The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  “You don’t believe me? Peshawar is filled with spies and ne’er-do-wells. Trust me. Hell, there used to be a patio out there filled with tables and chairs.” He pointed to what looked like a rooftop deck. “But it’s off-limits now, too easy for a sniper to pick you off. This is exciting stuff.”

  “If you’re so fascinated with this, why not just write a spy novel?”

  “Are you kidding? Real life is far more interesting, thank you.” He threw back the last of his scotch and fished a $20 bill from his pocket. “Let’s go while I can still drive.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Not in Peshawar, you can’t. Let’s go.”

  At the house, Nick turned to Abby. “Remember—not a word to the princess.”

  “Please—don’t call her that.”

  Nick groaned. “I only call ’em as I see ’em, but I’ll try. And remember—not a word, and that includes our trip to the club.”

  “The club is a secret too?”

  “Best to keep it one. In this place, it’s almost impossible to tell the good guys from the bad, so at least for now, just zip it around Najeela.”

  Ass, she thought, though she nodded yes politely.

  Chapter 7

  Najeela finally appeared at the house three days after Nick’s last visit. “Have you seen the reporter?” she asked.

  “I have,” Abby replied, a frown on her lips.

  “You don’t much like Nick, do you?” Najeela’s fingers played with her necklace as she spoke.

  “We seem to be like oil and water. There’s just something about him.” Abby shrugged. “You’re right that we’ll never be best friends.”

  Najeela touched Abby’s shoulder. “Then if you don’t like him, I won’t like him either.”

  “I don’t know if that’s fair,” Abby said, laughing.

  Najeela smiled. “Well, that’s what girlfriends do, I’m sure. Anyway, I think that you’re in need of an outing, yes?” She paused, waiting for Abby to respond.

  “I’m in need of an outing for work, that’s what I’m in need of. I have so much to do, the reports will be piling up, and I’d still like to get back to the clinic when it’s open. And while you’re here, I need to tell you that I have to have access to the car.” There, Abby thought, she’d finally said it. Without the car, she couldn’t get to the clinic, couldn’t get their statistics, and couldn’t do her job, never mind that without the car she was stuck here like a prisoner, no television, no music, nothing. “I can’t do my job without the car.”

  Najeela looked contrite. “You’re right, Abby. I guess I’m not used to sharing, but I promise, I’ll ask Daddy for his car. Better?”

  Abby nodded, glad of the freedom a car would give her.

  “I have an invitation for you,” Najeela said, clasping her hands together. “From my mother. She wants you to come for dinner. Please say you’ll come. Perhaps my uncle will strike your fancy.”

  Abby groaned. “I’m not really interested in meeting anyone just now, but I’d love to come for dinner.”

  “It’s settled then. My parents will be very happy. Tomorrow is good?”

  Abby nodded in reply.

  • • •

  Late afternoon the following day, Hana knocked on Abby’s door. “Your car is here,” she said before her footsteps shuffled away. Abby ran her hands over her new Pakistani shalwar kameez and draped a scarf across her shoulders as she’d seen Najeela do so many times. She ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair and drew a thin line of black kohl under her eyes. She stood back from the mirror and looked again. The black liner made her brown eyes stand out just as Najeela had said. Not bad, she thought, and smiled at her reflection. A fleeting thought of Eric raced through her mind and she chased it away. She thought of him less and less, now lost in the daily routine of her position. Perhaps soon he’d be a painless, distant memory—a romantic bullet dodged.

  She stepped into the hallway and called, “Hana, I’m going. See you later.” She heard Hana’s grunt in reply and wondered again why Hana so disliked her. Hana had somehow bonded with Nick, but still avoided Abby like the plague. Well, there was nothing to be done about it tonight. Najeela’s car was waiting.

  Abby stepped into the courtyard to find a gleaming black Mercedes parked in the driveway. She let out a low whistle and turned as the uniformed chauffeur opened the rear door and motioned her inside. As the car pulled into traffic, Abby gazed through the deeply tinted windows at the passing streets. The car left University Town and turned into the posh, tree-lined streets of Hyatabad, the wealthy enclave that was home to diplomats and entrepreneurs. The villas, as Najeela called them, were all hidden behind high, ivy-draped walls and large flowering trees, and Abby was hypnotized by the sudden display of wealth in such an impoverished city.

