The Silver Cord: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book Two

by Alison Caiola

  When Maniadakis took out folded Somali shillings and transferred the colorful currency into the leader’s hand, the guard’s demeanor changed completely. He smiled, handed the passports back, and motioned them to move on. Maniadakis would repeat this gesture over and over again as the small group made their way to the building. They walked passed a group of passengers, shouting and fighting over luggage as the pieces were removed from the plane and carelessly thrown onto the tarmac. One young man wheeled his suitcase past an old man who was in the process of lifting his own suitcase up onto his shoulder. The young man grabbed the suitcase away from the older one. They stood for a good minute, tugging and pulling and shouting at one another. Finally the older one acquiesced and suddenly released his grip. The other one fell backward and hit his head hard on the pavement. The older one took the opportunity to pummel him as he lay helpless on the ground. By this time the crowd encircled the two, shouting at them, provoking them. Guards came by, broke up the crowd, and dragged both men through a small door marked PRIVATE on the side of building.

  David steered Lily away from the bedlam and through the main entrance of the building. Inside, a man in full uniform approached them. He shook Maniadakis’s hand, nodded to David and Lily, and introduced himself as Dalmar Jama, head of their security team. He told them that he and his team would be with them 24/7 while they were in Somalia. The Americans followed him as he walked out of the building to the front parking lot, where three open-bed trucks, engines running, awaited them. Five guards, rifles at the ready, were seated in the bed of each truck. Maniadakis’s men split up and got into the other two vehicles.

  Lily stepped into the back seat of the first truck’s cab, squeezing in between David and Maniadakis. Jama sat in the front seat next to the driver.

  “Our first stop will be to get settled and to set up base in Jazeera Palace Hotel,” Jama smiled at Lily. “You will find the accommodations very comfortable; it is Mogadishu’s version of New York’s Plaza Hotel. However, we must be ready to move from there to City Palace Hotel if we feel there is a security breach. Because it is our most luxurious hotel, many high-profile guests and members of the media stay there. It is opposite the U.N. compound. Recently, on the day the new Somali President met with Kenya’s foreign minister, it was the site of two suicide bombers. The bombs exploded outside the U.N. gate and unfortunately left eight people dead. Al Shabaab took credit.”

  “Is it s-s-safe there?” Lily stuttered but fought to regain composure. “I mean, can you guarantee that we will be safe?”

  “You must realize that we will do all we can to protect you from the insurgents; but there are no guarantees in Somalia. We have made arrangements with the hotel to do a body search on anyone entering. Trust me, they were not pleased about this, but they have reluctantly agreed to comply.”

  Lily shivered. She looked out the window as the truck slowly drove through the narrow streets of the city. They passed evacuated, crumbling buildings devastated by explosions. Jama explained that they were the results of the war between Al Shabaab and TFG. These buildings were now reduced to rubble, most with only their foundations and segments of interior walls still intact.

  Uniformed soldiers in green berets, four abreast, patrolled the crowded streets. Both sides of the road were congested with slow-moving convoys of Humvees and military tanks. Crowds of people swarmed the streets. A small group suddenly surrounded their truck, pounded on the windshield and shouted angrily at the passengers inside. Lily’s stomach twisted in fear.

  Their driver honked his horn in rapid short bursts and slowly pushed on the accelerator. The guards in the bed of the truck brandished their weapons, pointing them directly at the rowdy group, who then quickly dispersed.

  When they were once again moving, Lily had to take deep breaths to quell her nausea. She stared out the window and to her dismay, saw coral-colored homes that were collapsing—even some that were visibly riddled with large bullet holes. When the truck stopped long enough to allow pedestrians to walk across the road, Lily was able to see into the opened window of one of those homes. An old woman was serving food to her family, who were seated around a large wooden table. The woman slowly walked over to the window, leaned her head out and called to the children playing outside. They answered her and ran into their decomposing home.

