Refuge

by N G Osborne

  Forget about him.

  It’s not easy, but eventually she does, and she slips into a deep and wondrous sleep.

  TWENTY-ONE

  TARIQ SITS IN the reception room, consumed by the treachery of his father and sister and wearied by his search for them.

  He’d concluded that they couldn’t have gone far‌—‌they didn’t have the money to‌—‌so he’d driven to Jalozai and Baghbanan refugee camps, and enquired as to whether a middle aged man and his two daughters had sought shelter there. They hadn’t, so he had moved onto the hostels, especially the flea bitten ones he knew they’d be able to afford. He’d turned up a couple of leads, but in each case they’d proven false. He’d moved onto the streets, and, at night, he’d driven around the city. He’d stopped every time he’d seen a cluster of three bodies lying on the sidewalk, and shined his flashlight into their startled upturned faces. Again nothing. Every time he’d returned to the group’s HQ he’d run across Salim Afridi supervising preparations. He had begun to wonder whether he should flee just as his father-in-law had years earlier.

  And then this morning after another unsuccessful night’s search, he’d been told that the Prince wanted to see him. Any hope of escaping was now gone.

  He can’t know. Can he?

  He decides to tell the Prince that he’d taken Noor for some tests, and she’d been diagnosed with hepatitis C. It will put pay to any marriage but it will at least explain her absence. ‘Nothing your Highness is of greater concern to me than your well being’, he’ll say and perhaps the Prince will even thank him.

  The door opens, and the Prince enters in camo gear and a checkered ghutra. Tariq leaps to his feet.

  “So—” the Prince says.

  Tariq readies Noor’s pitiful story.

  “—we leave today.”

  It takes a moment for Tariq to process what the Prince has just said.

  “The timetable’s been moved up?” Tariq says.

  “Massoud’s making moves,” the Prince says. “When I last saw my uncle, the King, I promised him that, God willing, it would be a Saudi who first raised the jihadi flag over the Presidential Palace. I intend on keeping that promise.”

  The Prince sits and takes a sip of tea.

  “I want you to be one of my bodyguards.”

  “It would be an honor, your Highness.”

  The Prince studies him.

  “You don’t seem very excited.”

  If only you knew how jubilant I am.

  “I beg your forgiveness,” Tariq says. “I am, it’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I’m ready to take the fight elsewhere, your Highness. God willing we will be victorious in Afghanistan, but now I believe it is our duty to establish the Caliphate worldwide.”

  The Prince smiles.

  “This is why I like you, Tariq, your ambition is boundless.”

  “I am but a poor servant of Allah.”

  “Then allow me to counsel patience. A wise general knows you can only fight one battle at a time. What I require from you now is your vigilance and service.”

  “And you have it.”

  “Good, go get ready. We leave in ten minutes.”

  Tariq heads for the door.

  “Oh and Tariq,” the Prince says.

  Tariq turns back.

  “Your sister, how is she?”

  Tariq finds himself unable to speak.

  “I understand,” the Prince says, “you’re disappointed that the wedding will have to be postponed.”

  “Nothing is more important than the jihad, your Highness.”

  “Don’t be. Once this is over I’m sure I’ll be even more eager to make your sister my wife.”

  Tariq strides down the corridors of the grand old house, a man reborn. Allah has given him the one thing he’d been praying for‌—‌time. He walks out the front door. The Prince’s force of a thousand men await his inspection. A number of them look in Tariq’s direction and nod.

  I’m somebody.

  Tariq heads around back to the old stables. How he despises this place, the endless hours he’d had to spend disassembling weapons piece-by-piece before cleaning them and reassembling them once more. The smell of gun oil makes him want to vomit. Yet it was here that he’d first met his father-in-law. It had been an inauspicious first meeting. Salim Afridi had berated him for being too slow in retrieving a box of bullets. Afterwards, however, Yousef had told him about Salim Afridi’s influence with the Prince, and Tariq had hatched his plan to get in the man’s good graces.

