“Pakistani and Indian soldiers both came in,” Ignacio said. “Now they’re shooting at each other.”
Ben glanced at the ambassador’s face in the corner of his screen; it was frozen with horror.
Out Ignacio’s window, a pedestrian suddenly broke and ran for an alley but shrank in terror halfway, cowering next to a food stand as a soldier’s gunfire shredded bowls of nuts and dried fruits just above his head. A bilious yellow cloud of spices flew into the air. Ben jolted as another bomb exploded in his ears. A section of a temple roof shattered before his eyes, blasting fragments and black smoke. The explosion had come from the inside. Terrorists, most likely—local instigators blowing up their own home so they could kill outsiders.
“My god,” Ganak breathed.
Ignacio flipped his tablet to face himself but before he could speak his hands wobbled and the camera swung wildly, hitting the floor. Ben gasped. Had he been shot? But the picture remained, showing Ignacio crawling away from the window. He reached a woman lying nearby, grabbed her under the arms, and, still on his knees, dragged her jerking body through an arch into the living room. The woman was screaming, her stomach heaving, blood gushing from her mouth onto her yellow sari. They could see the red stain spreading over one side of her chest. Ignacio crawled back into the room and then he was facing the camera, yelling: “Get the UN forces here now! I don’t have the authority—get the damned UN to order them to move!”
Then in the distance, another explosion. The picture dropped and the feed cut off.
Ben closed his eyes. He was perspiring, shaking as though he had a high fever. Globes of light were exploding behind his eyelids—physical memories of bombs at night high over Bangladesh in 2001. He heard his name from a distance, opened his eyes, and there was Ganak calling to him.
“Ben . . . ?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”
“I only recorded my portion—”
“I’ll send you the full recording.”
“Thank you. We must meet at once. Can you come to my office in half an hour?”
“Of course.”
The men ended the chat without courtesies. The ambassador would already be moving to contact military officers. Ben e-mailed the video, then sat and shook, wiping moisture from his brow and eyes. He wanted the whole goddamned thing over there to end, every madness humans inflicted on themselves to go away.
• • •
Back in the bedroom, Caitlin jolted awake.
She swung her legs out of bed and only then remembered that her old friend Ben had been in that bed all night.
She pulled on a bathrobe and padded down the hall, pausing outside Jacob’s room in case he was awake early. She heard nothing and continued to the living room, where she saw Ben sitting with his hands on the top of his head, huddled under her afghan in utter despair. Is he regretting last night? she thought, but then she noticed his tablet, his Google account open, and a blank video chat window.
“Ben,” she said, and placed one hand on his shoulder. His breathing was deep and ragged as he forced it into a rhythm, trying to control himself.
“Jammu,” he blurted. “Attack on a shopping center.”
“Oh no,” Caitlin said, sitting next to him.
“Sorry I woke you,” he said.
“You didn’t. Anything I can do?”
He shook his head and stood, dropping the blanket. “Another bump to the body count,” he said harshly, and shoved his tablet into his bag with sharp, angry movements. “I’ve got to meet the ambassador. This thing is beyond out of control.”
He hurried back to Caitlin’s bedroom, miserable and urgent.
She gave him his space. She knew this side of Ben—this side of the work they did. She picked up the afghan and wrapped it around herself, trying to focus on anything other than what Ben had just told her. She had not heard from Gaelle since she left Haiti. Whenever she called, she got the Anglade Charter voice mail. And Maanik—Caitlin was barely keeping a handhold on the cliff of that trauma. She almost envied Ben’s having a target to focus on: territorial carnivores fighting over land and ideology. What the hell was she battling? The session with Maanik had taunted rather than informed her. It was like she was searching for something cunning, cagey, that did not wish to be seen.
If I want to help these kids, if I want to sleep again, I need more information. Ben was dealing with his crisis by running toward it. She had to do the same.
There was another teenager Caitlin had not been able to contact yet. She brought up her phone’s browser and searched for Atash. It took some time but she discovered an article written the day before about self-immolation in Iran. It referred to the boy who set himself on fire in a library. He was, it said, in critical condition at a Tehran hospital.
Still alive, Caitlin thought with a rush of exhilaration.
Ben came charging into the living room.
“I’m sorry.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry I’m handling this so—so crappy.”
“You’re not,” she replied. “It’s been a helluva few days.”
He agreed with a grunt as he grabbed his coat and thrust an arm into it.
She struggled with herself, knowing that if she said anything now it was probably going to be seen as wrong—but it had to be said before she lost him to this crisis. “Ben, I know the timing couldn’t be worse but I need your help.”
“With what?”
“I have to get to Iran as soon as possible.”
Ben’s hands dropped from the coat zipper he’d been trying to close. He looked sad but when he spoke he sounded ferocious. “What are you talking about?”
“The boy who burned himself—he’s alive.”
“Okay—and?”
“You saw last night what we’re up against. I have to see him.”
“I need you to be alive, not kidnapped and imprisoned and God knows what. I’ll find you a translator and you can call him.”