  Before long, the car stopped for a large gate to be drawn open, and it was waved in to a long driveway. A house, a mansion really, stood before them, and Abby, her eyes wide, was escorted to the door, where a smiling Najeela stood.

  “Oh, Abby, I’m so happy to see you.” She kissed Abby on both cheeks. “Come in, my family’s waiting.”

  Abby suddenly felt nervous and out of place. The floors were covered in luxurious Persian carpets, and the tables held intricately sculpted statues. Above the entryway hung a sparkling chandelier, and Abby felt her mouth drop open when she spied what could only be a genuine Renoir on the wall. Najeela, sensing Abby’s anxiety, took her hand and led her down a long corridor past a curving staircase and into a large room lined with books and overstuffed chairs. “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  Abby sat on the edge of a lushly upholstered chair and picked nervously at her fingernails. Within minutes, she heard footsteps and stood up, her hands tugging at the ends of her scarf.

  Najeela appeared with her father at her side, looking a little more bent and a little thinner than the day Abby had first met him. He removed his wire-rimmed eyeglasses and placed them in the front pocket of the dark suit he wore. He held out his hand and took Abby’s, his grip so slight, Abby’s hand slipped from his. “Ahh, Abby, so very good to see you again. Please sit,” he said, motioning with his hand.

  Abby sat and folded her hands demurely in her lap. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure how to behave. She’d never been around people who lived this way.

  “This is my wife, Dr. Siddiqui.” Najeela’s mother, plump and dressed in traditional clothes with a veil draped over her head, smiled and nodded. Abby smiled in return.

  “And this scoundrel,” Mr. Siddiqui announced, turning as a heavyset man dressed in traditional large pants and oversize shirt entered the room, “is my brother, Imtiaz.”

  Najeela joined Imtiaz and quickly kissed his cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Najeela’s father frown, but Najeela seemed not to notice or perhaps not to care.

  “This is Uncle Imtiaz,” she said, her arm draped loosely across his back.

  Her father’s frown deepened, and Abby’s gaze slid to the henna stain that colored the sparse head of hair and full beard of Uncle Imtiaz. He rubbed at the paunch that pulled his shirt tight and held his hand out to Abby. When she slipped her hand in his, he bent to her and kissed it, the wetness of his lips settling onto her skin. Abby resisted the urge to wipe her hand, and instead she smiled. “Nice to meet you, Uncle Imtiaz.” She hoped her smile would hide her growing revulsion.

  “Uncle makes me sound so old. You may call me Haji,” he said, leering now.

  Abby squirmed in her seat. “Haji? Is that your name as well?”

  “He’s made the Haj,” Najeela said, “the pilgrimage to Mecca. For the rest of his life people will refer to him as Haji, a sign of respect for his pilgrimage.”

  Imtiaz stroked his beard. “But for you—perhaps you should just call me Imtiaz. That suits me, I think.”

  Abby only nodded and looked to Najeela, her eyes pleading for rescue.

  “Uncle is a farmer and exporter, a true Afghan.” Najeela sm
iled widely at Imtiaz, and Abby shuddered. “He still has a home in Kabul, and his farms in Helmand and Spin Boldak in Kandahar, but he travels the world for his business. I saw him often during my school days in Switzerland.”

  Imtiaz smiled a smile that made Abby’s skin crawl. “Don’t give away all of my secrets, dear Najeela,” he said.

  “Ah, enough chatter, I think,” Najeela’s father said, rising from his seat. “Are you ready for dinner, Abby? I believe that all is ready.”

  Beast or not, Abby liked him.

  The dinner was sumptuous and filled with Afghan specialties—salad, plain yogurt with cucumbers, lentil soup, grilled lamb, rice with beans and raisins.

  Finally, Imtiaz was quiet except for the loud slurping noises he made as he ate. Abby devoured everything in sight, and when dessert appeared—small sugary cakes covered with rich frosting and layers of velvety ice cream—she gobbled those down as well.

  “Ah, Abby,” Mr. Siddiqui said, “you have a healthy appetite. Would you like another serving?” He pushed the dessert plate in her direction and motioned to the little cakes.