  Oh, how times change.

  “Yousef,” he shouts.

  “What now?” he hears Yousef shout back.

  Tariq makes his way down a metal shelved aisle and finds Yousef sitting beside a workbench picking his nose.

  “Long night?” Tariq says.

  “Screw em all, coming in here, trying to snatch things when my back’s turned.”

  “I’m sure Salim Afridi was pleasant.”

  “He’s in the worst of moods, but I don’t have to tell you that.”

  Tariq picks up a Beretta pistol lying on the workbench. He checks the chamber is empty and begins twirling it around his finger.

  “What are people saying?” Tariq says.

  “That you’re a dead man.”

  “Then why are they treating me differently? With respect?”

  “For now you have the ear of the Prince. But they still think you’ll end up in the ground.”

  “We all go there some day.”

  “Yeah, but you lad are headed there sooner than most.”

  Tariq stops twirling the gun.

  “Trust me, Salim Afridi’s bones will turn to dust many years before mine.”

  “Those are fighting words.”

  “He’s no different than the Soviets. From the outside he seems invincible but all it will take is a smaller, nimbler opponent to bring him to his knees.”

  “And you’re that man?”

  “You’ve known me longer than most. You think I’m going to let a dinosaur like Salim Afridi stop me.”

  Yousef goes over to a shelf and returns with two boxes of 9mm bullets.

  “You didn’t come here for a Beretta,” Yousef says. “What do you need?”

  “My sister.”

  Yousef’s face floods with realization.

  “Oh, you’re up shit creek, my friend.”

  “No, she can be found.”

  “She could be in Karachi by now.”

  “I doubt it; in fact I suspect she’ll surface once we’re back in Afghanistan.”

  Yousef hobbles towards the front of the armory.

  “Sorry, but you’re on your own on this one.”

  Tariq grabs the bullets and chases after him.

  “Help me. Please. No one need know a thing. If you don’t find her all you’ll have lost is time you’d have spent sitting around here on your fat ass.”

  “And if I do?”

  “I hear in Saudi Arabia the taps are made from gold.”

  Outside a roar of ‘Allah Akbar’ rises up, and the convoy’s engines start turning over

  “You got a photo?” Yousef says.

  Tariq pulls it from inside his jacket and hands it to Yousef. Yousef whistles.

  “Our beloved Prince is a lucky man.”

  “She’s twenty-one now but she doesn’t look so different. Her face is a little leaner, her hair longer.”

  Tariq takes out a pad and pencil and scribbles on it. He rips the page off and hands it to Yousef.

  “Places you should look,” he says.

  Yousef scans the list.

  “I’ll send word if I find her.”

  “I’m forever in your debt.”

  Tariq hurries for the door.

  “Oh and Tariq.”

  Tariq turns to find Yousef holding out a couple of grenades.

  “I rejigged these‌—‌have ten second fuses. You never know, may come in useful.”

  Tariq shoves the grenad
es into his pockets and takes off. By the time he arrives at the front of the building, the convoy’s already halfway down the driveway. He sees the Prince’s Range Rover and runs in his lopsided way to the pick-up behind it. A Saudi bodyguard spots him and reaches out a hand. Tariq grabs it and the Saudi pulls him up. Tariq looks at the other men. They’re all Saudis. The Prince’s closest protectors.

  I’m one of you now.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “GOEDE MORGEN,” THE woman on the tape says. “Ik spreek maar een klein beetje Nederlands.”

  Noor hears the floorboards creek behind her. She turns expecting it to be her father. Instead it’s Mukhtar. He gives her a warm and gracious smile.

  “May I make you some tea, memsahib?” he says in Pashtu.

  “There’s no need to call me memsahib, Mukhtar, I’m only a guest in this house.”

  “What should I call you then?”

  “Noor, Miss Noor would be fine.”

  “Well may I make you some tea, Miss Noor?”

  Noor is about to decline but thinks better of it. She sees how much Mukhtar wants to do it.

