Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

“What happened?”

  Charlie swallowed hard and focused on her breathing. She was determined not to throw up.

  Hillary looked at her notes and clicked her keyboard. Two mug shots filled the screen. “Poojah Ahmed and Shala Ahmed. Sisters. They were mules, bought tickets for cash at the airport just in time to check in and go through security. It raised red flags at customs so they were stopped as a routine. The younger one, Shala, broke down as soon as they were stopped and customs officers had them x-rayed. They were carrying twenty pellets each with an estimated street value in the region of fifty grand each. Once the younger sister started talking, they both let fly about everything they knew and they were prepared to testify. But they died in prison before they could testify.”

  “How?” Liam asked.

  Hilary pounded the keyboard. “Death certificate records heart failure due to blood loss from stab wounds.”

  “Shit.” Jasper rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Want me to find the official reports of the incidents?”

  “Do we need them?” Luke shook his head and slumped in his chair.

  Jasper scowled. “We deal with facts, Luke. Not suspicion. Find me everything you can, Hilary, thanks.”

  “Okay.” She tapped at the keys again. “Well, since then they haven’t been able to get them on anything.”

  “So we’ve got a drug family with Taliban connections,” Al said.

  “Yup.” Hilary nodded without looking up from the screen.

  “They could be running the drugs out through Afghanistan rather than Pakistan.”

  “Al, they could be doing a whole lot of things. None of which we are in any position to do anything about. We aren’t drug enforcement.” Jasper held up a hand to forestall argument. “Our priority is as it has always been. The women and children.”

  “Ever get the feeling it isn’t enough?” Liam asked with his eyes closed.

  Jasper stared at him for a long time before he nodded. “Far too often, my friend. But I have to focus on the things I can change and know when I can’t make a difference.” He looked down at his hands as they rested on the table. “I have to make a decision here, people, and given what we know about this family, I have to think this may be one of those occasions where we have to show caution. We don’t have definite confirmation that the original contact was from a British citizen. And getting involved with this family will be bad news all round.”

  Charlie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She didn’t want to believe the words coming out of Jasper’s mouth. “You can’t do this, JJ. She is. We have to help her.”

  “Based on everything we have—the tapes, the background info on the family at that address—I think we’re asking for trouble in a place we don’t need to go.”

  “Yes, we do. We can’t walk away from this. She’s British. She needs our help.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “They’re going to kill her.” Panic formed a knot in her stomach, and she knew she was going to be sick if she wasn’t careful.

  “Unfortunately, Charlie, people die every day. We can’t save them all.”

  “Not her. We can save her.” All eyes in the room were on her. “Please, Jasper, please don’t turn this one down.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “At least let me go and meet with Amira. See what she has to say.”

  Jasper stared at her. “What do you know?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Tell me what you know or I’m shutting this down right now.”

  She knew that if she told him her involvement with Hazaar, he’d pull her from the case and there was no one else in the room who was able to deal with the situation the way she could. Liam was a skilled negotiator, but he couldn’t work in the field. Flashbacks and anxiety attacks out of the office made it impossible for him to be effective out there, and Kenzie was on her second day. She wouldn’t put Hazaar’s life in their hands.

  “I’m waiting, Charlie.”

  But she had to tell him. She had no other choice. If she didn’t, she would be leaving Hazaar there to die, to burn to death as her final sacrifice for the lives of her father and brother.

  “Fine, then I guess we’re done here.”

  “Wait.” I’ll just have to convince you that I’m capable of doing my job anyway. “Yasar Siddiqi married Hazaar Alim just over three years ago. Hazaar Alim is the youngest daughter of Isam Alim, owner of Alim and Son. The marriage was the cornerstone of Alim and Son joining forces with Siddiqi Exports. Hazaar is a British citizen. She was born in Bradford, raised there until she went to Manchester to study music. She got her bachelor’s degree, master’s, and her doctorate at the Royal Northern College of Music.”

  “You were classmates?” Liam put his hand on hers.

  “She was already studying for her master’s when I started there.” She smiled at him.

  “You knew her?” Jasper scowled at her. “Why the fuck didn’t you say that to begin with?”

  “I wasn’t sure until Luke said it was Siddiqi’s house.”

  “Thought you went a bit pale then, C.” Luke smiled at her.

  “I’m sorry, JJ. It was something of a shock.”

  His expression softened a little. “I get that.” He took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “So just how well did you know this woman?”

  She turned her hand in Liam’s and squeezed. “We lived together for two years.”

  “Lived together as in flat mates?” Kenzie cocked her eyebrow, a crooked little grin on her face. “Or lived together in the biblical sense?”

  Charlie swallowed. “It was while we were in university.”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Porter. I got you less than six months after you graduated. She was your girlfriend. Correct?”

  “Yes.” Liam squeezed her hand.

  “Fuck.” Jasper slammed his hands on the table. Water glasses shook, and Hilary’s notebook bounced into the air. He stood up, forcing his chair back to the wall. “You’re gonna go whether I sanction this or not and every one of us knows it.” He turned back to face her. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “Well, at least you didn’t lie to me.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, JJ.”