  The road widened and Jama pointed out the Fakhr al-Din Mosque, built in the 13th century. The entry façade had three doorways that seemed to have been carved from fine marble. For the most part, the ornate religious monument remained intact, rising tall among the rubble.

  Bang, bang, bang. Three shots rang out. Lily screamed and David pushed her head down. Jama exchanged knowing looks with Maniadakis. “Nothing to worry about, Miss Lockwood. Soon enough you will get used to that sound and it will not even faze you, I promise.”

  Lily was certain that would never happen. She sat back up, struggled to regain her composure and took a Kleenex from her purse. She attempted to wipe her eyes, but her hand was shaking so violently she could not hold the tissue. David removed it from her trembling hand and gently wiped her eyes.

  It took all the effort she possessed not to scream or plead with the driver to take her back to the airport, to put her on the next plane home. She took a few deep breaths and forced herself to remember why she was there. She closed her eyes and imagined Robbie, tied up in a remote location, his body bruised and bleeding.

  When she opened her eyes again, she saw the sign outside the U.N. compound. Even though the entire drive was less than ten miles, Lily breathed a deep sigh of relief when they finally pulled up to the cement wall that guarded Jazeera Palace Hotel. Jama got out of the truck and walked over to the black iron gates positioned at the midpoint of the wall. A guard immediately walked over to him. While the two men spoke, David pointed upward, showing Lily there were two armed guards inside a white tower; its red-tile roof sparkled in the blazing sun.

  Once inside the hotel, Lily followed the men as they made their way across the chic lobby, decorated with crystal chandeliers and upfitted with brocade couches and oval rose-inlay mahogany coffee tables.

  After checking in, they slowly walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators located on the far-left corner. A group of men in long white linen dashikis and kufi skull caps stood waiting for the elevator to arrive.

  “Do not look at them!” Jama hissed. Lily kept her head down and averted her gaze as the doors to the elevator opened and they entered the small space.

  Lily was escorted to the upscale Presidential Suite on the top floor. Jama’s men told her to wait outside the room while they went in to perform a security sweep. When they were certain it was safe, they escorted her inside and informed her to remain there until Maniadakis contacted her.

  Her hotel suite was exquisitely furnished. The living room had two leather couches and a large flat-screen television. The walk-in closet already had four long dresses with matching garbasaar shawls and shash scarves hanging.

  Once she was alone, Lily put her bags down on the suitcase rack, walked over to the king-size bed, and sat on it. She took one of the over-stuffed feather pillows and hugged it. She had never experienced such fear in her life as she had during the past hour. She rocked her body back and forth in self-soothing rhythm, holding the pillow tightly to her chest. Finally she released the tears she had fought hard to control since leaving the airplane. She sat that way for more than fifteen minutes, sobbing and rocking. Emotionally drained, Lily lay down and within minutes she fell into a deep sleep, unaware of the danger that waited patiently for her when she awakened.

  Chapter 17

  Chloe stepped outside for what they called a ‘smoko’ back home. It was her first opportunity for a cigarette break since she’d started work at 7:00 a.m. that morning. She squinted against the blazing afternoon sun and examined the long procession of mothers who had waited patiently for their turn to see the doctor.

  She was sweating profusely although she was dressed for the heat—a Méd
ecins Sans Frontières-issued cotton, short-sleeve t-shirt and khaki shorts. She couldn’t imagine how sweltering it must be for those women in their colorful, floor-length guntinos and diracs made from yards and yards of heavy material, draped over their shoulders and tied at their waists. Most of them also wore an extra layer—a garbasaar around their shoulders—and a shash wrapped around their heads.

  Chloe took off her Aussie cowboy hat—the last purchase she’d made before leaving Melbourne—and rubbed her short blonde hair. She wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her t-shirt, leaving a long, orange sweat mark on the shoulder.