  “Oh, God, no,” she replied. “I’ve eaten enough to last me a month.”

  “Tea then?”

  Abby nodded, and he poured tea into a delicate porcelain cup and pushed it to her. “It is good to finally sit with you, Abby. Najeela speaks of you every evening. She has found a good friend, we believe.” He gazed at his wife, who only nodded shyly in reply. “And though we are pleased that she has a friend, it is our hope that Najeela will someday soon agree to marry, and then perhaps she’ll make a life with her family in Afghanistan.” He paused as if considering that thought. “Can you believe that my charming Afghan daughter has never even set foot inside Afghanistan? She has never breathed in the crisp air of the Hindu Kush nor tasted the sweet melons of Herat. It breaks my heart.” He shook his head sadly, and his eyes seemed to fill with tears.

  Abby sipped at her tea and looked away, uncomfortable with Mr. Siddiqui’s show of emotion. It was then she noticed that Uncle Imtiaz was watching her closely. His black eyes, set in a doughy wad of flesh, seemed locked on her every move. She wriggled in her chair as if that might free her from his line of sight.

  She looked at her watch. “Oh my.” She pushed back her chair. “I had no idea it was so late. I’m sure Najeela can tell you we start our days early. I hate to end this evening, but I must be going.”

  Abby caught Najeela’s grateful smile before she lifted her napkin to cover her face. “Ah, yes,” she replied, her voice muffled by the napkin. “It is late. Abby’s right. It is time to say good night.”

  The family walked Abby to the door, where Imtiaz took her hand once more and planted yet another disgustingly wet kiss there. This time, avoiding Imtiaz’s gaze, she pulled away abruptly.

  “Good night, all, thank you so much for dinner. Najeela, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The Siddiquis’ limousine was summoned, and once Abby had settled herself into the private rear seat, she breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be away from that leering old goat of an uncle.

  • • •

  The next morning, Najeela appeared earlier than usual. “Everyone loved you, Abby.”

  “Your parents are very nice.”

  Najeela responded with a scowl. “My mother, yes. My father, not so much as you might think.”

  “Oh, come on,” Abby said. “It must be difficult for him, away from the country he so obviously loves.”

  “If he loved his country so much, he would never have left. Dear Uncle Imtiaz has never left—well, except for business and to see me.”

  Abby couldn’t help but roll her eyes, but Najeela seemed not to notice.

  “My father and Imtiaz are at odds. They are brothers in name only. My father hates that Imtiaz has made a very good living with his farming and export business. It was Uncle Imtiaz after all who supported us during our years of exile. He’s the one who paid my school tuition, and my father resents him for that. He says that Uncle’s farming of poppies is illegal, and his export business is nothing but a smuggling operation.” Najeela pursed her lips and pouted. “My father is ungrateful, that’s what he is.”

  Abby’s mouth fell open. At the height of the war in Afghanistan, she’d seen a news report about the poppy farms and opium exporting, and the US attempts to eradicate them. It somehow didn’t come as a surprise that Imtiaz was involved. It confirmed her suspicions—the man was a creep and a criminal. Abby cringed at the thought of him.

  “Can you tell that I adore Uncle Imtiaz? Did I tell you,” Najeela said, her voice gushing with affection, “that it was Uncle Imtiaz who introduced me to my beloved?” She smiled at the memory. “I was in Paris, and Uncle Imtiaz needed to get papers delivered to his business partner. He asked me to make the delivery, and the recipient was none other than my dear Lars. It is Uncle who is now my messenger, delivering gifts from my secret lover to me.” She smiled dreamily. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do with him,” Abby muttered, wondering why her friend was so blind to Imtiaz’s dark side.

  “What?”

  “It’s your father you should respect, isn’t it? Your uncle is, well—an uncle.”

  “I do respect my father. I’m here, aren’t I?” Najeela asked testily. “But, it is my uncle who really cares for me. He knows that I am in love, and dear man that he is, he has kept my secret to himself, so now I keep all of his.” She smiled slyly, and Abby wondered what kind of secrets the fat old uncle might have.

  “But enough of me,” Najeela said. “What about you? Are you ready to move on from Eric?”