  “No, but you’ve never told me the whole truth before, have you?”

  “Only about this.” She dropped her head. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t. And I really didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face, obviously still pissed. “Liam, what’s your situation? Can you go out there?”

  “No, you can’t ask him that!” Charlie shouted.

  “You haven’t given me much choice and you damn well know it. Kenzie’s untrained. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Kenzie said.

  “And your judgment is compromised,” Jasper said.

  “No, it isn’t. I can do this.”

  “Like hell you can.”

  “Liam isn’t ready to go back in the field. That’s why you wanted me to train Kenzie in the first place. I’m the only one who can do this, Jasper.”

  “Look at you. You’re still in love with her.” He waved his hand at her. “You think you can go in there and negotiate for her release against a man who wants to kill the woman you love?”

  “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “That’s the part I have a problem with.”

  “Jasper, you and I both know I’m the best chance she has.”

  He looked around the room. Everyone was staring at the table. “You know what, Charlie? The damndest part of this is that you are the best chance she has at the moment. But you want to know what I’m looking at right now? If I send you in there and this falls apart, what happens then, Charlie?”

  “It won’t.”

  “This meeting could be a setup.”

  “I’ll wear a wire, a vest, a video camera, whatever you want. Luke can hav
e it all set up and ready to go, right?” She looked over at him and watched him nod quickly. “Please, JJ, whatever you want…just let me do this.”

  “If this goes bad, Charlie…if you fail—”

  “I won’t fail.” Her voice sounded strange in her own ears, like steel ringing. “I can’t afford to fail her this time.”

  Jasper shook his head and mumbled. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He sat back in his chair. “Get her set up with the full works, Luke, and get the van rigged too. Hillary, Liam, you’re working out of here with me. Al, you’re in charge on the road. Kenzie?”

  “Yup?”

  “How are you behind the wheel?”

  She grinned as Charlie groaned. “I feel the need.” She winked at Luke. “The need for speed.”

  Everyone looked at each other then burst out laughing. Luke clapped her on the back. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you just went there. Top Gun? Seriously?”

  “It’s a classic film.”

  “It’s something all right.” Jasper clapped his hands. “Okay, if we’re doing this, you better get going or you’ll need jets to get there by six.” He pointed to the door. “Go on, get.”

  They all moved to their tasks.

  “Charlie.”

  She turned to face JJ.

  “Be careful out there, okay? This has the potential to turn into a shit storm, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The North of England, then

  Hazaar drew in a deep breath and concentrated on steadying her hand. Maybe I shouldn’t bother. He might not want to marry me if I poke my eye out with a mascara brush. She chuckled to herself and started to apply the black liquid to her lashes, the pattern on her hand catching her eye with every movement. The intricate combination of dots, spirals, and lines made up images of the sun, moon, and stars, flower buds, and paisleys. The images were hypnotic, and she could feel herself being pulled into the pattern. She shook her head and concentrated on the application of her makeup. They were symbolic of new life, passion between new loves, and fertility for her new marriage. Let’s hope they’re nothing but old wives’ tales.

  “You look beautiful, Beti.”

  “Maa Jee, I didn’t hear you come in.” She looked at her mother in the mirror.

  “Too busy concentrating on making yourself beautiful.” She laughed. “He will be proud to be your husband.” She squeezed Hazaar’s shoulder. “It is time for us to go downstairs.”

  “The guests for the procession have arrived already?”

  “Oh yes. And you should have seen the cars that Yasar and his family arrived in. There may not be many people coming to this wedding, Hazar, but the way those cars were decorated for the procession,” her mother said, “they will be talking about this wedding procession for years to come, all over Bradford.” She smiled widely, her chest puffed out, the look of pride and contentment obvious on her face.

  Hazaar tidied away her makeup and walked back into her bedroom. Tonight would be the last night she would spend in here. They had opted for a traditional styled ceremony, as so much of the preparation had been rushed, her father had insisted that they follow as many of the proper traditions as possible. So tonight, she and her new husband would spend the night in separate rooms in her father’s home. Tomorrow, her father would take them both to her husband’s home and bid her good-bye. He would say farewell to her and pass on the responsibility of her welfare to her husband. From that day on, she would share her life with Yasar. Her bed would be his and her body his to share. She shuddered. I can’t think about that. I just can’t.

  She picked the red scarf up off the edge of her bed and ran it through her hands. The gold beads, sequins, and heavy trim would keep it weighted and her face covered throughout the whole ninety-minute service, and already Hazaar could feel the ache in her neck muscles. The weight of the fabric was nothing, little more than the weight of her long, thick hair, in reality. It was everything it represented that weighed on her. Each sequin represented a dream she would never have the chance to make a reality, every bead was an expectation she would have to fulfil to maintain the charade her life was to become, and the weight of the trim holding it all down was the weight of the lives she knew she was saving. The only good thing she could see about living under the veil was how easy it would be to hide her tears.

  Her mother adjusted the length at the back as she placed it on her own head and let it hang.

