Refuge (44 page)

Noor tries to stand, and her legs give way.

Now. You have to go now.

Noor crawls one strained elbow length at a time. The door gets ever closer, and as it does her lung capacity returns.

A gunshot rings out from the garden.

She stands and this time her legs hold. She staggers outside.

At the bottom of the driveway, she sees a rickshaw idling, the driver oblivious to what’s going on.

Noor’s pace quickens.

One of the Arab drivers’ looks up.

“Stop,” he shouts.

The rickshaw driver sees Noor coming and scrambles to put his rickshaw in gear. She grabs onto the rickshaw’s door and throws herself into the passenger compartment.

“Go,” she screams.

The rickshaw lurches forward. A hand reaches in and grasps her leg. She flails for something to hold on to.

She’s too late.

Noor topples out, her knees scraping along the asphalt. The rickshaw flees down the street.

The mujahid driver drags her down the driveway and deposits her in front of Tariq.

“I won’t have you dressed like a whore,” Tariq says.

He throws a black burqa at Noor. She stumbles to her feet and looks for an escape route. Tariq’s men encircle her.

“Help,” she screams, “please, someone help me.”

Two of Tariq’s men come up behind her and grab each of her arms. The burqa comes down over her head. The two men pick Noor up and carry her to an SUV. Noor grabs a hold of the door, kicking out at anyone that comes within reach.

Through the burqa’s gauze, she sees a couple of mujahideen carry her father’s body out of the house. They throw him in the back of a pick-up as if he were a bale of straw.

“No,” she screams.

Something jabs her arm and she lets out a high-pitched howl. She twists around and the mujahideen take a step back. She tries to move but her legs won’t comply. She notices one of the mujahideen is holding a depressed syringe in his hand.

Oh no. God, no
.

She blacks out.

FIFTY-SIX

CHARLIE PARKS ON
the street. He’s glad no one picked up when he called from Islamabad.

It’s only going to make it more of a surprise.

He still can’t believe how easy it’d been. His father’s contact had asked him four meatball questions and thirty minutes later had returned with the K-1 visa pasted into Noor’s passport.

“You can leave tonight if you wish,” he’d said.

Tonight, unlikely. But by the end of the week. Why not?

Charlie pulls Noor’s passport from his pocket and flicks to her visa. She grins back at him. He feels an urgent desire to see that smile again. He walks up the driveway and finds the front door open. He closes it behind him and creeps through the house. No one’s there. He goes out onto the verandah. Rasul is sitting on the steps in front of his hut. Charlie waves. Rasul doesn’t bother to wave back.

Friendly as ever.

Charlie tiptoes up the staircase and along the corridor. He sees Noor’s bedroom door open. He grins and sidles up to it. He jumps into the bedroom.

“I’m back,” he says.

No one’s there. Noor’s suitcase sits open on her bed.

“Noor,” he shouts.

There’s no answer.

Could they have gone into town?

He heads to his bedroom and notices his shattered door. He pushes the door open and finds the balcony doors loose hanging off their hinges.

A cold sweat bathes his body. He runs out onto the balcony and shouts Noor’s name over and over.

No. No. No. No. No.

He sprints out of the house to his SUV. He and drives like a man possessed. He prays there’s another explanation.

Please God, let it not be this.

He pulls up to the front entrance of the hospital. Wali is waiting there in his wheelchair. Charlie jumps out.

“Ah, finally my ride’s arrived,” Wali says.

“Where’s Aamir Khan?” Charlie says.

“He sent you, no?”

“He’s not at the house, none of them are.”

“Then they must have gone to the bazaar.”

“They told you that?”

“No, but where else could they be?”

“Tariq’s taken them.”

Wali’s smile falls away.

“We need to go back to the house,” he says.

“Didn’t you hear me? They’re not there.”

“But Rasul and Mukhtar are, no? Maybe they know something.”

Charlie lifts Wali into the passenger seat. He slams the door shut and races to the driver’s side.

“My wheelchair.” Wali says.

“We’ll get it later.”