  Chloe sighed. Today’s waiting line appeared to extend for miles, as mothers stood with their ailing babies cradled in their arms. Others were seated on the ground, their malnourished children draped listlessly across their laps. Chloe knew that many of the mothers had walked for days, carrying their sick children in their arms and on their backs. She knew all too well, that some of the children might die before arriving at the clinic’s front door.

  When Frosty and Robert were still with them, the two would venture miles into the rural communities, seeking out those inflicted with tuberculosis. If one family member had the fatal disease, then the entire household would eventually be infected. Some days, they would bring whole families back with them and set them up as in-patients in the tuberculosis tent. Since medication—pills and shots—had to be administered daily to these patients, it was imperative they stay at the hospital compound for eight months.

  Chloe walked over to the commissary shack and ducked under the lean-to for shade against the cruel midday sun. She sat down on a small wooden chair and stretched out her long legs. They had become cramped because she’d squatted far too long, earlier that morning while examining one small child after another.

  She took a drag of her cigarette, inhaling so deeply that it made her lungs ache. She then closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, looking over to the parcel of land that had been designated for the new tuberculosis building. Month after month, Robert had championed the efforts to build a facility; he was like a dog with a new bone. He had overcome every obstacle thrown at him by the powers that be. When the board of directors argued that there was not enough money in the budget to erect this new building, Robert enlisted his family in Texas to raise the funds. They threw a huge charity event and brought in enough money not only to build the facility but also to stock it with enough Ethambutol to last one year. Without Robert’s watchful eye, the building efforts had slowed down to a mere crawl.

  Chloe missed him; they all did, she imagined. But she and Robert had a close bond, closer than most at the compound. They could talk for hours about everything and nothing. The staff assumed they were sleeping together, since everyone there changed partners as readily as people back home changed underwear.

  Their lives, as doctors for MSF, were incredibly stressful. They were always in danger and at any given moment they could be killed. They did not have the luxury of state-of-the-art medical equipment or long consultations with their peers, as they did back in their own countries.

  At home, a doctor always shared responsibilities with other doctors. Here, they had to make split-second decisions with imperfect facilities, inadequate diagnostic methods, and limited experience. Whether they would admit it or not, at MSF, every doctor second-guessed themselves whenever their patients died. Did they do everything possible? Would another doctor have made better decisions? Would another doctor have been more talented?

  Chloe knew that many days, in the small rooms of the clinic, the acrid smell of her own panic intermingled with the smell of pus and the unwashed bodies of her patients.

  It was her first mission when she arrived two years earlier. She was afraid of everything—afraid of possibly catching diseases and afraid of the responsibility. So, given all the daily stressors, when the staff had down time, they partied hard—drank too much booze, smoked too much pot, and never ever missed an opportunity to fuck.

  It didn’t happen that way with Robert and her. They spent months talking about their lives, sharing their experiences with one another and working side by side every day in clinic.

  She knew she had the reputation for being a stone-cold bitch. It was the way she handled fear and stress. She attacked, before being attacked. It was her persona, born from living in the poorest section of Melbourne and nurtured by the many years spent fighting and scratching her way out of the slum.

  No one but Robert understood her and knew the story of her past—tossed from one foster family to another. She told him about the beatings and sexual abuse she had endured over the years. With Robert, she could let her guard down—be herself. Finally for the first time in her life, she could allow herself to be vulnerable and discard her past, like a Green Tree Snake shed its skin.

  One night, when everyone was drinking and partying, they broke away from the crowd and walked to the other side of the compound with a bottle of vodka and a blanket. After half the bottle was gone, he complained to her about his sore back, which he had pulled while carrying an old man into the hospital earlier that day. She volunteered to give him a massage. He took off his shirt and lay on his stomach. Her hands moved slowly as she took her time to exert the proper amount of pressure across his shoulders and up and down his spine and muscular back.

  Once in a while he would let out a moan when she had touched and released a tight knot. Caressing his body and hearing his moans excited her. She had to force herself not to lean down and kiss his back or let her hands move inside his pants. She took a deep breath and looked up at the millions of stars that crowded the black sky. With each gust of wind, the faraway music from the camp floated toward them.

