them. I think they’re...creepy.”
Today, though, she seemed to be enjoying the crowds, the bustle and noise, the tapestry of different costumes: men and boys in everything from jeans, T-shirts and Western-style jackets to the traditional loose white trousers and tunics and long chabas embroidered with intricate patterns; the turbans or flat Afghan hats, or karakul hats like the one the president wore; women and girls in conservative Western-style dresses or flowing robes and draped head scarves, and, of course, the burqas. Every direction they looked was a new feast for the eyes.
A feast for all the senses. Though the sky overhead was the same crisp blue she recalled from previous trips to Afghanistan, here in the bazaar the air was dense with dust and exhaust, the familiar smells of spices and baking bread and overripe fruit and the musky scents of people. The noise of traffic and exotic music and voices raised in chatter or barter or a snatch of song made a tapestry of sound.
I’ve missed this, Yancy thought.
“What are those?” Laila pointed.
“Hmm...looks like dates,” Yancy said.
“Can we get some?”
“You don’t like dates, remember?”
“Yes, but I’ve never tasted these dates.”
“Uh-huh.” Recognizing that her child had been bitten by the shopping bug, Yancy diplomatically steered her to another display, where large flat metal bowls held an array of grains and beans and nuts. “How about we get some of these, instead? You like pistachios, don’t you?”
Laila’s answer was a happy gasp. She tugged at Yancy’s hand like an excited puppy while Yancy bartered with the women hovering over the display. She counted out the money, then gave the drawstring shopping bag they’d brought with them—no paper or plastic here—to Laila to hold while the shopkeeper dumped a scoopful of nuts into it.
Laila said, “Tashakkur!” the way Yancy had taught her, in a strong, clear voice, and the woman beamed her approval and added another handful of nuts to the bag.
They walked on, stopping to examine trinkets, discussing what gifts they should buy for Laila’s school friends back home in Virginia. Yancy fingered beautiful scarves, debating which one to buy for her clotheshorse sister, Miranda.
The sun climbed higher and so did the temperature, and the crowds began to thin. Yancy noticed Laila’s enthusiasm seemed to be waning, as well. Her footsteps lagged as she looked around her, craning her neck, clearly searching for something and disappointed she hadn’t found it.
“Are you getting tired, sweetie?”
“No...” Laila lifted her shoulders in what was half sigh and half shrug. “I was just hoping...”
Yancy’s stomach lurched. Surely, she couldn’t be hoping to see him.
Impossible, anyway. He’s dead. He must be. And how can she even remember?
“I thought there would be animals.”
“Animals?” Yancy said blankly.
Laila was watching the toe of her sandal make designs in the dusty ground. She heaved another heart-tugging sigh. “Yes, like sheep or goats. Or donkeys. I like them. They had them at the market where I used to live.” She lifted her gaze—and her chin—in a way that was almost a challenge. “I know because I remember them.”
Yancy put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close in a one-arm hug. “This is Kabul, honey. It’s a very big city—like New York or Los Angeles. Probably there wouldn’t be many sheep or goats or donkeys here in the middle of the city. But I promise we’ll make sure and find some tomorrow when we go out in the country—okay?”
“Okay...” Clearly, her daughter was only somewhat appeased.
Changing the subject, Yancy said, “Hey, are you hungry? I know I am. How about we go back to the hotel and see if they have any ice cream.”
“Pistachio?” Laila’s golden eyes sparkled up at her with that wicked humor that never failed to wrench at Yancy’s heart and bring back memories of a time she hoped someday to forget.
She’s so like him. How am I ever going to be able to forget, with her as my constant reminder?
With one arm resting lightly across Laila’s shoulders, Yancy lifted her head to survey their surroundings, hoping to determine the best and shortest route back to the main street where, presumably, they could flag down a taxi. But she found she couldn’t see much because of the press of people that surrounded them.
Which was odd, because a moment ago she could have sworn there were only a few straggling shoppers here, dawdling about among the stalls. Now she and Laila appeared to be completely walled in by a crowd of people.
No, not a crowd. A group of men. Tall, bearded men, all dressed in traditional Afghan costume.
As the bolt of awareness shot through Yancy’s brain, it triggered a wild montage of the warnings, cautions and instructions she’d heard time and time again when preparing to venture into volatile and unpredictable regions of the world. More than once she’d covered the story when a colleague had been abducted—or worse—and there had even been some close calls that were hers alone, the memories of which were all too vivid. She’d never really been frightened then—at least not that she could remember. But it was different now. Now there was Laila.
She tensed and strengthened her hold on her daughter’s hand, at the same time nervously checking to make certain no stray locks of her own dark red hair had strayed from beneath her scarf. Keeping her eyes averted, she quickened her step.
Without any overtly threatening moves or gestures, the knot of men moved with her, keeping pace.
Yancy’s mind raced, searching for explanations but capable only of shooting off questions. Who are they? Taliban? What’s happening? Why are they doing this? What do they want with me? Are we about to be kidnapped? What have I done?
Or...is it Laila they’re after?
Her heart banged against her ribs. Her scalp sizzled; she could actually feel her hair lift and stir against the silk fabric of her scarf. She could almost hear Hunt’s voice... They’ll find her again, sooner or later...
Oddly, the thought had a calming effect.
Laila? They can’t take her. They will have to kill me first.
She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Think. You have one advantage: you’re a woman. They won’t be expecting resistance from a woman. Plus, they won’t want to touch you, a strange female, if they can avoid it. You know the moves—they won’t expect that, either. Strike fast, strike hard, break loose.
Then both of us run like hell.
They’d reached the outskirts of the bazaar. Beyond the human barricade that surrounded her, Yancy could hear cars moving slowly, tires crunching on the hard-baked ground. She could hear laughter, music coming from a car radio, the impatient beep of a horn. She wondered if one of those cars was meant for them. She imagined a sudden shriek of brakes, hard hands shoving her into a waiting vehicle, Laila screaming...
Or,
