Читать книгу Guarding The Soldier's Secret - Kathleen Creighton - Страница 14

Chapter 2

Kabul, Afghanistan

Present day

Yancy tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand as they wove their way together through the sluggish river of shoppers, stepping around parked cars and top-heavy pushcarts and the knots of women who were pausing to examine displays of brightly woven fabrics, piles of fresh-baked bread or bins of cheap plastic trinkets.

“Look, Mom, Mickey Mouse,” Laila said, pointing, and Yancy smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Just like home.”

Her daughter lifted her golden eyes, eyes now sparkling with the smile that was hidden beneath the drape of her scarf. “Well, not exactly.”

Yancy laughed, feeling lighter in heart than she had since she’d made the decision to bring Laila with her on this trip to Afghanistan. She’d have preferred to wait until her adopted daughter was older before taking her to visit the country of her birth, but with the allied troops preparing to pull out for good, she knew there was no way to predict what the future might hold for the war-ravaged country. It might be a case of now or never.

Still, Laila was only eight years old. It had been three years since the traumatic events that had made it necessary to get the child out of Afghanistan for the sake of nothing less than her life.

Yancy hadn’t tried to erase her daughter’s memories of that terrible time—quite the opposite, in fact. Thinking it would be therapeutic for her to talk about it, she’d downloaded YouTube videos, which they’d watched together, Yancy answering Laila’s questions, talking about the ways her life was different now. She’d even probed gently, never sure how much Laila had witnessed or remembered about her mother’s murder. But Laila had never spoken of that day, and whether that was because she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, Yancy had no way of knowing.

Their first day in Kabul, Laila had clung close to Yancy’s side, shrinking closer still at her first glimpse of the mysterious blue burqas that sprinkled the crowds even here in the modern capital city. Last night Yancy had asked her about that, wanting to know why Laila was frightened when they’d already talked about the fact that some women in Afghanistan covered themselves completely when they went out in public.

But Laila had only shrugged and mumbled, “I’m not scared. I just don’t like them. I think they’re...creepy.”

Today, though, she seemed to be enjoying the crowds, the bustle and noise, the tapestry of different costumes: men and boys in everything from jeans, T-shirts and Western-style jackets to the traditional loose white trousers and tunics and long chabas embroidered with intricate patterns; the turbans or flat Afghan hats, or karakul hats like the one the president wore; women and girls in conservative Western-style dresses or flowing robes and draped head scarves, and, of course, the burqas. Every direction they looked was a new feast for the eyes.

A feast for all the senses. Though the sky overhead was the same crisp blue she recalled from previous trips to Afghanistan, here in the bazaar the air was dense with dust and exhaust, the familiar smells of spices and baking bread and overripe fruit and the musky scents of people. The noise of traffic and exotic music and voices raised in chatter or barter or a snatch of song made a tapestry of sound.

I’ve missed this, Yancy thought.

“What are those?” Laila pointed.

“Hmm...looks like dates,” Yancy said.

“Can we get some?”

“You don’t like dates, remember?”

“Yes, but I’ve never tasted these dates.”

“Uh-huh.” Recognizing that her child had been bitten by the shopping bug, Yancy diplomatically steered her to another display, where large flat metal bowls held an array of grains and beans and nuts. “How about we get some of these, instead? You like pistachios, don’t you?”

Laila’s answer was a happy gasp. She tugged at Yancy’s hand like an excited puppy while Yancy bartered with the women hovering over the display. She counted out the money, then gave the drawstring shopping bag they’d brought with them—no paper or plastic here—to Laila to hold while the shopkeeper dumped a scoopful of nuts into it.

Laila said, “Tashakkur!” the way Yancy had taught her, in a strong, clear voice, and the woman beamed her approval and added another handful of nuts to the bag.

They walked on, stopping to examine trinkets, discussing what gifts they should buy for Laila’s school friends back home in Virginia. Yancy fingered beautiful scarves, debating which one to buy for her clotheshorse sister, Miranda.

The sun climbed higher and so did the temperature, and the crowds began to thin. Yancy noticed Laila’s enthusiasm seemed to be waning, as well. Her footsteps lagged as she looked around her, craning her neck, clearly searching for something and disappointed she hadn’t found it.

“Are you getting tired, sweetie?”

“No...” Laila lifted her shoulders in what was half sigh and half shrug. “I was just hoping...”

