Woman of God

by James Patterson

My saliva hit Zuberi between the eyes.

  It was a feeble gesture, but Zuberi went crazy, wiping frantically with his sleeve as though I’d flung acid in his face. He cursed me in a language I didn’t know.

  And as I expected, the man standing directly behind me grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, baring my throat to the leaden, drizzling sky.

  He growled, “Do you love life? Apologize to Colonel Zuberi or die.”

  I had written to Sabeena, I’ll be back by dinner. That had been a wish, a prayer, and, although I had been bluffing, I had visualized my triumphal return.

  I had thought too highly of myself. I had thought I could do the impossible. I saw that now. No more than three minutes had passed since Zuberi’s men had grabbed me from the line outside the post office. I’d accomplished nothing. I never had a chance.

  Dear God. Forgive me my trespasses. I’m ready.

  Chapter 43

  I FLUNG the doors of my mind wide open to God and braced for death. But He didn’t speak to me. Rather, I heard pops of gunfire, and in a pause, a distinctly American voice shouted, “Drop the knife!”

  The blade bit into my neck and I fully expected to feel it slide across my throat. Instead, there was more gunfire. The man with the knife grunted and fell to the mud at my feet. The one holding my arms also dropped, moaning and coughing out his last breath.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I dove for the ground and covered the back of my neck with my hands.

  There were more shots, and then a heavy-duty vehicle tore around the corner from the main street and braked within yards of me. I stayed down as bullets strafed the street. A third man, part of Zuberi’s armed guard, ran, and he too was cut down.

  I lifted my face and saw Zuberi, along with several of his men, zigzagging around the bodies and running toward the odd assortment of vehicles parked across the street.

  Another salvo of bullets chattered, and someone grabbed my arm. I wrenched it away.

  I heard, “Lady, it’s me.”

  It was Kwame. It was Kwame.

  He helped me to my feet, and we ran to the side of the post office. From there, I saw a truck swerve to avoid a pedestrian and collide with a car, which in turn skidded into another car. In the midst of the chaos, Zuberi had reached his Land Rover and had gotten in beside a driver.

  Kwame yelled, “He’s going now!”

  Zuberi’s Land Rover rammed into a parked car in front, then backed into a truck behind it. The driver was trying to make an opening, an avenue of escape, and, in fact, the nose of the vehicle now had a clear shot at the road to Torit.

  But as the Land Rover lurched ahead, two U.S. Army Humvees roared up and blocked it.

  American soldiers poured out of their Humvees. Bullets sprayed Zuberi’s ride, killing his driver. Zuberi stuck his hands up and shouted, “Stop shooting! I give up!”

  Soldiers pulled open the doors and dragged Zuberi out of the Land Rover, then slammed him across the hood and stripped him of his weapons.

  I heard Kwame saying, “Lady. Look here.”

  He had taken off his long, boxy shirt, and after peeling off my raincoat, he stuck my numb arms through his shirtsleeves. I couldn’t manage buttonholes, so Kwame closed the shirt for me, picked up my raincoat, and draped it over my shoulders.

  Someone called my name.

  I looked up as a gray-haired U.S. Army officer bolted out of a junker parked on the same side of the street as the post office. Holstering his gun, he hurried over to where Kwame and I stood. I blinked stupidly as the officer said, “Dr. Fitzgerald? I’m Captain Jeff Gurney. We spoke last night. Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head no, but my hand went to where the knife had sliced into my throat. I was bleeding, but the chain around my neck, the one Tori had given me with a crucifix, had stopped the blade from cutting into my artery.

  I closed my hand around the crucifix.

  Thank you, God.

  Captain Gurney said, “I’m sorry for what those men did to you, Dr. Fitzgerald. We were watching you the whole time, but I’m no sniper. I was waiting for support, but this situation went critical so fast. Finally, I had to risk it.”

  I got it now. It was Gurney who had shouted, “Drop the knife!” Then he had taken his shots. If his aim had been slightly off in any direction, he could have shot me.

