofa, her eyes glazed with lust, her cheeks flushed. “You are so beautiful, Charlie.”

  Charlie smiled the slow grin of a woman who knew satisfaction wasn’t far away. “I’m very glad you think so, baby.”

  “I always will.” She bent over and brought her hands back to Charlie’s breasts, moulding them with her hands so that she could suck them again, marvelling at the wonderful feel of the twin peaks of pebbled flesh that welcomed her tongue in turn. Charlie writhed beneath her, searching for more contact. Hazaar stood quickly and tugged her toward the bedroom.

  “Take your clothes off and lie down.” She watched Charlie’s body quiver at her command, and she knew Charlie loved it when she took charge of their lovemaking. The loss of control, the surrender, made the sex hotter than she thought possible, for both of them. Charlie stripped quickly and lay in the centre of the bed, her gaze on Hazaar as she approached with a selection of silk scarves between her hands. “Do you trust me, baby?”

  Charlie wet her lips, and her voice crawled tremulously from her them. “Yes.”

  “Good. Put your hands on the headboard and hold on.”

  She did as she was told and gasped as Hazaar wrapped the silk around her wrists and tied it to the spindles. The kiss that followed was deep and wet and left her trying to pull free to wrap her arms about her. Hazaar smiled when Charlie gasped as she traced a tantalizing path from her knee, up over her hip and higher, the silk warm to the touch, and so very soft across Charlie’s flawless skin. They moaned in unison as she let the silk flow across Charlie’s nipple, soft as a whisper.

  “Close your eyes, baby.” Hazaar kissed her gently, teasing he
r lips with the tip of her tongue before covering Charlie’s eyes with the silk blindfold. “Can you see?”

  “No.” Charlie was breathing hard; her breasts rose and fell with each panted breath.

  “You are so beautiful, baby.” She ran the tip of her finger over each rib, fascinated with the rash of goose bumps that erupted in her wake. “So beautiful.”

  She climbed off the bed slowly, the moan from Charlie telling her that her presence was missed as soon as their skin parted. “I’m still here, baby. Just relax.”

  She crossed the room and pulled open the drawer. The black leather harness and dildo stared back at her. It was a fantasy she’d entertained for so long that she had almost given up hope of finding someone to share it with. She thought she’d run out of time first. She looked at the bed again. Charlie’s waiting body called to her, enthralled her, and gave her the confidence to fulfil the longings she knew they both harboured.

  She buckled up as quickly and quietly as she could because she wanted to surprise Charlie, and she could see her body tremble with anticipation.

  She knelt on the edge of the bed and ran her finger from the arch of Charlie’s foot along her calf, memorizing every millimetre of skin along the way. Charlie writhed and opened her legs as she travelled higher. She kissed and licked her belly, dipped her tongue inside the shallow navel and smiled as Charlie cried out and squirmed and pulled hard against her restraints.

  “You don’t like that?”

  “No.” Charlie panted. “Tickles.”

  “And that’s not good?”

  “Not right now.”

  Hazaar caressed Charlie’s body with her fingers and tongue until they both clung to the edge of sanity, the need for release so deep it was her soul rather than her body that craved it.

  “Hazaar, please. Please let me come.”

  She covered Charlie’s body with her own and kissed her deeply as she let the dildo brush against Charlie’s skin for the first time. Charlie stilled beneath her.

  “Is this okay, baby?” She rocked her hips to emphasize her point.

  “I’ve never—”

  “I know, baby. Neither have I, but I’ve always wanted to.” She kissed Charlie’s throat. “With the right person.” She nipped on her earlobe. “I’ll take it slow and stop if you don’t like it. I promise.”