Charlie puts the SUV into first and tears away. The drive back is as crazed as the one there. Charlie lifts Wali out of the car and carries him through the house all the while shouting out Rasul’s name. He finds Rasul sitting in the same position. Charlie drops Wali into a rocking chair and runs over to the old man. He frog-marches him over to Wali.

“Ask him where they are,” Charlie says.

Wali and Rasul go back and forth in Pashtu.

“He begs your pardon,” Wali says, “but he wants to know why you’re treating him this way?”

“I don’t give a shit, where is everyone?”

Wali asks him. Charlie sees the blood drain from Wali’s face.

“What is it?”

“He says he was in the garden when he heard noises coming from the house. Not good noises so he hid in the bushes‌—‌not long after some men come out dragging Aamir Khan with them. Aamir Khan pleads with them but they did not listen.”

Rasul fills in more details.

“They threw him down, and their leader shot him‌—‌one of the woman was screaming on the balcony, and some men came and dragged her away.”

Charlie clutches the railing to stop himself from collapsing.

“He says a few minutes later they dragged Mukhtar into the garden and shot him also.”

“Where?” Charlie says.

Rasul points towards the lawn. Charlie staggers down the steps. The grass looks like someone has spilt a can of red paint on it. Charlie searches for air.

“Is it true?” Wali says.

Charlie nods, and Wali groans.

“What about the other woman?” Charlie says. “Where is she?”

Rasul points at the oak tree.

Oh thank God.

Charlie scrambles up the trunk. There in the nook he sees Bushra crawled up into a ball, a look of catatonic terror on her face. His heart sinks.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Hold my hand.”

She takes it, and slowly but surely he guides her down the trunk. Bushra gets to the bottom and sees Wali sitting in the rocking chair. She runs over and wraps her arms around him. Charlie follows after her, everything a blur. He stumbles upstairs to his bedroom and flings open his desk drawer. There next to the pen gun he sees Ivor’s business card. He grabs it and makes for the hall. Wali shouts out his name. He ignores him and calls the number scrawled on the back of the card. The phone at the other end rings.

Come on, goddamn it
.

Someone picks up.

“Mr. Gardener’s residence,” a man says.

“I need to speak to Ivor, it’s Charlie Matthews.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Matthews but Mr. Gardener not here.”

“Is he at the Consulate?”

“I believe he is at Miss Kuyt’s house.”

Charlie drops the phone and runs for the door.

“Mr. Matthews,” Wali shouts from the verandah.

Charlie continues on and jumps in the Pajero.

Stay calm, stay calm.

He finds it impossible to. All the way there he makes ever more onerous bargains with God in return for Noor’s safety. By the time he gets to Elma’s cottage he’s even promised never to see her again.

As long as she’s safe.

He sees Ivor’s dark blue Bronco parked out front and jumps out. He rings the doorbell.

“Ivor, Ivor, you there,” he shouts.

He bangs on the door.

“Ivor, please, I need your help.”

Charlie tries the door. It’s locked. He runs around the front of the house to the garden gate. It’s locked too. He pulls himself up and over the other side. He sees a set of French doors and sprints towards them. He turns the handle. The door opens.

“Ivor,” he shouts.

He hears voices down the corridor. He runs down it and throws open the door at the far end. Elma screams. She is sitting up, holding the sheets to her chest. Ivor stands naked by the bed, the bedside phone in his hand. Charlie stares at them, unsure what to say or do.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ivor says.

“He’s taken her, Ivor, he’s taken her.”

Ivor comes round the side of the bed and struggles into a pair of pants.

“Who’s her?”

“Noor‌—‌my fiancée.”

Ivor stops midway through buttoning them up.

“You got engaged to an Afghan, are you out of your fucking mind?”

Charlie takes a step back, stunned by the ferocity of Ivor’s tone.

“Elma knows her,” Charlie says. “She lived here for a while.”

Ivor looks at Elma.

“That true?”

Elma manages the slightest of nods.

“Please, Ivor, help me, you know these people, you can bargain with them.”

Ivor grabs his shirt off the floor.

“Wish I could, buddy, but there’s nothing I can do. This Tariq guy is the Prince’s right hand man, he’s untouchable.”

Ivor slips into his shirt. Charlie stares at him in horror.