Yancy’s stomach lurched. Surely, she couldn’t be hoping to see him.

Impossible, anyway. He’s dead. He must be. And how can she even remember?

“I thought there would be animals.”

“Animals?” Yancy said blankly.

Laila was watching the toe of her sandal make designs in the dusty ground. She heaved another heart-tugging sigh. “Yes, like sheep or goats. Or donkeys. I like them. They had them at the market where I used to live.” She lifted her gaze—and her chin—in a way that was almost a challenge. “I know because I remember them.”

Yancy put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close in a one-arm hug. “This is Kabul, honey. It’s a very big city—like New York or Los Angeles. Probably there wouldn’t be many sheep or goats or donkeys here in the middle of the city. But I promise we’ll make sure and find some tomorrow when we go out in the country—okay?”

“Okay...” Clearly, her daughter was only somewhat appeased.

Changing the subject, Yancy said, “Hey, are you hungry? I know I am. How about we go back to the hotel and see if they have any ice cream.”

“Pistachio?” Laila’s golden eyes sparkled up at her with that wicked humor that never failed to wrench at Yancy’s heart and bring back memories of a time she hoped someday to forget.

She’s so like him. How am I ever going to be able to forget, with her as my constant reminder?

With one arm resting lightly across Laila’s shoulders, Yancy lifted her head to survey their surroundings, hoping to determine the best and shortest route back to the main street where, presumably, they could flag down a taxi. But she found she couldn’t see much because of the press of people that surrounded them.

Which was odd, because a moment ago she could have sworn there were only a few straggling shoppers here, dawdling about among the stalls. Now she and Laila appeared to be completely walled in by a crowd of people.

No, not a crowd. A group of men. Tall, bearded men, all dressed in traditional Afghan costume.

As the bolt of awareness shot through Yancy’s brain, it triggered a wild montage of the warnings, cautions and instructions she’d heard time and time again when preparing to venture into volatile and unpredictable regions of the world. More than once she’d covered the story when a colleague had been abducted—or worse—and there had even been some close calls that were hers alone, the memories of which were all too vivid. She’d never really been frightened then—at least not that she could remember. But it was different now. Now there was Laila.

She tensed and strengthened her hold on her daughter’s hand, at the same time nervously checking to make certain no stray locks of her own dark red hair had strayed from beneath her scarf. Keeping her eyes averted, she quickened her step.

Without any overtly threatening moves or gestures, the knot of men moved with her, keeping pace.

Yancy’s mind raced, searching for explanations but capable only of shooting off questions. Who are they? Taliban? What’s happening? Why are they doing this? What do they want with me? Are we about to be kidnapped? What have I done?

Or...is it Laila they’re after?

Her heart banged against her ribs. Her scalp sizzled; she could actually feel her hair lift and stir against the silk fabric of her scarf. She could almost hear Hunt’s voice... They’ll find her again, sooner or later...

Oddly, the thought had a calming effect.

Laila? They can’t take her. They will have to kill me first.

She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Think. You have one advantage: you’re a woman. They won’t be expecting resistance from a woman. Plus, they won’t want to touch you, a strange female, if they can avoid it. You know the moves—they won’t expect that, either. Strike fast, strike hard, break loose.

Then both of us run like hell.

They’d reached the outskirts of the bazaar. Beyond the human barricade that surrounded her, Yancy could hear cars moving slowly, tires crunching on the hard-baked ground. She could hear laughter, music coming from a car radio, the impatient beep of a horn. She wondered if one of those cars was meant for them. She imagined a sudden shriek of brakes, hard hands shoving her into a waiting vehicle, Laila screaming...

Or, infinitely worse, Laila being wrenched from her grasp. Then the slamming of car doors, a gunned motor and silence.

* * *

Twenty yards or so behind the odd clot of Afghan males in the otherwise free-flowing stream of midday traffic, Hunt Grainger maintained a relaxed and steady pace. Keeping anger in check along with surging adrenaline, he followed the phalanx’s every movement, gauging the situation, biding his time, waiting for the moment.

And still hoping this was going to turn out to be nothing more ominous than a tight-knit group of male shoppers oblivious to the two insignificant females in their path. Still hoping it wouldn’t be necessary to make himself known. He’d intended to do so eventually, of course, but at a time and place of his own choosing.

No, not this way. Not now.