  “That would be lovely thank you.”

  “I will return with it shortly,” he grins.

  Noor looks up at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It’s seven o’clock. She turns off the tape machine and wonders where her father is. She’d like them to be packed and gone before Charlie wakes up. She heads to the study and puts her Dutch books down on the desk. She picks up the phone and, on hearing the dial tone, realizes this is the first time she’s used one since they fled Afghanistan. She dials the school’s number. Miss Suha picks up on the third ring.

  “As-salaam Alaykum, it’s Noor.”

  “What you doing calling at this hour?”

  “I’m not going to be able to make it in today, most likely all week I’m afraid, my father has fallen ill.”

  “Uh-huh and why can’t your sister deal with it?”

  “It’s serious, I need to make sure he sees a doctor. She’s not good at getting people to do things.”

  “Not a problem you’ve ever had. Hold on a moment.”

  Noor hears Miss Suha repeat a more dramatic rendition to the headmistress. The headmistress’s replies are too muted to discern. Miss Suha returns to the phone, breathing heavily as if Noor had forced her to go to the other side of the school.

  “She’s not happy, it’s going to cause a lot of complications, but I guess we’ll do our best to cope,” Miss Suha says.

  “Could you do me a favor and give me Miss Kuyt’s phone number?”

  “Have time for her but not us, do you?”

  “We were going to meet this week, and I don’t want her to think I was being rude.”

  “I’ll leave her a message.”

  “That’s kind of you, but if it’s all the same I’d like to call her myself.”

  Miss Suha sighs and flicks through her index cards. She gives Noor the number, and Noor hangs up before Miss Suha can interrogate her further. Noor dials the number, and asks for Elma. A minute later Elma comes on the line, and Noor explains her predicament.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Elma says. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “No, I have it all in hand.”

  “You have the books and tapes, right?”

  “Yes, I’m studying them—”

  “Then all I need is your essay by the end of the week.”

  Noor’s essay is already done but she isn’t going to let on. Despite having rewritten it ten times she’s still not satisfied with it. The doorbell rings, and she hears Mukhtar make his way towards the front door.

  “I just heard the craziest story,” Elma says.

  The door opens, and a man talks to Mukhtar in Pashtu. Noor strains to hear what they’re saying.

  “Noor, you there?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “You won’t believe it, but one of Charlie Matthew’s employees was blown up in Afghanistan yesterday. Supposedly Charlie ran into the minefield and saved the man’s life.”

  Suddenly it all makes sense. Charlie’s demeanor, his clothes, the reason he came home early.

  “Well it’s the talk of the town, that’s for sure,” Elma says.

  Noor hears Mukhtar and the man head upstairs.

  Where are they going?

  “I’m so sorry, Elma, but—”

  “No, I understand. Get back to your father, I’ll see you next week.”

  Elma hangs up. Noor stands there motionless, every sense of hers directed towards this mysterious visitor.

  Who could it be?

  It wasn’t Tariq. She’d have recognized his voice.

  Could it be someone who works with him? But then why’s Mukhtar taking him upstairs?

  She relaxes. It has to be a friend of Charlie’s. She decides to just stay put and wait them out. To the side of the desk she spots a large globe; half the land is in pink, depicting a time when the British Empire stretched around the world. She twirls the globe until her finger lands on Holland.

  She hears someone come back down the stairs and head towards the study.

  Oh, no.

  Noor searches for a place to hide. The footsteps get closer. She drops onto the floor and crawls under the desk. The door swings open, and she sees a pair of scuffed, black leather shoes approach the desk. Their wearer stops inches from her face and dials a number.

  “Hi, it’s Ivor,” he says. “Yeah, yeah I’m at his house‌—‌like shit‌—‌how do you think you’d look if you saw someone blown up in front of your eyes?”

  The man picks something up off the desk and begins leafing through it.

  The Dutch books.

