my head to look at her, and for a long time that’s what we do—look at each other. Or maybe it only seems like a long time. Then she sort of smiles and says, “I don’t suppose you’d consider—”
That wakes me up. “Not gonna happen,” I tell her.
Her smile goes a little sideways. “I was going to say, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider having dinner with me.’”
“No, you weren’t.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, but leans closer and says, “What if I was?”
There’s a long silence while I listen to the voices in my head telling me things I already know, all the reasons I want but can’t have. Then, probably because I’m used to shaking hands with danger, I lean in closer to her and whisper, “It’d still be no.”
She sits back and the contact between us snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight—it stings a little. She tilts her head and asks, “Why?”
I laugh—I mean, she has to ask?
“You’re the media,” I say, “and my job depends on secrecy.”
“I’d never compromise that. You know us media folks always protect our sources.”
I shake my head. “Sorry. Too big a risk.”
“I thought that’s what you do—take risks.”
“Not stupid ones.”
She thinks about that. Then after a moment, she nods, gets up and starts to walk away. While I’m silently cussing—myself, her, maybe fate—she comes back, leans down close to my ear and whispers, “If you change your mind, I’d still like to hear your story. Your terms, your rules. My quarters are in the Quonset next to the media’s. You can find me there.”
After she leaves I look at the sub I’m still holding in my hands, and I realize I’ve lost my appetite—for food, anyway. Right then the only thing I’m hungry for is a woman with auburn hair and matching eyes.
His trip down memory lane lasted for the space of the few seconds it took them to get to him. He reached out for Yancy, who staggered and almost fell into his arms, the child sandwiched between the two adults. He caught and steadied her while her eyes searched his face in shocked disbelief. Her mouth opened, but before she could fire off the questions he knew must be piled up inside her, he said in a low, guttural voice, “Go—run. Keep going. Don’t stop for anything.”
He had to hand it to her—no questions, no hesitation. She just nodded and took Laila’s hand in a firm grip.
Hunt shoved the two of them behind him and turned his attention to the would-be abductors, who by this time were sorting themselves out and shouting at each other in fury and outrage. A couple of them seemed to think they might give chase but changed their minds when they saw what was blocking their path. A tall man wearing the elaborately wound turban and embroidered vest of a Pashtun tribal elder would give the average urban Afghan male pause even if he wasn’t portraying an attitude of authority, strength and menace. Hunt excelled at all three. In a matter of moments the men had dispersed and vanished into the crowds, both pedestrian and vehicular.
Hunt waited until he was certain the threat had passed, then turned to follow the woman and child, who had already vanished from sight. He walked rapidly but didn’t run. He knew he’d find them again.
* * *
“Mommy? Who was that man? Who were those other men? Why were they following us? What did they want? Why did we run away?”
Yancy could only shake her head as she leaned against a mud-brick wall and fought to catch her breath. As she waited for her pounding heart to calm itself, her numbed brain struggled to absorb the reality that once again the assumption of Hunt Grainger’s demise had been premature.
She tried to figure out how that made her feel.
I don’t know how I feel!
There isn’t time to feel. Not now. I have to get Laila to safety. Someplace safe...
Dear God, where? I don’t even know where we are.
Laila was having no trouble finding breath for her usual stream of questions. Questions Yancy couldn’t answer, not then. How would she answer...ever?
Mommy, who was that man?
He’s your father, sweetie. The father that dropped you in my lap and disappeared from both our lives.
Who were those other men? What did they want?
I think they wanted to take you away from me...maybe kill me in order to do it.
Why?
Why? That’s a good question. How do I answer that? How do I make you understand ignorance and evil?
Yancy held up a hand to stem the flow of words, then reached out to pull her daughter close to her side while she cast intent looks in every direction. She could see no sign of pursuit or anyone that looked threatening, but the fear lingered. She could feel Laila’s body quivering as the child clutched her tightly and pressed her face against her side. She could feel her moist heat, smell terror and sweat, and for a moment rage clouded her vision.
Then, once again, she commanded herself to think.
I have to get us back to the hotel. She’ll be safe there.
Thank goodness she still had her purse, the strap looped snugly across her chest from one shoulder to the opposite hip. She dug in it frantically, located her cell phone and turned it on. While she waited for it to locate a signal, she looked around, hoping to find a street sign or, failing that, some sort of landmark that might help a taxi find their location.
“Look, Mom—donkey,” Laila said in a faint but hopeful voice.
Yancy watched the small dusty animal toiling up the rocky, rutted street—just a path, really—with a load of water jugs balanced on his scrawny back. A boy no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in baggy trousers and a T-shirt several sizes too big for him, trudged along beside the donkey and switched idly at its rump with a small stick. Several yards beyond the pair, a man plodded steadily uphill bearing a pole across his shoulders, a plastic water container suspended from each end. Several children ran by, their bare feet seemingly impervious to the rocky ground as they leaped nimbly across the ditch that ran down the middle of the street carrying sludge and raw sewage. And she realized she did know where they were, at least generally.
This was the old slummy part of Kabul, where mud-brick houses clung to the side of the mountain practically one on top of the other, most without electricity or running water. Where people lived in appalling poverty, and all the water needed for cooking and bathing had to be carried up from the community wells down below. Several years ago Yancy had done a feature on the conditions here. It was disheartening to see that nothing much had changed.
With unsteady fingers poised to punch in the number for her network’s Kabul bureau, she hesitated. Of course, they’d send someone to pick them up if she asked, even though she was on leave, not assignment, and hadn’t told anyone at the network of her travel plans. But if possible, she wanted to continue to fly under the radar, for so many reasons. This was a personal pilgrimage,