The adrenaline was easier to deal with than the anger. He knew how to bank adrenaline, keep it focused and ready for the job at hand. He’d already assessed the odds of roughly ten to one, which didn’t trouble him particularly—he’d handled worse. Although admittedly not with a woman and child in the immediate proximity of the operation. That might complicate things.

Damn Yancy, anyway!

What was she thinking, bringing the girl back to Afghanistan? Hadn’t he made it clear to her how dangerous it was? If Zahra’s family found out...

That was the troubling thing. They obviously had found out. How? How could they know?

Although, he supposed, if he’d known, it was possible someone else could, as well. A world-famous network war correspondent couldn’t exactly keep a low profile.

The agency he’d hired to keep an eye on the two while he was out of reach had kept him informed of their travel plans, and he’d been watching them almost from the moment they’d arrived in the country. Admittedly that wasn’t so much because he feared for their safety. Not then.

Truth was, he’d simply wanted to see them again. Both of them. Nothing wrong with that, he’d argued with himself as he’d lain wide-awake and sleepless in anticipation of their arrival. Laila was his daughter, after all.

And Yancy... Hell, he wasn’t sure what Yancy was to him. Never had known.

What he did know was, it would be better for everyone if he could have stayed away, let them go on believing he was dead.

He’d told himself he’d look—that was all. Watch them from afar. Then let them go, never knowing.

It’s better that way. For now.

That was the plan. One of them, anyway. Maybe he would have been able to keep to it, maybe not. Now it looked as if he wasn’t going to have the luxury of choice.

His senses snapped to full alert when he noted what appeared to be a disturbance in the tight knot of men surrounding Yancy and Laila. The knot appeared to be unraveling. He quickened his pace, and several things happened in lightning-quick succession: One man seemed to stumble, then fall back against his comrades. This sent several to the ground in a tumble of flowing garments that might have been comical under different circumstances. Then two female figures, woman and child, broke free of the melee. They came straight toward him, running as if from the devil himself.

The woman’s face was a mask of grim determination; the child’s was blank with confusion. Hunt started forward, then halted when he saw the woman’s eyes focus, home in on his face. He saw her eyes go wide, first with fear, then with stunned recognition. He saw her stumble slightly, her body flinch and her face drain of all color.

Unexpected pain sliced through him.

Dammit, Yancy. Not like this—this isn’t the way I’d have chosen to break it to you.

An image came into his mind, one of those lightning flashes that stays on, seared into the memory like a brand.

...I’m strolling the boardwalk on the base with a couple of guys from my team, fresh off a successful mission with some leftover adrenaline to dispose of. Every soldier has his own way of dealing with it—that jacked-up reckless feeling you get sometimes when you’ve done your job and come back in one piece. Everything seems sharp and clear and simple. Life and death. You win or you lose. And that day we won. Life was good.

Times like that, some guys head straight for their laptops for a face-to-face with their families. A few go to the chapel, I guess. Me, I get a yearning for a little piece of home, so I hit the boardwalk and the same fast-food places I used to hang out in when I was a kid, growing up in the Midwest.

So my guys and I are debating the relative merits of subs, pizza and tacos, or whether we should go to Friday’s and have all three. And that’s when I see her. Them, actually—the news crew we’d picked up out of that firefight earlier in the day. They’re gathered around a table drinking something tall and cold, all scrubbed and shiny like they’ve just come from the showers. They still have that dazed look civilians get when they’ve had a closer look than they ever wanted at what war’s really like.

She’s impossible to miss, with that red hair of hers, the wind blowing it around like dark flames. I guess I’m looking at her pretty hard and maybe she feels that, because she looks up just then, straight at me, and I see her eyes go big and wide with that look that says she’s recognized me, too. I feel a kick underneath my ribs, which I chalk up to that leftover adrenaline, and I give her a nod. Maybe I smile at her, too.

I’ve worked my way through about half a foot-long meatball sub, joking with the guys across the table, when I hear, “Hey, soldier.” And here she is, sitting down beside me.

The guys, of course, they give me the eye, elbow each other and get up and move to another table.

She says, “I don’t mean to interrupt...”

I chew and swallow and reach for my napkin, wipe sauce off my face and clear my throat good. My heart’s doing the happy-dance and there’s nothing I can do about that, but I keep my voice polite and nothing more. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She winces and says, “Ma’am? Really?” and makes a face.

