Bernadette left the hospital with a shawl she found in a cloakroom for her hijab. She nodded to the policeman on duty and found a cab outside the hospital.
“Take me to the American Consulate,” she instructed the driver.
The American Consulate bristled with security and two stern-looking U.S. Marines with machine guns stood guard. The cab could not park in front with the numerous metal bollards to keep away suicide bombers.
Bernadette paid the driver and approached the marines slowly. She knew that making sudden moves could get her shot. They were on high alert to protect their consulate.
“I’m here to see Christina Lackey,” Bernadette said as she opened her lab coat to show she had no weapons.
“You have an appointment with her?” the marine asked. His name said Simons. He was large, black, and had a scowl that looked like he’d be happy to unleash a few rounds of M16 bullets into someone who pissed him off.
“No, but I was instructed to meet with her when I arrived in Kandahar.”
The other marine, his name was Plinkton. He looked all of twenty-two with pink blotchy skin and pale blue eyes that stared at Bernadette as his finger covered his machine gun. He’d lowered the gun while Simons looked at her passport.
“I’ll call her, see if she’s here,” Simons said.
He dialed a number, listened, and then spoke into the phone. All Bernadette could hear was some ‘aha, yes ma’am’s. A minute later he said she could enter. They took her behind the blast wall and searched her. She felt the chill of the night as they ran their hands over her in search of weapons or bombs. They cleared her, and a third marine came out to escort her inside.
Plinkton turned to Simons. “Who the hell is Lackey? I didn’t know we had anyone inside by that name.”
Simons turned his head back to the street, “You can forget you did, she’s the resident spook for Kandahar.”
“What the hell is a spook?” Plinkton asked.
“You are green. That’s CIA.”
Christina Lackey sat in a small barren room inside the American Consulate. She was forty-three, with a pale complexion and platinum blonde hair. Her features were non-descript; she could pass you on the street and you’d forget what she looked like moments later. In high school back in Bakersfield, California, her nickname was Flaky. The bitches on the cheerleading team gave it to her.
Christina never forgot their taunting. When she entered the CIA, she made sure all of them were put on the TSA’s watch list. They had a hell of time flying anywhere and never knew why.
As Christina sat there in the room, she had been looking at the recent reports coming in from her operatives in the field. Rumors were circulating of a civil war between the Pashtuns, Tajik, and the Hazara. All of it seemed to be over the stolen robe. That this Bernadette Callahan had walked into her consulate this evening was a bonus; she had a lot of questions to ask her.
Bernadette was shown into her room. “Thanks for seeing me. I didn’t know if you’d received word from Carla Winston. She’d told me to look you up when I got here.”
Lackey motioned for her to take a chair. “I had a report that you got your bell rung by an RPG. I thought you were headed home.”
“I was sidelined, but now I’m back on the hunt for my fiancé.”
Lackey opened a desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. She filled the glasses and pushed one towards Bernadette. “Winston said you had guts. I’m glad they didn’t end up on the highway.”
“Cheers to that,” Bernadette said. She lifted her glass and let the Scotch slowly ebb its way down her throat. “You know how to make a girl feel welcome. This makes up for all that green tea.”
Lackey swallowed hers. “Maybe you can solve some of the mystery we’re having now that you’re here.”
“What’s that?”
“Your fiancé, what was his position in the police force back in Canada?”
“He was a constable in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
Lackey leaned back in her chair and swished her Scotch in the glass. “In the major crimes division or working narcotics?”
Bernadette let out a chuckle. “God no. He was trained in police work, but he’d spent all of his time in small Canadian communities. His last posting was an island on Canada’s west coast where he tracked down stolen fishing boats and intercepted the odd drug trafficker.”
Bernadette took another long drink of her Scotch and put her glass down. “You want to tell me where this line of questioning is going?”
“I need to know how your man could be involved in the supposed theft of one of the most sacred robes in this country. As of right now, three tribes are ready to do battle in the streets of Kandahar.”
Bernadette sat up. “What? I didn’t know that Chris was implicated in any theft.”
“That’s the story we got from the sacred museum that held the robe. The imam of the mosque next door said he had given a viewing to a man named Lund and to someone who looked like your Chris. The imam said he locked up and came back to find the robe gone.
“Was there security footage?”
“Only for the meeting with the imam. Later that evening the footage was taped over,” Lackey said.
“Sounds like a set-up.”
“Could well be. Most things in this country are lies on top of lies. I need to find someone who knows what happened. I also need to find this robe and get it back to the museum before a civil war breaks out.”
“Can I see the tape from that night?” Bernadette asked.
“It’s with the police chief of Kandahar. I can set up a meeting for us tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”
“Yes, the Continental Guest House. I’m a bit late for my check in, but I’m sure I’ll get a room.”
“You’re right, this city doesn’t have a flood of visitors, I’ll have our marines take you there.” Lackey allowed a slight smile. “Get some rest. And…get some clothes; I’m sure the hospital might want those back.”