“There’s no guarantee the boy can talk. And, Ben, I can’t see a nonexistent breeze over the phone.”
“If he can’t speak, if he’s that badly burned, the likelihood of getting anything from him isn’t worth the risk.”
“You can’t know that. I can find a way to safely navigate Iran if I have UN help.”
“Not through me, Caitlin.” Then, as though the sun had risen early, understanding washed over his expression. He turned to face her. “And not from me, either.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re running away from me.”
She was surprised. “Ben, I swear to god, I’m not. I have to see this boy now. He may not live—”
“I said no,” he snapped, giving up on the zipper, not meeting her eye as he grabbed his bag.
“Ben, listen. Last night I understood—no, I felt what could be possible with you. I felt the ability to hold more with you, to be stronger because it’s more than just me now.”
“Not buying. You’re punching out like I’m an appointment.”
“Please listen—”
“No! I will not help you go to Iran, Caitlin.”
He left the room and headed through the foyer to the front door. She called after him, “I’m going, Ben. I’ll find another way.”
There was no reply but the sound of shoes on hardwood and the door shutting.
Caitlin strode to the dining table, picked up her cell phone, and called Director Qanooni of the World Health Organization.
CHAPTER 26
A couple hours later Qanooni called back from the Regional Office for Africa in Brazzaville, Congo. He was working through lunch at his desk. Caitlin told him there was a medical emergency in Iran and she needed to get there ASAP.
“The Country Office in the Islamic Republic of Iran has—how shall I put it? Insubstantial influence over the Ministry of Health.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Director, but the condition of a patient there may have a great impact on patients here and in Haiti.”
“This must be seri
ous,” he said thoughtfully. “You called me ‘Mr. Director.’ ”
“Sir—”
“And now ‘sir,’ ” he said.
“—this is urgent,” she pleaded. “I don’t have time to file a formal request. Is there any way you can get me in?”
“Based on something so vague? No. If you can write something that can, perhaps, expand upon what little you’ve told me?”
Expand? she thought. The minds of young people are being assaulted by a force that only animals and I can detect. Why don’t I just say that? Or hell, why not just stick out my right hand and think it at him?
Then a text from Ben arrived. It was just one word: Done.
Caitlin quickly talked her way off the call and phoned him.
“Ben—are you serious?”
“Very.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
“You can thank Mohammed Larijani, a translator at the Permanent Mission. He’s the one who’s making it happen. He’s telling the Iranian ambassador that an American doctor needs to consult with Iranian doctors. Very good propaganda for them. You don’t mind being used that way, do you?”
“Not at all.” She didn’t have time to work through the double meaning his tone implied.
“I hope it’s worth it,” he added.
“It will be,” she said as she went to her bedroom and began packing. “Ben, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. My friend in Jammu is alive, his girlfriend’s in the hospital.”
“That’s good. But I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Have a safe trip.”
“I will. Hey, Ben?”
“What?”
“A psychiatrist walks into an Iranian bar. She orders scotch with crow.”
Ben was silent.
“Not even a chuckle?” she asked.
“Not now. Not today.”
“I’m sorry you feel like that,” she said sincerely. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
“I’ll text the details of your trip. Mohammed thinks you can get on the two o’clock Aeroflot flight. I have to go now.”
She said thanks again and good-bye, ended the call, and did what she always did when there was a challenge: looked ahead. She called her father and asked if he could please come back to the city. He agreed, of course. He always did.
Caitlin felt terrible all over. It was partly the ever-ready generosity of her father, partly the aftershock of what Ben had said to her, but she couldn’t stop feelings of guilt from clouding her mind. Still, she had a job to do.
Jacob didn’t help her self-regard. She had never taken two trips so closely together. She kept him home from school so they could have a half day together but he was furious throughout, making a point of ignoring her with abrupt turns of his back at first and then acting as if she were invisible. Finally, as her time to leave approached, Jacob simply removed himself. He sat in his room with his eyes closed and without hearing aids. If he sensed her coming into his room to say good-bye—and she suspected he did—he did not acknowledge it.
Caitlin had learned years ago that during these rare angry moments, any touch—tapping his hand or hugging his shoulders—would be akin to slapping him. It didn’t leave her with many choices. But she could, and did, sit across his desk from him for several minutes so that he knew she was present. She kept her hands placed near him, not touching, so he could smell her hand lotion. And she noticed that his ankle was in contact with the leg of the desk, which had a slight wobble, so she knew he felt it as she wrote a note on his Museum of Natural History dinosaur notepad, which would be waiting in his line of sight when he opened his eyes.
I love you, Jacob, it said. I’ll Skype you as soon as I get a connection and I’ll be right back. XOXO
Her father gave her a big hug before she headed out to the waiting car.
“Don’t worry about Jacob,” he said.
“Of course I’m going to worry about him,” she said, sighing.
“I mean it, Miss Caitlin O’Hara,” he said as if he were reprimanding her thirty years ago. “You have to save all your worrying for yourself on this trip. I want extra caution from you, hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Zero risks. I don’t care who needs help, you find someone else to help them.”