  I thanked him for saving my life, and he thanked me in turn. “Your courage is amazing, Dr. Fitzgerald. Because of you, Zuberi is out of the game.”

  The captain introduced himself to Kwame, saying, “Good work connecting the dots, sir. First-class job.”

  Kwame was smiling now, shaking the captain’s hand with both of his. He had been the perfect go-between. He had conspired with me. He had let Zuberi know that a package had arrived. He had contacted the army and made arrangements with Gurney. As Gurney had said, Kwame had done a first-class job.

  My voice quavered when I said to Kwame, “I know what you risked for me. Thank you. I’m your friend for life.”

  “You are the brave one, lady. You did this. You stood up to Zuberi. Only you.”

  We hugged hard, both of us crying.

  Is it over? Am I going to live?

  And then, the noise on the street got even louder.

  Chapter 44

  A SOFT flutter overhead turned into a loud, choppy roar as helicopters settled down on the street. Tarps and umbrellas took flight, and people shrieked as they ran from the whirling blades.

  While our soldiers looked on with guns in their hands, the onlookers who had fled the shooting returned, and now they circled Zuberi. They shouted into his face. They used stout sticks like baseball bats, swinging and connecting solidly with Zuberi’s back and thighs.

  When I looked again, Zuberi was naked, lying facedown in the mud. He cried for help. He ordered people to leave him alone. He covered his head with his arms. But the blows kept coming.

  Gurney shouted to me over the racket of helicopter engines, “Dr. Fitzgerald! We have to get you out of here. Stay with me!”

  “You’ll take me to Magwi Clinic?” I shouted.

  He looked at me with stark disbelief.

  “You’re kidding, right? Doctor. You just baited the trap. If you don’t leave now, Zuberi’s troops will kill you, today. Tell me you understand.”

  “Captain, I can’t just go. I have patients. I have people depending on me. Thank you, though. Be safe.”

  I turned away and headed up the street to where I had tied the donkey. Gurney stopped me by grabbing my arm, and, you know, I’d had enough of being manhandled today.

  “Let go of me.”

  I pulled my arm free and began to run in my oversized boots. I was desperate. I had to get to Sabeena and tell her what had happened. I had to warn her to leave the clinic. Because of me, she might be the next target.

  But Gurney wouldn’t take no from me. He chased me down, grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me around, and held on until I stopped fighting him.

  He shouted, “You’re being crazy!”

  “My friends could be in danger. Don’t you understand? I have to tell them to get out.”

  Gurney held on to my shoulders and shook his head.

  “You’re a kid, Brigid. Listen up, as if I were your father. If you don’t leave here now, you are going to die today.”

  I glared at him and could almost hear Colin telling me to get into the helicopter, saying that it was time to go. If I had listened to Colin, he might still be alive. His death was on me.

  I said to Gurney, “I’m not a kid. And you’re not my father. Don’t you understand that I’m responsible?”

  “I have responsibility, too. Say I let you go. You walk about three hours or so to the clinic. You warn your friends. And then what? You have no backup, no escape plan. Picture it, okay? Really picture that.”

  I got it. I saw a massacre. White coats spattered with blood. Bodies in heaps.

  I said, “You have to evacuate the clinic. Promise me you’ll get the doctors out.”


  “I promise.”

  “You’ll do it now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Would he do it? Would he get to the clinic in time?

  After Gurney released me, he walked me back to the helicopter and helped me into a seat. He buckled me in, then spoke to the pilot.

  He shouted to me, “Good luck, Brigid!” Then he climbed back down.

  The blades whirled, and the helicopter vibrated. In the moment before we left the ground, I looked down at the mob surrounding Zuberi. He was bloodied, and the crowd was still beating him, shouting and throwing rocks at him.

  Just when I thought they had killed him, a man in a blue shirt turned Zuberi over so that he was lying faceup, then used the stock of Zuberi’s own gun to break his knees.

  Zuberi was rolling from side to side in agony when two American soldiers jerked him up off the ground and dragged him toward another helicopter.

