The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  Having left the central part of Kabul, they were now in a poorer section of town, one that looked like a film set for a war film. Except this was reality. Exposed metal beams, broken windows, and piles of rubble covered nearly every block, making walking down the street a perilous business. Ragged children played among the wreckage, calling out to each other and pretending to shoot their playmates with sticks. Several women passed by, their attire ranging from burkas to traditional Pashtun dresses. The colorful embroidered caftans looked incongruous amid the dusty ruins of what had once been apartment buildings.

  Rob finally stopped the Jeep in front of a gray building. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes and the windows—those that were still intact—were small and grimy.

  “Is this it?” Rhys asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Come.”

  They got out of the Jeep and walked toward the door. The flat was on the ground floor. Rhys knocked, hoping they wouldn’t be turned away before they had a chance to state their business. A woman dressed in a faded red kaftan over narrow leggings opened the door. Over her graying hair, she wore a lose scarf that she instantly adjusted for modesty’s sake.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Khan. My name is Rhys Morgan, and that’s Rob Malone. We are from the BBC, but we are not here in our professional capacity. We are simply looking for a friend. Your son, Ahmad, said we could come speak to Ali,” Rhys said.

  He hoped the woman understood some part of what he’d said. Mrs. Khan must have been forewarned by Ahmad because she nodded and gestured for them to follow her. An older man, presumably the boys’ father, came out of a back room. He was dressed in the traditional loose cotton shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare.

  Mr. Khan directed an angry look toward the Westerners and shepherded his three daughters, who’d appeared from what must be the kitchen, to see who’d come to see them, out of the way. The girls, all younger than Ahmad and dressed like their mother, stared at the strangers, their dark eyes wide with curiosity. A torrent of harsh words from their father sent them back to the kitchen.

  Mr. Khan gestured toward the back room. It was unbearably shabby, with peeling blue paint and a narrow window covered with a length of bright patterned fabric tacked onto the top window frame. A threadbare rug covered the floor between the two low beds that were positioned along the walls, across from one another. A young man, possibly a year or two older than Ahmad, lay on the bed furthest from the window. His head was wrapped in white gauze marred with dried blood. His right hand and shoulder were bandaged as well, and one of his legs ended at the knee. The stump was thickly wrapped, but the wound still oozed blood, soaking the bandage. His eyes looked glazed as he stared up at the low ceiling, transfixed by the flies that circled overhead.

  “Hello, Ali,” Rhys said softly.

  The young man didn’t move, but his gaze slid toward the visitors.

  “My name is Rhys Morgan. I’ve come from England. I’m searching for Jo Turing. She’s my friend. I believe you know her.”

  Ali paled at the mention of Jo and his uninjured hand grabbed for the blanket, scrunching the fabric between his fingers.

  “Ali, did you take Jo into the mountains?” Rhys asked softy. He didn’t want to sound accusing and frighten Ali into keeping his silence.

  Ali nodded.

  “Was that when you got hurt?”

  Another nod.

  Rhys was just about to ask another question when Mrs. Khan came into the room bearing a tray with tea glasses, a tall pot, and a plate of biscuits. She looked from Rhys to Rob, then poured the tea. “Please,” she said, gesturing toward the glasses.

  “Thank you,” the men said in unison and reached for the glasses. These people didn’t look like they had anything to spare; to refuse their generous offer of tea would have been rude.

  Rhys took a sip of the strong, hot tea. Mrs. Khan had sweetened it generously, probably using sugar she could ill afford to share with strangers. The taste of the tea made him suddenly homesick for London. His loss was still fresh in his mind, but it was nothing compared to the misery he saw all around him, particularly in the mangled young man lying on the bed. There was a small nightstand next to the bed, but there was nothing on it save a glass of water. There were no painkillers to help him manage his pain, or even sleeping tablets to help him find oblivion from his predicament even for a few hours.

  “Ali, please, what happened to Jo?” Rhys asked, fearing he wasn’t going to get an answer.

  Ali struggled to raise himself on one elbow and looked at Rhys. He resembled his brother, except for the lines of pain etched around his mouth. “I take Miz Jo to mountains.”

  “Why would you take her to such a dangerous place?” Rhys asked, unable to stop himself. Jo must have paid him well enough to overcome his objections, if he had any.

  “She ask to go. She pay good. We go before too much snow. I drive in friend’s truck. Miz Jo, she take pictures, but want to get closer. I turn off road and drive on track. There’s IED. Big explosion. Then shots. They shoot me in shoulder.”

  “And Jo?” Rhys pleaded. “What happened to Jo?”

  “Miz Jo dead,” Ali whispered. Tears slid down his hollow cheeks. “My fault.”

  “Did you see her die?” Rhys asked. He barely recognized his own reedy and tearful voice.

  Ali nodded. “She dead.”

  “Who helped you?” Rhys asked. Someone must have come along and taken Ali to a medical facility. He would have died otherwise.

  Ali shrugged. “I wake up in Cure Hospital.”

  “Is that when you lost your leg?” Rhys asked gently.

  Ali nodded again. “Bone shattered. Need to come off.”

  “Ali, I need to find Miss Jo’s body. Where did this happen?”