  Hearing his name made Abby wish she’d never told Najeela her story. She wanted his name erased from her memory. “I’m doing my best.”

  “Well, my uncle liked you very much. Perhaps you’d like to see him again?”

  Abby felt her stomach churn at the thought of being close to Uncle Imtiaz again. “Hmm, I’m going to concentrate on work for now, but I’ll keep him in mind.”

  She buried her head in a new UNICEF vaccination handbook, hoping that would be the end of that conversation.

  Chapter 8

  Abby reached out for the bracelet, the diamonds and precious stones lying cold and hard against the woman’s soft, bloodied skin. She should have been nauseated, but she wasn’t, and her mind registered the strangeness of that. She bent low and leaned in close, touching the woman’s face, her skin still warm with life. She checked again for signs of life, but the woman was dead.

  Abby sat back on her heels, sadness overwhelming her. Suddenly, and silently, the man from the balcony appeared. He stood and stared. Abby froze, but only for an instant. This time she knew what to do, and she turned and ran, her arms pumping wildly, her heart thumping in her chest, but her footfalls were slow and choppy, she just couldn’t run. She looked at her feet and willed them to move, but she seemed stuck in quicksand. Oh, God, she could feel him behind her, he was going to catch up.

  • • •

  Tangled in her sheets, her skin slick with sweat, her heart racing, she sat up quickly. Not again, she thought. A jackhammer went off in her head, and she closed her eyes in an effort to silence it.

  God, she wanted to tell someone. She looked at her watch and tried to calculate the time difference between Pakistan and Boston. What was it—nine hours, ten hours? Either way, too late to call—Emily was either getting ready to work the night shift or just getting to sleep. Maybe it was just as well. Emily didn’t want to hear the story again. Abby rose quickly. Geneva was behind her. She couldn’t let it affect her like this.

  When Nick arrived later that morning, Abby moaned to herself. Tired as she was, he was the last person in the world she felt like seeing. “Morning, Nick. What brings you here?”

  “You. Thought maybe we could do that interview.”

  Abby rubbed at her eyes. “Sorry, not today,” she said, offering no excuses.

  Nick was unperturbed. “N
o offense intended, but you look like hell.”

  Abby frowned in reply. “Thanks so much, just what I wanted to hear.”

  “Don’t take that the wrong way,” Nick said quickly. “You just look as though you haven’t slept in a week.”

  “I feel as though I haven’t. I’ve been having nightmares.” Oh, damn, she thought too late, she didn’t want to tell him about that. “Maybe from the Lariam,” she added quickly. “Ever happen to you?”

  “God, why do you take that stuff? You’re a nurse, you must know the side effects are horrific, and vivid nightmares are the reason most people throw it out. Hell, it’s even said to be a hallucinogenic. I’d rather take a chance on malaria than take that damn pill.”

  “Hallucinogenic? Makes my nightmares seem minor. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Get a mosquito net if you’re worried, but I think in Peshawar, malaria is the least of your worries.”

  “Why is it the least of my worries?” Abby was perplexed. Speaking with Nick seemed always an effort in cryptic communication.

  “The riots.”

  Abby was even more confused.

  Nick seemed to sense that. “You haven’t been out, I take it?”

  “Not today, yesterday either.”

  “Where’s Najeela?”

  “Home, I guess, or on UN business. She hasn’t been here in a few days.”

  “She’s no fool. The riots have increased in intensity—loud, angry, armed mobs. I suppose they haven’t come to University Town yet, but I’m willing to bet they will.”

  Abby rose from her desk. “The demonstrations—is that what you mean? Are they still demonstrating?”

  “They have definitely moved from demonstrating to rioting. Haven’t you read the newspaper?”

  Abby shook her head. She hated to admit that. She didn’t want to confirm his initial impression that she was too green to be here. “Why are they rioting?”

  “Because they can, that’s why. Peshawar is part of what’s known as the lawless North-West Frontier Province. It’s administered by tribal law, though these days government soldiers and police are here trying to get a handle on things. The danger is that these protesters have easy access to rocket launchers and missiles. A riot here is liable to explode, literally. You need to stay inside. They’ll be looking for Americans, and with your light hair and pale skin, you’d be targeted in a millisecond.”