  The chopper I was in lifted.

  We were peeling off when a flickering movement on the side of the street caught my attention. It was Kwame.

  He was waving good-bye.

  Chapter 45

  ONCE WE were airborne, I slipped into a kind of shock.

  Within a ridiculously short period of time, I’d been terrified, humiliated, and bloodied, and now I had been officially kidnapped. I didn’t know where I was going or even if our military had the right to take me out of Magwi.

  What now?

  I shivered in Kwame’s shirt and the remains of my raincoat as the helicopter delivered me to the Juba airport. A jeep was waiting, and the chopper pilot handed me off to the driver, a U.S. Air Force lieutenant named Karen Triebel. She gave me a temporary American passport and a knapsack, and as she drove to the terminal, she told me that the knapsack contained a tracksuit, a bottle of Advil, bandages, and a tube of triple-antibiotic ointment.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.

  “I’ve got this,” I told her.

  Still, she accompanied me to a ladies’ room inside the terminal, where I washed my wounds and tossed my ripped clothing into the trash, an unceremonious conclusion to my last four months in South Sudan.

  Within the hour, Lieutenant Triebel and I were streaking toward Entebbe, Uganda. There, we boarded another flight, this one bound for the U.S. Air Force base in Ramstein, Germany.

  I slept hard on the plane and had violent dreams that I couldn’t remember whenever I was awoken to eat. I had no appetite for food. Instead, I looked out at the clouds and formed the thought, Lord? Was this Your plan?

  Even if I had been delusional when I’d last “spoken” with God, I wanted to feel His presence again. But all I heard was my own anxious chatter visiting every front: past, present, and unknowable future. Where am I going? What will happen next?

  Lieutenant Triebel had shaken out her hair and was putting on a sleep mask when I touched her arm.

  “Brigid. You okay?”

  I asked, “What will happen to Zuberi?”

  She said, “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll fall out of a helicopter. Or maybe that just wouldn’t be bad enough for that bastard.”

  Twelve hours after we left Uganda, we landed at Ramstein. Lieutenant Triebel accompanied me to the base hospital, where I was kept overnight for observation. In the morning, the doctor said, “Surprisingly, you’re good to go.”

  Triebel and I were driven to a square, stucco-faced house within rows of identical houses close to the base. I was given a key to the upstairs apartment, and Triebel had the apartment below.

  “Right now, my job is all about you,” she said, turning the key in the lock. “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to make it happen. Tomorrow, you need to brief some government men on whatever you know about Zuberi. After that, just do what makes you happy. Here’s a tablet and a phone, Brigid. Call someone you love.”

  Chapter 46

  I CALLED Tori, my dear school friend, living with her husband in Rome.

  As soon as I heard her sweet voice, I broke down.

  I burbled into the mouthpiece about the crucifix she had given me, how the chain had stopped the blade at my neck. She got the gist of what had gone down and comforted me. Her husband, Marty, got on the phone after that and said, “You should get a medal. Or a town named after you. Brigidsville.”

  Finally, I laughed.

  Then Marty said, “Zachary is in New York. You want his number? Or should I give him yours?”

  I called and got Zach’s outgoing voice mail.

  “I’m on assignment in New York. Leave a message, and I’ll call back.”

  I spoke into my phone: “Yank. It’s Red. I’m in Ramstein, Germany, calling to say hello.”

  I was both disappointed and relieved that Zach hadn’t answered, but he called back at three in the morning his time.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I was kicked out of Africa for my own good,” I told him.

  “I’ll come to Ramstein,” he said.

  “Funny, Zach, but, seriously, that makes no sense.”

  Zach said, “You keep fending me off, Brigid. Why? You know you want to see me. I’ve grown a beard.”

  I told him that I was the guest of the U.S. Air Force at present, and I sketched in some of what had gone down in Magwi. After answering a couple of questions, I changed the subject by asking Zach to tell me about his New York assignment.

  “I’m tailing the Yankees. It’s that time of year.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Keep my phone number handy,” he said. “I return calls at night. Brigid. Please take care.”