  Ali called out in his own language and his father came into the room. Ali explained something and the man left and returned with paper and a pencil, which he handed to Ali. His father looked angry, and a rapid stream of words flew from his mouth.

  Ali nodded and replied curtly. He then drew a crude map and marked the spot with an X. “Here. But don’t go. Don’t go,” he said again more vehemently.

  “Thank you, Ali. And it wasn’t your fault,” Rhys added. Ali turned his face to the wall.

  Mrs. Khan stood just outside the room, ready to show them out. “Thank you, Mrs. Khan,” Rhys said. He took out all his cash and pressed the bills into the woman’s hand. “For Ali,” he said.

  The woman’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude and she squeezed Rhys’s hand. She clearly didn’t speak English, but her eyes said it all. Rhys’s money wouldn’t make much difference in the long run, but perhaps it would buy her son some immediate relief.

  “I’m sorry, Rhys,” Rob said as soon as they climbed back into the Jeep. “I suspected Jo wouldn’t be coming back, but didn’t want to say anything. You were so hopeful. Kabul is bad enough, what with several bombings per week, but going into Taliban territory is suicide.”

  “Ali said she was taking photos,” Rhys said. “What would she have been photographing out there?” He was still trying to wrap his mind around what Ali had said, hoping against hope that there was some way Jo might have survived the ambush.

  “Rhys, the mountains are riddled with caves. They are perfect hiding places, and not only for the Taliban. Most of the heroin that finds its way to Europe is produced right here in Afghanistan. They have ninety percent of global market share on illegal opiates. Opium is their biggest export. There are insurgents in these mountains, but also warlords and drug traffickers. Jo came too close to something she wasn’t meant to see. If the explosion didn’t kill her, then a bullet did.”

  “But Ali survived.”

  “Ali is not important. He’s a nobody. He’s not worth killing, but Jo Turing is a world-renowned photojournalist. She can do serious damage. She’s gone, Rhys. I’m sorry.”

  Rhys buried his face in his hands. He felt hollow and numb with grief. Jo had been young and vibrant, and so ful
l of life. To die so randomly was pointless and unfair. Why did she have to go trekking into the mountains that were riddled with explosive devices planted by the insurgents and landmines left over from the Russian occupation? Surely no photo was worth such risk. Ali should have known better than to take her, but having seen the poverty of the Khan family, Rhys could hardly blame the young man. Jo must have paid him handsomely to take such a risk, and now his life was ruined. Surviving in Afghanistan was hard enough when you were whole, but to lose a limb was as good as a death sentence. Ali would end up begging in the street if his family couldn’t afford to care for him.

  “What now?” Rob asked. “Will you tell her sister?”

  “No. Not yet. I must find Jo’s remains. If I can’t bring Jo back alive, I’ll at least bring her home to bury. I won’t leave her here.”

  “Rhys, how in the bloody hell will you find her remains?”

  “Someone brought Ali to the hospital. Someone found them out there in the mountains. Surely they didn’t leave Jo there to be devoured by animals and roasted by the sun.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Ali was still alive. Jo wasn’t.”

  “Ali got hurt in that explosion,” Rhys protested. “He lost a leg. He was in agony, and in shock. He says Jo died. Maybe she did, but I won’t give up until I know for certain.”

  “All right, then. Where to now?”

  “To the hospital where Ali was taken. After that, to every other hospital in Kabul.”

  Rob nodded. “You missed your true calling sitting behind your posh desk, mate. You should have been an investigative reporter.”

  “There’s more than one way to make a difference, Rob.”

  Chapter 20

  Rob parked the Jeep in front of Cure International Kabul Hospital. The single-story stone building looked more like a penitentiary, but it was one of the best hospitals in Kabul, offering not only medical care to poor Afghan families but also training programs for local doctors and nurses, who were in short supply.

  Rhys followed Rob inside. The interior was warmer than the outside, but not by much. Numerous people were waiting patiently to be seen, their faces masks of resignation as they stared into space or followed the goings on with some interest. Two young mothers tried to soothe crying children, and several injured men sat together in stony silence, blood seeping through make-do bandages as they waited to be attended to.

  “Excuse me,” Rhys said to a middle-aged woman behind the desk. “I’d like to see the hospital director, please.”

  The woman stared at him as if he’d said something grossly inappropriate. But she quickly recovered from her shock and returned her attention to whatever she’d been doing.

  “The director is a very busy man,” she said, without looking up.

  “I realize that, but I really need to speak to him. It’s rather urgent.”

  “You can sit down and wait, but I guarantee nothing,” the woman said, dismissing him by turning her back to look for something in a filing cabinet behind her.

  But Rhys wouldn’t be deterred. When she turned back to her desk, he took out his press pass from his pocket and showed it to the woman, giving her a moment to study it. “I’m from the BBC. I’m here to write an article about your hospital and the important work you’re doing. That sort of coverage can help increase donations and funding.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied him more carefully. “A reporter,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust.

  “Yes, a reporter.”

  “Sit,” she barked.

  “I think you’d better do as you’re told.” Rob chuckled as Rhys lowered himself into a hard plastic chair next to him. “She likes you,” he added with a smirk.