“It’s a term of respect—like sir,” I tell her. Something makes me add, “From where I’m sitting, you definitely do not qualify as sir.”

She laughs, and I feel a sizzling inside my skin, and I know I’m going where I’ve got no business going. I’m feeling hot and hard and I blame that on the adrenaline, too.

“I don’t know if I even said thank you,” she says. “For saving my—all...of our lives.”

She’s looking at me with big brown eyes, and it occurs to me her eyes seem to match her hair, which doesn’t make sense, because her hair is definitely auburn, and her eyes are definitely brown.

“You did,” I say.

She nods. “And you said you were just doing your job.” She’s studying me, and there’s this kind of a frown making lines between her eyebrows, like she can’t figure me out. Then she turns her face away, but I can see it tighten up and change color anyway. “That’s what it was to you, maybe. But to me it was a whole lot more. It was my life, you know?” She swipes her fingers across one cheek, clears her throat and adds, “And I want you to know I’m very grateful.”

I want to touch her, and I pick up my sandwich so I can’t. I take a bite, chew it, nod to the sandwich and say, “Glad I could help.”

I feel her staring at me again. Softly she says, “I wish I understood what makes someone like you tick.” I turn my head to look at her, and for a long time that’s what we do—look at each other. Or maybe it only seems like a long time. Then she sort of smiles and says, “I don’t suppose you’d consider—”

That wakes me up. “Not gonna happen,” I tell her.

Her smile goes a little sideways. “I was going to say, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider having dinner with me.’”

“No, you weren’t.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, but leans closer and says, “What if I was?”

There’s a long silence while I listen to the voices in my head telling me things I already know, all the reasons I want but can’t have. Then, probably because I’m used to shaking hands with danger, I lean in closer to her and whisper, “It’d still be no.”

She sits back and the contact between us snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight—it stings a little. She tilts her head and asks, “Why?”

I laugh—I mean, she has to ask?

“You’re the media,” I say, “and my job depends on secrecy.”

“I’d never compromise that. You know us media folks always protect our sources.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Too big a risk.”

“I thought that’s what you do—take risks.”

“Not stupid ones.”

She thinks about that. Then after a moment, she nods, gets up and starts to walk away. While I’m silently cussing—myself, her, maybe fate—she comes back, leans down close to my ear and whispers, “If you change your mind, I’d still like to hear your story. Your terms, your rules. My quarters are in the Quonset next to the media’s. You can find me there.”

After she leaves I look at the sub I’m still holding in my hands, and I realize I’ve lost my appetite—for food, anyway. Right then the only thing I’m hungry for is a woman with auburn hair and matching eyes.

His trip down memory lane lasted for the space of the few seconds it took them to get to him. He reached out for Yancy, who staggered and almost fell into his arms, the child sandwiched between the two adults. He caught and steadied her while her eyes searched his face in shocked disbelief. Her mouth opened, but before she could fire off the questions he knew must be piled up inside her, he said in a low, guttural voice, “Go—run. Keep going. Don’t stop for anything.”

He had to hand it to her—no questions, no hesitation. She just nodded and took Laila’s hand in a firm grip.

Hunt shoved the two of them behind him and turned his attention to the would-be abductors, who by this time were sorting themselves out and shouting at each other in fury and outrage. A couple of them seemed to think they might give chase but changed their minds when they saw what was blocking their path. A tall man wearing the elaborately wound turban and embroidered vest of a Pashtun tribal elder would give the average urban Afghan male pause even if he wasn’t portraying an attitude of authority, strength and menace. Hunt excelled at all three. In a matter of moments the men had dispersed and vanished into the crowds, both pedestrian and vehicular.

Hunt waited until he was certain the threat had passed, then turned to follow the woman and child, who had already vanished from sight. He walked rapidly but didn’t run. He knew he’d find them again.

* * *

“Mommy? Who was that man? Who were those other men? Why were they following us? What did they want? Why did we run away?”

Yancy could only shake her head as she leaned against a mud-brick wall and fought to catch her breath. As she waited for her pounding heart to calm itself, her numbed brain struggled to absorb the reality that once again the assumption of Hunt Grainger’s demise had been premature.

She tried to figure out how that made her feel.

I don’t know how I feel!

There isn’t time to feel. Not now. I have to get Laila to safety. Someplace safe...

Dear God, where? I don’t even know where we are.