  “It is perfect, Beti. You make me so proud.” Her mother wiped tears from her face and clasped her hands under her chin.

  Her father had set up a massive marquee in the garden. Tables and chairs lined the walls, and at each end of the tent there were raised platforms with decorated chairs; one for him and one for her. Her father’s influence in the community had also allowed him to arrange for the imam of the mosque to perform the ceremony, despite the last-minute nature of the wedding.

  Her mother, Hana, and some of the other women led her into the marquee and onto her little platform, arranging the veil about her as she sat down. Ninety minutes. That was all the ceremony would take. Ninety minutes, then her life would be over.

  Yasar was already sitting on his chair. Hazaar shook her head slightly. No, Yasar is already sitting on his throne. He looked like a prince waiting for the coronation that would make him king. His pristinely white suit almost gleamed in the light. His hair was slicked back under his white turban, and his beard was neatly trimmed to a goatee and a thin line along the edge of his jaw. It made his face look chiselled, sharp, and handsome. The distance between them didn’t allow her to make out his features clearly, other than the wide smile that graced his full lips.

  The imam began the ceremony, and Hazaar stopped listening as he recited the first chapter of the Quran, the opening, the beginning, the start, the foundation of everything that comes afterward. All the things the ceremony was meant to represent for them both. People nodded and smiled. Some raised their hands to the heavens and praised Allah for giving them the holy sanctuary of marriage. Hazaar stared at her hands and the shackle-like henna tattoos at her wrists and prayed it wouldn’t be the prison she feared. Her mother had told her that she had found herself in marriage, that it was when she came to realize her own worth and her own power. Hazaar feared that in her marriage, she would only lose any sense of self she had ever had.

  They were presented with the nikah, and Hazaar’s hands shook as she signed the marriage contract and she felt like she was watching everything happen as opposed to taking part herself. She could see hands touching her body, leading her this way and that, but she couldn’t feel them. She could see people talking to her, see herself looking at them, but she felt like she was watching them on a screen, listening to them through headphones; her own eyes and ears didn’t seem to be working. The nerves in her body seemed to have deserted her as she picked up the pen and looked at the paper on the table.

  One single piece of paper.

  The signatures of two male witnesses, as well as Yasar’s and her own on a single sheet of paper bound them together in every way, for the rest of her life. There would be no divorce in this marriage. At least not one she could choose. To do so would negate the business partnership too, and she knew where that left her family. There would be no separation from him, no end to this nikah, unless he chose it.

  She poised her hand over the page, pen at the ready.

  What choice do I have? She looked at her father, the smile on his face seemed frozen rather than happy, the look in his eyes a mixture of regret, fear, and a tiny, tiny flicker of hope. To not sign her name would be signing his death warrant. This man who had given her life, given her the education he never had, the opportunities he never dreamed possible, and loved her from the moment she was born. There was pride in his posture as he watched her, and fear in his trembling hands as he raised them slightly to her in question.

  I do this for you, Baba. Not for Hatim, or any of the othe
rs would I give up my life.

  The pen scratched the paper as she pulled it across the page. She felt a rush as though she was finally returned to her own body and the sound of the pen on the paper was too loud in her ears, but it was done. She was married.

  As the final prayer was offered up to Allah for them, she was led to her husband’s platform. Her father and his joined their hands, and she was seated on a chair next to him, a smaller, less ornately decorated chair, next to his throne. Hatim and another man carried a huge, heavy mirror and stood before them. Hazaar drew a deep breath as an elaborately decorated green scarf was draped over both of their heads, and her mother stepped forward to uncover her face. This was supposed to be the first time her new husband would see her face, through her reflection in the mirror, and to the rest of the world, it was. Only her mother, Hatim, and they themselves knew otherwise.

  As she looked at her husband through the glass, she knew nothing of her mother’s feeling of power in her marriage. She felt powerless. There was no way out now.

  The feast began, music played, and people enjoyed themselves. Yasar clasped her hand and squeezed. “Hello, Mrs. Siddiqi.” He smiled at her.

  It hit her like a fist to the gut and she fought to keep the bile from rising. She was his wife. She was Mrs. Yasar Siddiqi and not Hazaar Alim anymore. The longer she stared into the mirror, the smaller she felt, like her own image was receding and his was filling the glass, taking over hers.

  What the fuck have I done?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pakistan, today

  Charlie covered her hair with a long black scarf and climbed out of the van. She checked her watch as she pulled the door closed behind her. Five fifty-five. She walked past stalls that were setting up, shops that were opening, and toward the clock tower. Built in 1900 to commemorate the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria, it was a major tourist attraction in the area, and it wasn’t unusual for tourists to be seen staring at it. She pulled out a camera to further clarify her purpose for hanging around and began taking pictures in the early morning light. The red clay façade covered the whole of the four-tiered building, but at least half was covered with banners advertising local music bands and new shops. The slumbering city was being chased into activity as the faithful were called to prayer and the shops and market stalls surrounding the clock tower set up for the day’s trading.