Bernadette got into an armored Humvee with two marines. They drove through the darkened streets to the guesthouse. The place had a single light outside. Large walls surrounded it with a guard at the formidable door.
The guesthouse had high ceilings and ornate columns. It had once been the opulent home of a wealthy merchant of Kandahar who’d made his money off the Russians and fled when the Taliban arrived.
She entered, checked in, and was shown to a simple room with two single beds an ancient television, and a closet. There was shower and toilet that looked like they’d seen better days. She found a bottle of water in the small fridge and collapsed on the bed. She wondered how she was going to proceed the next day. She wanted to go to sleep so badly, but her dreams had been of Chris. Some of them were good, and in some she saw him dead.
She lay flat on her back and breathed slowly until she finally fell into a deep sleep. Tomorrow would come, and her hunt for Chris would finally begin.
8
Chris watched the sun come through the broken bricks of the hut he was in. How many days had he been here? He’d tried to scratch each day on a wall beside him. His captors found his markings and scraped it off. The days were registered from the sun coming through the bricks. A small beam of sunlight hit the far wall and moved across the room until darkness fell.
The only person who spoke to him was an Afghani named Gul. He brought him his two meals a day and took out his chamber pot. He had a small bed on the floor and a plastic jug for water. Chris was used to roughing it in the woods in Canada, but this was beyond anything he had experienced.
He’d lost weight. His clothes hung on him. His face had sprouted a beard and he could use a shower in the worst way. The room was cold. The wind blew snow and rain in through cracks in the walls. He finally convinced Gul to give him some firewood for the metal stove in the hut.
Gul came in, brought him more wood and water that morning. Chris watched him from the corner of the hut.
�
��You are well?” Gul asked.
“Yes, I am well,” Chris replied. This was the same conversation they’d had for several weeks. Gul spoke reasonable English. He was in his mid-thirties with the standard Afghani beard and customary dress. He wore an army issue parka from the Afghan National Army. Chris wondered if he’d stolen it or killed for it.
“I have a question,” Chris said. He watched Gul drop his daily wood supply by the stove.
Gul stopped and looked at Chris. “I am not sure I have answers.”
“You have taken no video of me to prove I am alive. Why is that?” Chris asked. He watched Gul’s eyes to see how the question resonated with him.
Gul busied himself with the firewood. “We will do it soon. We need someone to come with video machine. We do not have in this village.”
Chris knew he was lying. They could use a cell phone to make a video. He’d seen several of his captors talking on cell phones in the village.
“Do not worry,” Gul said. “We will take video of you, send to your government, they will pay ransom, you will be set free.”
Chris shook his head. “I am Canadian, and my government does not pay ransom. I told your people weeks ago. Seems no one is listening.”
Gul finished with the wood then brought in another large plastic jug of water and set it inside the hut. “You have wife?”
“I have a fiancé…yes, I have an almost wife,” Chris said. He realized Gul probably did not understand the word fiancé.
Gul smiled. “I have an almost wife.”
“You are getting married?” Chris asked.
“No, no. I have relations with another man’s wife in the village,” Gul said.
“Ah I see. How is that working out?”
“Not good. The wife’s husband has asked the warlord to have me killed,” Gul said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Chris shook his head. In the time he’d been captive, this Gul had been the only one who spoke to him. The others treated him with disdain. Some spit in his direction. A dark-skinned young man named Aktar pulled his finger across his throat to signify his death whenever he was near him.
Gul, as crazy as his conversations were, was somewhat harmless compared to the others. Chris hoped the warlord didn’t kill him.
“Do you have a way out of this?” Chris asked.
“I have gone to the village imam; he may give me a pardon. I have offered to pay him if he will come to my aid,” Gul said.
“You can do that?”
Gul shrugged. “Sometimes, the imam will see someone’s side. Under Sharia law, there must be four witnesses to adultery. We have only three now. The husband’s two brothers and his uncle saw me leaving their hut.”
“In Canada, that would be enough for a divorce. I’ve known lawyers that would have convicted you for much less.”
“Yes, that is why we are ruled by our Sharia law.”
Chris took his meal of lamb and rice and took a spoonful. The lamb was tough, the rice was cold, and with a gulp of water he was able to get it down. He did not want to get into discussion with Gul on Sharia law. This Afghani was the only one of his captors who treated him reasonably well. He wanted to keep it that way.
When Gul had learned that Chris was from Toronto, Canada, he asked him if he’d help Gul immigrate there. He had a cousin who lived there and operated a cleaning and delivery business.
“You will help me move to Canada?” Gul had asked just days after Chris’s capture.
“Sure,” Chris had replied. He didn’t want to tell him that as a Taliban, he was the member of an organization that was listed as illegal and terrorist by almost every country in the world. If he did get to Canada, he’d be a guest in their prison system until he was deported back to Afghanistan to serve time in their prison.
“I go now,” Gul said. “Be well.” He walked out of the hut, closing the door behind him. A loud clang of metal on metal sounded as the lock was put in place.