Laila was having no trouble finding breath for her usual stream of questions. Questions Yancy couldn’t answer, not then. How would she answer...ever?

Mommy, who was that man?

He’s your father, sweetie. The father that dropped you in my lap and disappeared from both our lives.

Who were those other men? What did they want?

I think they wanted to take you away from me...maybe kill me in order to do it.

Why?

Why? That’s a good question. How do I answer that? How do I make you understand ignorance and evil?

Yancy held up a hand to stem the flow of words, then reached out to pull her daughter close to her side while she cast intent looks in every direction. She could see no sign of pursuit or anyone that looked threatening, but the fear lingered. She could feel Laila’s body quivering as the child clutched her tightly and pressed her face against her side. She could feel her moist heat, smell terror and sweat, and for a moment rage clouded her vision.

Then, once again, she commanded herself to think.

I have to get us back to the hotel. She’ll be safe there.

Thank goodness she still had her purse, the strap looped snugly across her chest from one shoulder to the opposite hip. She dug in it frantically, located her cell phone and turned it on. While she waited for it to locate a signal, she looked around, hoping to find a street sign or, failing that, some sort of landmark that might help a taxi find their location.

“Look, Mom—donkey,” Laila said in a faint but hopeful voice.

Yancy watched the small dusty animal toiling up the rocky, rutted street—just a path, really—with a load of water jugs balanced on his scrawny back. A boy no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in baggy trousers and a T-shirt several sizes too big for him, trudged along beside the donkey and switched idly at its rump with a small stick. Several yards beyond the pair, a man plodded steadily uphill bearing a pole across his shoulders, a plastic water container suspended from each end. Several children ran by, their bare feet seemingly impervious to the rocky ground as they leaped nimbly across the ditch that ran down the middle of the street carrying sludge and raw sewage. And she realized she did know where they were, at least generally.

This was the old slummy part of Kabul, where mud-brick houses clung to the side of the mountain practically one on top of the other, most without electricity or running water. Where people lived in appalling poverty, and all the water needed for cooking and bathing had to be carried up from the community wells down below. Several years ago Yancy had done a feature on the conditions here. It was disheartening to see that nothing much had changed.

With unsteady fingers poised to punch in the number for her network’s Kabul bureau, she hesitated. Of course, they’d send someone to pick them up if she asked, even though she was on leave, not assignment, and hadn’t told anyone at the network of her travel plans. But if possible, she wanted to continue to fly under the radar, for so many reasons. This was a personal pilgrimage, for her and for Laila. Or it had been, until...

Until we were almost abducted in the middle of a Kabul bazaar, for who-knows-what reason.

Until a man I thought was dead stepped in to help us escape.

Or did I only imagine that part? Could he possibly be real?

But Laila had seen him, too.

“Mommy, I’m thirsty.” Laila was tugging at her skirt.

“I know, baby. I’m thirsty, too.” Shading her eyes with her free hand, she surveyed the jumble of houses and winding dirt paths through which they’d just come. Water would only be found at the bottom of the hill, as would paved streets and access to taxis. They couldn’t stay where they were, obviously, but what if their would-be abductors were down there, as well, looking for them?

Inspiration struck as she remembered the shopping bag with the things they’d bought at the bazaar, including the scarves she’d picked up as gifts for Miranda.

Jamming her cell phone back into her purse, she opened the bag and pulled out the two most brightly colored and beautifully patterned scarves, one in rose and gold, the other in blue and green. She pulled off the much more sedate and modest gray one she was wearing and draped the rose-and-gold one over her head and shoulders, arranging it so it covered her hair and half of her face. Ignoring the glances of passersby, she exchanged Laila’s white scarf for the prettier blue-and-green one, while Laila gazed at her with solemn eyes and said not a word, not even to ask a question.

Yancy straightened and took Laila’s hand, shifted her purse onto her hip and said, “Okay, sweetie, let’s go find some water, shall we?”

She wanted more than water. She wanted a huge glass of wine. Or maybe a slug of whiskey. She wanted to sink down with her back against the mud-brick wall and fall completely to pieces.

Not now. Not until Laila’s safe. I have to get her to safety. Somehow.

She started down the dusty street, holding her head high and putting as much confidence in her step as she could summon while her heart pounded and cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. They’d gone no more than twenty yards or so before a tall, imposing figure stepped out of a narrow, branching alleyway to block their path.