“How do you know his name?”

Ivor slides his feet into a pair of penny loafers.

“It’s my job. I know every fucking mujahideen leader in this piss ant town.”

“Yeah, but how’d you know Tariq took Noor?”

Charlie glances at Elma. She looks back at him with a mixture of dread and self-loathing. Charlie stalks towards the bed.

“You told him, didn’t you?”

Elma cries out.

“You fucking told him where to find her?”

Ivor steps in front of Charlie. Charlie pushes past him. Elma scrambles off the bed.

“Help me,” she screams.

Charlie advances on her, his fists clenched.

“He killed her father, my cook‌—‌you realize that.”

Elma drops to the ground and raises her hands to protect herself.

“No,” she cries.

Charlie stops.

Remember what’s important.

Charlie hears someone come running down the corridor. A well built man bursts in. and points his gun at Charlie.

“Get on the floor,” the man shouts.

Charlie doesn’t flinch.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Ivor says, “Charlie was just leaving, weren’t you, Charlie?”

Charlie walks towards the door.

“Forget about her, buddy,” Ivor says, “She’s not worth it.”

Charlie continues on, not once looking back.

***

CHARLIE PULLS TO
the side of the road just beyond the flickering street lamp and cuts his lights. He stares down the tree lined street; it looks like a tunnel heading straight to hell.

Remember stay calm, show him respect
.
If there’s a peaceful way out of this, that’s best.

Charlie get out and walks alongside a tall, brick wall, the pen gun in his right sneaker rubbing up against the side of his foot. Up ahead two black-turbaned guards stand outside a large wooden gate with AK-47s slung over their shoulders. One of them spots Charlie and says something to his compatriot. They aim their guns at Charlie.

“I’m here to see Tariq Khan,” Charlie says.

The lead guard jabbers away and shakes his gun at Charlie.

“Tariq Khan, Tariq Khan. I need to see him.”

The guards look at each other. After a lengthy exchange, one opens a door in the gate and disappears. The other continues to aim his gun at Charlie. A few minutes later, the guard returns with a young man.

“What are you doing here?” the young man says.

“My name’s Charlie Matthews. I’m here to see Tariq Khan, I’m a close friend of his father’s.

“That’s not possible I’m afraid, it’s late.”

“If he knows I’m here he’ll want to see me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I’m engaged to his sister, Noor.”

The young man studies Charlie and steps back through the door. The two guards resume their staring contest. Charlie looks up at the top of the wall and sees two bands of concertina wire strung along its top. He realizes he has no plan B.

The man returns and says something to one of the guards. The guard comes over and pats Charlie down. His hands approach Charlie’s ankles. Charlie shifts his right foot and the pen gun slips under it. The guard nods at the young man.

“Follow me,” the man says.

They step through the door onto a driveway lined with massive oak trees. With the pen gun now under his foot it’s impossible for Charlie not to walk with a limp. The young man glances back at him.

“Is there a problem?” he says.

“What do you mean?” Charlie says.

“You are walking strangely.”

“I was wounded in the Gulf War.”

The young man gives Charlie a contemptuous look and continues on. They come around the bend and Charlie sees a Victorian-era school with a floodlit sports field out front. Forty men are doing push-ups to the count of their shawled instructor. The young man leads Charlie down a path towards a two story house. An armed guard steps out of the shadows and subjects Charlie to another pat down. They carry on through a simple courtyard and the dim interior of the house into what Charlie assumes to be an office. It smells of incense.

“Wait here,” the young man says.

Charlie glances around. There’s a large writing desk at one end and a couch and two chairs centered around a coffee table at the other. The room has an impersonal feel; there are no family photos on the desk nor art on the walls. It’s as if the place has been stripped bare.

Charlie looks up at the ceiling. He senses Noor is close. The urge to shout out her name is immense. He bends down and pulls off his shoe. The pen gun slips into his hand, and he pulls back its clip. He hears the door open and slips his shoe back on.

“I hear you came by to offer your condolences,” a man says.

Charlie drops the pen gun into his pocket, and turns to see the shawled instructor by the door. He looks like a Roman statue that’s lost an arm.