  “Do you think we have a chance of seeing someone today?” Rhys asked.

  “Probably not, but it’s not as if you have somewhere to be. This is not a place where things happen quickly.”

  “Right,” Rhys said. He wished he had something to read. “What are you doing?” he asked as Rob settled more comfortably in his chair and fixed his gaze on the screen of his mobile.

  “Playing Candy Crush. It doesn’t require Wi-Fi.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s very relaxing. Give it a go.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. This might take all day.”

  And it did. By mid-afternoon, Rhys was hungry, thirsty, and frustrated. People came and went, new casualties arrived, and patients who’d been released left, but still he and Rob sat in the plastic chairs, waiting to be seen. Rob managed to procure some tea, which only made Rhys hungrier. He should have had a heartier breakfast, but he hadn’t been very hungry that morning and settled for tea and toast. His stomach growled and he gave Rob a lopsided smile.

  “I can step out and find us something to eat,” Rob offered.

  “There’s no food allowed in the waiting area and I don’t want to leave, in case we get called.”

  “Suit yourself,” Rob replied and closed his eyes. Rob could sleep anywhere. It was the mark of a man who traveled for a living and slept in a different bed every night. Rhys just sat and stared at the wall.

  The quality of the light outside changed as the afternoon wore on, the bright white light of early afternoon becoming softer and flatter as it painted oblong boxes on the linoleum floor. Rhys had managed to nod off but woke when Rob elbowed him in the ribs. “We’re up, mate.”

  They were directed to a small office at the end of the hall, where a balding, middle-aged man in thick horn-rimmed spectacles sat behind a desk overflowing with files and reports.

  “Thank you for waiting, gentlemen. As you can see, I’m a little busy,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Farouq Durani. I’m the director of this facility.”

  Having lied about the purpose of their visit, Rhys could hardly get straight to the point. He spent a quarter of an hour quizzing Mr. Durani about funding, staff, mortality rates, and availability of supplies before finally broaching the subject of Ali Khan.

  “Mr. Durani, the brother of a young man I’ve befriended since arriving in Kabul was brought into your facility several weeks ago. His name is Ali Khan.”

  “What about him? Did he not receive adequate treatment?” Mr. Durani asked, his eyebrows raised in obvious surprise.

  “He did, but I need to know who brought him in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wasn’t alone when he got injured. He’d taken a colleague of ours into the mountains, and we’ve yet to find out what happened to her. If someone helped Ali, they might have found her as well.”

  “What is your colleague’s name?”

  “Jo Turing.”

  Mr. Durani clicked a few keys on his keyboard and stared at the screen. “No one by that name was brought in at any time in the last thirty days. I do see an entry for Ali Khan. He was admitted on December sixteenth. His left leg was shattered below the knee, he had a bullet wound in his right shoulder, and several other less serious injuries.”

  “That’s correct.”

  The director shook his head, his expression one of profound sadness. “It’s devastating for one so young to find himself a cripple, especially in a country that doesn’t look after its invalids.”

  “Mr. Durani, who brought Ali Kahn in?”

  The man removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked tired and defeated. Rhys thought he was about to reply, but he remained silent as he replaced the glasses on his face.

  “Is there a reason you’d rather not tell us?” Rob asked, obviously frustrated by the man’s reluctance.

  “I have no wish to get involved, Mr. Malone. We operate on a shoestring budget and any mistake on my part could result in a decrease in funds and donations. The Americans are our friends,” he said, giving Rhys and Rob a meaningful look.

  “We appreciate your dilemma, Mr. Durani,” Rhys said and got up to leave. “I will make a generous donation to your organization as soon as I return to
London. You can count on that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Malone.” Mr. Durani shook their hands and watched them walk out the door.

  “So, Ali was brought in by Americans,” Rob said as soon as they were back in the Jeep.

  “They must have been military personnel.”

  “They’d have to be, given where the explosion happened.”

  “Do you know where their headquarters are?” Rhys asked.

  “I do, but I also know a really good kebob place, which is where I’m going right now. I’m starving, and no self-respecting American officer will give you the time of day after five o’clock.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Look, Rhys, I’m flying home tomorrow. I sent my cameraman back several days ago. I only stayed on to help you out. I’m afraid you’re on your own from this point on. I can leave you the Jeep and you can return it at the airport when you’re ready to leave. I strongly suggest you contact the British Embassy and have them make an appointment for you. You’ll never get close to a U.S. Army base on your own, not even with your press pass.”

  Rhys clapped Rob on the shoulder. “I appreciate your help, Rob, and I’ll take you up on your offer of both the Jeep and the kebobs. You must be thrilled to be going home.”

  “I am. I’m more than ready to get out of this hellhole.”

  “I’ve been here for less than a week, but it feels like a lifetime,” Rhys said as he climbed into the Jeep and buckled his seatbelt.

  “This place has that effect on you. It also serves to remind us how bloody lucky we are to live in a country that protects our rights and our religious beliefs.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Rhys said.

  “No, you won’t. They don’t serve alcohol.” The men laughed bitterly, neither one particularly given to mirth, and drove off.