Chris went back to his usual day of being captive. He could see out of a small peephole in the wall. It gave him a view of the center of the village. He’d watch every day to see if any of the other captives were there. They’d been separated as soon as they got to this village.
He tried to figure out where they were. They’d marched for three days into the mountains. A narrow pass with rocky walls was on either side as they came into a valley and this village. They arrived here at night so he didn’t know how big the village was. Ten buildings with mud walls surrounded one large tree where the men congregated. They sat on their haunches, smoked cigarettes, and conversed in low tones.
Other than the sounds of some goats and chickens in the area there were almost no signs of life. A dog might bark at night, then silence. He’d strained to listen for sounds of a helicopter or a drone overhead. He’d heard nothing.
Until today. He saw a man he’d thought he’d seen before. He was dressed in robes similar to that of the village imam. He was tall, his beard trimmed, he walked with the air of someone who must be respected. The others lowered their eyes and put their hands over their hearts as a sign of respect and acknowledgement. The village imam and the warlord came forward to greet him. They moved off in a corner, away from the Taliban fighters.
They spoke in low tones. Their heads moved and gestured towards Chris’ hut and then to several others in the square. Were they doing an inventory of their captives? Chris wondered what they were up to. Was this the day they would make the proof of live video? He breathed slowly as he watched them talk, wishing so much he’d taken the lessons in Pashtun that Max their interpreter had offered him. He thought that he was never coming back here. Now he was a prisoner with no translator. How stupid was he?
The warlord and the village imam were making a case for something. The other man finally agreed and they smiled at one another. The warlord walked over to his men, gave a command, and they followed him to a door of a hut.
Chris watched in horror as they dragged Max, their interpreter, out of the hut. Max screamed in Pashto; he knew what was coming. The Taliban took turns inflicting wounds on him, laughing as he screamed louder. His screams echoed into the silent valley. The torture seemed to go on forever, was it an hour? Was it more? Chris couldn’t watch but the screams extended into the deepest reaches of his mind that even with his hands pressed tightly over his ears; he could not block it out.
The warlord seemed to think Max had been tortured enough. He walked over to him, put his AK47 to his head, and pulled the trigger. Max’s head jerked back as if kicked by a mule.
Chris retched on the floor of his hut. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but Max had warned him that the Taliban would torture and murder him. This was their way. Chris remembered Max wished to be killed immediately rather than surrender to them.
Now, he wished he’d done it. A quick shot to the head would have been so much better for Max than what the Taliban had done to him.
He watched them drag his body away. Would they kill all the captives? What was happening here? Who were these crazy Taliban that made no proof of life videos and no demands of ransom?
He was trying not to lose his faith that Bernadette was out there somewhere trying to find him. She was the most determined person he’d ever met. He knew in his heart that she was doing everything in her power, but he hoped she wasn’t foolish enough to come to Afghanistan to find him. Sooner or later, the Taliban would want money and they would send out a message for ransom. He hoped someone would find the money to pay it, but then again, he hoped they’d bargained lower. He wasn’t feeling worth that much at this moment.
Chris went back to his bed and tried to muster his courage, hoping fleetingly that his death was quicker than Max’s.
9
Bernadette awoke to the sound of a low wailing. She got out of bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her bare feet on the cold tile floor sent a chill up her body. She walked to the shuttered window. It would not open. Turning an ear to the sound, she realized it was the Muslim c
all to prayer.
A clock on the table displayed 0645 hours. She stretched, yawned, and looked around the room. It was just as barren as when she’d checked in just before midnight. A small computer sat on a corner table. A sign proclaimed Free Internet to Guests. This was a godsend to Bernadette. She had no idea where her iPad or cellphone that she’d brought with her were. They could still be under lock and key back in the hospital or bits of charred plastic if they’d burned up in the truck blast.
She would need to locate a cell phone at least. And clothes; the ones she’d brought with her were in the back of the truck. The surgical scrubs and white lab coat were sufficient to break out of the hospital, but not a good thing for the meeting with the police chief, if that ever happened.
The shower was cold, but not any colder than she expected, and the towels were coarse enough to exfoliate her skin. It left her with a healthy red glow afterwards.
By 0715 she found breakfast in the main dining hall of the guesthouse. No one said anything about her outfit. She’d read the Afghanis would never ask anything about you unless you offered it. They thought it rude to pry. At this moment, she was thankful for that. Only two other men occupied the dining room. They looked eastern European, dressed in ill-fitting suits.
The dining room server was a young boy of sixteen or seventeen. He had a large mop of hair and dark brown eyes, which he cast downward as he approached her.
“I have special Afghani breakfast if you wish, madam.”
“Is it oatmeal with chicken?” Bernadette asked, hoping it wasn’t.
The boy shook his head, “No madam, this is eggs, tomatoes, and potatoes with naan bread. Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” Bernadette said with almost too much enthusiasm. “And yes please, to your wonderful breakfast suggestion.”
“My pleasure, madam.”
“And may I know your name, please?”
“Aaron, madam.” He bowed with one hand over his heart.
Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery Page 4