“It’s just one boy in a hospital bed. No natural disasters to run from.” She tried to smile.
He kissed her forehead. “God, I hope so.”
Just before Caitlin sat in the waiting sedan, Ben called with good news: she would not have to swing by the United Nations to pick up her papers. Not only would the Iranian ambassador’s wife meet her at the airport, Caitlin was invited to ride with them and their staff on the state jet.
A smile spread across Caitlin’s face. She thanked him again. He told her not to mention it. And meant just that.
She reached JFK and was met by a member of the mission staff, who advised her to put her head scarf on before they boarded. Caitlin reached into her carry-on and tied on her scarf—a present from Ben on one of their trips. He’d grabbed it from a nearby bazaar after she’d forgotten hers at the hotel, and the laughter they shared over its cheesy print had always trumped her vanity. She was then taken to the gate and across the tarmac to the waiting aircraft. The wife of the permanent representative of Iran welcomed Caitlin to join her fortuitously timed trip home to greet a new baby niece. After a period of courteous chitchat Caitlin curled into a plush fold-down seat with an eye mask and instantly slept. Exhaustion had finally caught up with her, and the thirteen hours felt like a gift.
She slept through the flight, a continuous rest for the first time in weeks, until the same staff member who had met her at the airport woke her.
“We will be landing within the hour,” the young man told her.
With the hum of the jet engines sounding especially loud in ears still full of cottony sleep, and the kick of guilt already starting again in her gut, Caitlin navigated to the restroom with her carry-on bag. She changed into clothes she hadn’t worn in years: tight jeans; a crisp, white Pink-brand shirt; and a bright red Yves Saint Laurent knee-length coat with long sleeves. She chose black eyeliner and mascara and a heightened but natural shade of lipstick, then applied them all a bit more strongly than she ordinarily would have. Finally she added short black suede boots with high heels and tied a red-and-blue Hermès Liberty scarf over her hair, carefully winding the ends around her neck. Ben’s cheesy scarf would not be appropriate in Tehran. It did not escape her sense of irony that she was preening for a theocracy in a way she never had for any man.
When she reentered the cabin, the representative’s wife, chatting on her phone, smiled and nodded approvingly. It was a small thing, but it felt good to have done something right.
Tehran’s time was eleven thirty in the morning. Caitlin’s concern about getting to Atash as soon as possible had made its way from Ben to Mohammed to the representative. The ambassador’s wife informed Caitlin that her guide would meet them at Imam Khomeini International Airport and take her directly to the hospital. At their private gate she was introduced to a woman in a severe black and gold head scarf and designer sunglasses pushed back on her head. She introduced herself as Maryam, no last name, and spent little time coordinating with the representative’s wife before ushering Caitlin through customs to a black sedan.
The windows of the car were smoked to near-opacity and Caitlin wondered during their half-hour ride whether she was supposed to pretend she was not really there, or that the city was not there around her. Maryam, sharing the backseat with her, only gave Caitlin’s form a once-over before spending the rest of the ride on her phone in Farsi.
Caitlin glimpsed what she could through the windows and briefly mourned what she would not be able to do on this trip. Under any other circumstance she would have treasured the opportunity to see Tehran, a city she’d long hoped to explore. As it was, the driver used only expressways and the city didn’t seem that different from any
other. There were wider avenues than in New York, shorter buildings but with more massive proportions, something broader about the windows, fewer glass fronts. But she didn’t have the time to move closer and really look.
The expressway passed near a boulevard that was crammed sidewalk to sidewalk with people. The color green was prominent in banners and she could hear the chanting roar from the gathering.
“A protest?” she asked, though Maryam was still on the phone.
“Yes,” Maryam said. “Economic. The women bus drivers have not been paid in a month.”
But to Caitlin’s ears, the protest had sounded much more aggressive than that. She wondered whether here, too, people were feeling the tensions of a world on edge.
They merged onto a slightly smaller highway and greenery increased between the buildings. A handful of men and women stood together in a small park, moving slowly through a Tai Chi sequence. Caitlin was mildly shocked to see this Chinese practice in Iran, and the sliding and angular arm motions instantly reminded her of Maanik and Gaelle’s movements.
A possible Mongolian connection right there, she thought as the sedan pulled in at the hospital. Connecting Mongolian to Chinese would certainly be a smaller step than tying Mongolian to Viking.
At the hospital, Maryam sat with her in reception while Caitlin quickly Skyped Jacob. Dressed in his pajamas and eating a Popsicle, the boy barely signed to her with one hand.
Finally she said, “Jacob, I want you to understand something. It’s very important. The young man I’m visiting—he might die. That’s why I had to come.”
Jacob didn’t say much, but he seemed to snap back to his usual, empathetic self and he blew her two kisses before ending the chat.
When the tablet closed, Maryam escorted Caitlin to Atash’s floor. Their entrance to Atash’s room was barred by a doctor who was not impressed with two female visitors—until Maryam held up a card that looked like an ID. The doctor did not miraculously develop a sense of courtesy, but he did walk away.
A Vision of Fire: A Novel Page 19