  Suddenly, he turned onto his back and put his hands behind his head. He stared at her for a good few moments. Then Robert sat up and put his hands on the bottom of her t-shirt. She lifted her arms and he gently pulled her top up over her head and drew her toward him. Their love-making had an urgency and power she had never known before. When it was finished and she lay next to him, she couldn’t help but cry—something she had never done before. The sheer force of her orgasm had left her feeling totally open and vulnerable.

  They were closer than friends and knew all about each other’s lives and loves. She had told him about her ex-fiancé Philip back home in Australia. She heard all about the woman he was in love with in New York—an actress—who she imagined was probably selfish and vain. Chloe had seen Lily Lockwood on the telly and had to admit she was beautiful. She assumed that Lily had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth—one of those privileged women who never had to struggle with poverty or any form of abuse.

  Robert spoke often of Lily, sometimes right after making love, and Chloe wondered if Robert had been fantasizing about Lily. She could never ask him, since she knew he would be honest and she feared what his answer would be. More than once Chloe felt the sharp sting of jealousy when he spoke of Lily— how much he missed her and how beautiful, smart, and talented she was. What a mistake he had made by leaving her.

  One night, with Robert fast asleep next to her, Chloe lay awake obsessing about him and Lily. She got out of bed quietly and tiptoed over to the bureau drawer where she knew he kept his journal and brought it into the toilet to read in private. As soon as she opened the leather-bound book, she glimpsed a photo of Lily as it fell to the ground. Chloe’s heart sank when she looked at it: The actress was truly lovely—a classic beauty with long golden-brown hair and porcelain skin. Her petite features gave her face a pure doll-like quality, while her full lips heaved of sensuality. Ever since her teenage years, Chloe had been told she was attractive, but in an athletic, tomboyish sort of way. What most people did not know was that Chloe had embraced the idea of being a tomboy. She kept her hair cropped short so that no one could see her naturally wavy-blonde hair. And she never wore makeup. Chloe wore runners or Uggs instead of the heels that other girls her age proudly stomped around in. At an early age, she chose to play down her looks and to make he
rself less desirable to boys, so that hopefully this would ward off the sexual advances made by her foster fathers and brothers. But since meeting Robert, Chloe had, for the first time in her life, felt the urge to make herself prettier and more feminine. She sighed and put the picture of Lily back into the journal and reminded herself that she—not Lily—was the one with Robert now. Chloe wanted desperately for Robert to fall in love with her.

  Chloe was reminded of the time Robert told her that he thought she was only in Mogadishu because she was hiding—running far away from the responsibility of ever settling down and marrying. This might have been true at one time, since she’d felt suffocated by relationships—until she met Robert. She wanted him and would do anything in her power to help him forget the actress. She never told Robert that she had fallen in love with him. Chloe had hoped that if they spent enough time together, working side by side saving lives during the day and making love each night, Lily Lockwood would eventually become but a distant memory to Robert. And Chloe would finally have the happy ending she thought was only reserved for other girls.

  After she carefully replaced the journal, Chloe returned to bed and shimmied close to Robert. That night she made a silent vow: She would do everything in her power to make him fall in love with her.

  Fate was not on her side, because later that night Robert was abducted.

  They were sound asleep when three armed Somali men burst into the room. It was chaos—the men shouted at Robert and Chloe and held guns to their heads. One man grabbed Robert and the other threw a burlap sack over his head. When she attempted to move toward Robert, the third one shot Chloe in the shoulder. Within seconds, the abductors left, taking Robert with them.

  She didn’t find out until the next day, while recovering from surgery, that Frosty, Ivan, and Simon had been kidnapped as well. For many months to come, she was unable to sleep through the night. Memories of the brutal abduction gave rise to endless nightmares and she would awaken each morning drenched in sweat.