  “So I’m thinking of going on a trip next week to visit our friend. Any interest?—No, I get it, I can do it on my own‌—‌every day that goes by I’m trusting this fuck less and less‌—‌he’s up to something with this Al Qaeda group, I’m telling you‌—‌I know it’s all fucking rumors but hasn’t it always been?—Hey, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean I’m wrong—”

  Noor hears the globe whir around and around, and a long, plaintive fart. She covers her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

  “Trust me, I know it’s not a priority for Langley but it should be‌—‌anyway we can talk about it later‌—‌by the way I hear he’s found his next punching bag, fucking refugee if you can believe it.”

  Noor freezes.

  “He probably thinks an illiterate bitch can take a left hook better than some spoilt princess‌—‌no, no clue who she is but we’ll find out soon enough.”

  The man laughs.

  “Yeah, see you tonight.”

  The man puts down the receiver and knocks one of Noor’s Dutch books on the ground.

  “Fuck,” he says.

  Noor holds her breath. The man’s baseball capped head comes into view. He picks up the book and straightens up without looking in her direction. He tosses it back on the desk, and exits the room.

  ***

  CHARLIE STARES UP at the wooden ceiling fan and listens to two birds calling back and forth. All night grim images had punctuated his sleep‌—‌the fiery explosion, the splintered bone jutting out the end of Wali’s leg, the tear-streaked children in the weeds, Wali’s muddied and bloodied face. Despite their brutish quality Charlie had clung to them hoping that was all they’d remain. Then Ivor had woken him, and he’d had to face reality. His dreams weren’t fevered imaginations. All of them had occurred‌—‌except for one that is. Intermixed with all the other images was one of Noor standing in his room with a towel wrapped around her. It makes no sense, and he convinces himself that it couldn’t have happened.

  What is it with this girl? She infects my mind even in times like this.

  He stumbles into the bathroom and looks in the mirror. His face is as muddy and bloodied as Wali’s was.

  He steps in the tub not waiting for the water to warm. The water spatters his face, and the grime and blood swirl around the drain.
He stares at his feet and realizes they’ve taken on a significance he’d never afforded them before. Once out he puts on a t-shirt and a pair of cargo pants and plods downstairs to find Ivor waiting in the hall.

  “Want breakfast?” Ivor says.

  “Just want to get going if that’s cool.”

  “Suits me.”

  They climb into Ivor’s Bronco and head down the driveway.

  “So everyone’s calling you a hero,” Ivor says.

  “Trust me that’s the last thing I am.”

  “Well Shamsurahman says you are and coming from him’s a bit like Greg Maddux saying you can throw a ball.”

  “Why you talking to Shamsurahman?”

  “An American, namely you, was involved in an incident over the border‌—‌it’s my job.”

  “Got nothing to do with the fact you’re CIA?”

  Ivor glares at him.

  “That fag, Jurgen, tell you that.”

  “Says everyone knows you are.”

  “Some fucking spy that’d make me. Sorry to dispel the fantasy, buddy, but my job’s a lot less glamorous. I just look out for Americans like you when you get in trouble.”

  “Well like I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Maybe your body is, but how about up here?”

  Charlie looks out the window. At the side of the road a blind boy with deformed feet sits in the dirt selling bottles of soda. He feels a desperate urge for a Coke.

  “You mind pulling over?” Charlie says.

  Ivor jerks the wheel to the left, and Charlie jumps out. He jogs up to the boy.

  “Yo Coke, luftan,” he says in pigeon Pashtu.

  The boy’s hands search the crate in front of him and pick out a Coke bottle. He flips off the cap and stares up at Charlie with his blank eyes.

  “Five rupee,” the boy says.

  Charlie hands him twenty dollars.

  “Keep the change.”

  Charlie gets back in the SUV, and Ivor drives off. Charlie guzzles the Coke down in one go.

  “It was all my fault,” he says.

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “No, but I know two things. You weren’t the bastard who laid that mine, and, with all due respect to your employee, you weren’t the idiot who ran into a minefield.”