  After we hung up, I went to the beautiful, white-tiled bathroom, turned on the shower, and got inside. I sat in the corner of the tub, soaking my wounds while doing my rounds of Magwi Clinic in my mind. I said good-bye to all the patients and volunteers and especially to Obit. I hugged Sabeena, and then I sobbed for a long time under the hot water.

  When I got out of the shower, I felt, at the very least, clean. The apartment had a stocked fridge, a television, a bookcase, an excellent shower, and a soft bed. I wanted for nothing.

  I went to my knees at the side of my bed. I folded my hands and closed my eyes.

  Dear God, if You can hear me, I humbly thank You for saving my life. Please protect Sabeena, Albert, Dr. Susan, and everyone at Magwi Clinic. And put Your arms around Kwame, who was so brave. I hope he found Carrot and took him home. Amen.

  Chapter 47

  I WAS still dazed by all that had happened when, the next morning, I was taken to Ramstein for a series of debriefings. I told various officials from several American agencies all that I knew about Zuberi. And I was briefed in return.

  Fantastic news.

  Sabeena, Albert, and Dr. Susan had all been evacuated from Magwi. I was given a box of my things from my room at the clinic. My hands shook as I opened the box and found my well-traveled leather hobo bag with my actual credentials inside, along with my nubby sweater. Under the sweater, wrapped in my jeans, was my journal, with a note just inside the cover.

  Mission accomplished. Best regards, J. Gurney, Captain, U.S. Army

  I was overjoyed for the news of my friends’ safety. And I was ecstatic to have my journal back in my hands. This euphoria lasted until I was back inside my temporary apartment.

  Then my new reality set in.

  After the few meetings at the base, I had nothing but time to myself. I was invited out, but going from the takedown in Magwi to restaurants with strangers was just a bridge too far.

  I copied my old journal onto my new tablet, added new entries, and wrote for long hours at a time, and I drank. Quite a bit.

  I was safe and I was comfortable and it was a luxury to drink as much as it took to dull the pain in my heart. But after drinking and moping for far longer than was good for me, something finally snapped. I was sick of myself. Really. What a joke to indulge myself in self-pity. Me. This thought led to the next.

  I had had purpose in Africa.

  Whet
her I’d returned to Africa because of the voice of God or my own need to do something worthwhile, I had gone. I had helped people. My life had had meaning. I’d stood up to Zuberi and helped to bring him down.

  Who was I now?

  That night, I was drinking my dinner and watching TV.

  Most of it was stupid, but while watching the news, I learned about MERS, an infectious disease that, after killing thousands in Saudi Arabia, had spread to Europe.

  MERS was a freaking stealthy virus. No one knew how it spread—was it airborne? food borne? It was entirely inconsistent. One person could be struck with severe pneumonia, and another would be asymptomatic until just before death.

  The World Health Organization had issued a report on MERS saying that this disease had a mortality rate of almost 40 percent, that there was no known effective cure, and that there were reasonable concerns that MERS would become a pandemic.

  A pandemic?

  I ran downstairs and banged on Karen Triebel’s door.

  She had cream on her face. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. She tied the sash of her robe.

  “Brigid?”

  “You know about MERS, Karen? I’m actually an expert on infectious diseases,” I told her. “Please hook me up with a hospital or, better yet, a clinic.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” she said.

  Chapter 48

  BECAUSE OF my new military connection, an apartment was waiting for me when I arrived in Berlin. It was a wonderfully crazy little place, with bright colors and patterns, big windows, and a spun-glass chandelier over the dining table. The bedroom was huge, with a bed so large, it could have slept four, and, best of all, it had a balcony off the living room with a fifth-floor view of the park.

  First thing the next morning, I put on an actual skirt, a smart blouse, and low heels and went for a job interview at the Berlin Center for Torture Victims.

  BZFO, as the clinic was called, specialized in treating refugee patients from forty countries, mainly Middle Eastern, but there were African patients as well.