Refuge (42 page)

“Ahmed Nader.”

“And how did you find about the job?”

“Obaidullah is my cousin, sir. He says you are a fair man. He prays most fervently every night you become Muslim, that is how much he respects you.”

“Well he’s a good man, we’re lucky to have him.”

“I am most looking forward to learn from you, to be as good a deminer as he.”

Charlie can’t help but wince. He knows that while he might start Ahmed Nader’s training, it’s unlikely he’ll finish it.

The previous night once all the excitement had died down, they’d turned to the subject of Tariq, and everyone had agreed that Noor needed to get out of the country as soon as possible. The only way she could do so was if she got a fiancée’s visa. This morning Charlie had set out for the US consulate, however halfway there a thought had struck him. The last thing he needed was Ivor mixed up in his affairs. So instead he had turned around and driven to Mine Aware. There he had called the American embassy and spoken to an official in the visa section. Three months was how long it usually took for such a visa, she’d told him.

Three months. That’s way too long.

There was one other stipulation. For Noor to be able to travel to the United States, Charlie would have to go with her. In effect he’d have to quit his job. It was okay. With Najib and Mocam at the helm, Mine Aware would be in safe hands until Stephen Adams arrived.

But three months.

He turns to Mocam.

“This is a good group,” he says. “Let’s get them kitted out.”

Charlie heads for his office. In the middle of the compound, Najib has the original set of recruits cleaning their equipment. Najib waves, and Charlie waves back. It’s going to be a quick turnaround. Jurgen had called him this morning. He wants them back in the field in a couple of weeks.

In his office, Charlie sits at his desk and stares at the phone. It will be six-thirty in New York; his father will be out of the shower by now. He takes a deep breath and dials. On the fourth ring a woman picks up.

“Hello,” she says.

“Natalie?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Charlie.”

There’s no response. It’s as if his stepmother’s forgotten that her husband has another son. He hears a muffled conversation. The phone is passed over.

“Charlie? You in trouble?”

The hairs rise on the back of Charlie’s neck.

“No, why would you say that?” Charlie says.

“It’s just it’s five-thirty in the morning.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, I can call back later.”

“No‌—‌don’t go. My God, where are you calling from?”

“Pakistan. Peshawar to be precise.”

“You there with the army?”

“No, I got out after the Gulf War. I’m working for an aid agency, we train refugees how to get mines out of the ground.”

“That sounds like good work.”

“Yeah, it’s been really fulfilling.”

There’s an awkward silence. After five years there’s so much to say but neither knows where to start.

“I’m calling because I met someone,” Charlie says.

“American?”

“Afghan. We’re going to get married.”

There’s another awkward silence. Charlie wonders if his father’s put the phone on mute to talk to Natalie. He grips the receiver even tighter.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, I’m just shocked that’s all.”

“By her nationality?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just all so overwhelming. I had no clue you were in the Gulf War. Did you see action?”

“Some.”

His father inhales. He doesn’t sound like the man he once knew.

“Would your mother have liked her?” his father says.

“She’d have loved her.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

Charlie relaxes his grip.

“Look, Dad, I need a favor. I need to get Noor a fiancée visa. Quick. It’s nothing shady, I promise, we just need to get out of here that’s all. I just thought, you know, with all your connections and everything—”

“Hold on while I get a pen.”

Charlie waits for his father to return.

“Okay,” his father says, “how can I reach you?”

Charlie gives him both his home and work number.

“I’ll call you back when I have something,” his father says.

“Thanks Dad, I really appreciate it.”

There’s silence. Charlie wonders if his father has hung up.

“I know you were angry, Charlie, I know I did many things to push you away, but I want you to know there’s not been a day I haven’t thought of you‌—‌I love you, Charlie.”

Charlie swallows.

“I love you too, Dad.”

Charlie replaces the receiver. He shakes his head.

Shit, maybe miracles can happen after all.

FIFTY-TWO

ELMA LIES ON
her sitting room couch and nurses her third whisky of the night. The house is so quiet she can hear own breathing. She now regrets sending Nadeem away. At least with him here she had some form of company.

How pathetic. All alone. No career, no man, no friends.

She senses a fresh set of tears coming on, and downs the rest of her glass to quell them.

She heads down the corridor towards her bathroom. On the way she passes Noor’s old bedroom. She looks at the bed that Noor made so neatly every morning, at the desk where she studied, at the prayer rug on the floor. She hates to admit it but she misses her.

What have I done? Who have I become?

In her bathroom, she squats over the toilet and pees. On the opposite wall is a print of an upset toddler being comforted by her elder sister. She always wished she’d had an older sibling, but she hadn’t, and over the years she’d comforted herself with the knowledge that it had made her all the more self-sufficient. When she’d got knocked down it had been up to her to pick herself up.

And now’s no different.

She flushes the toilet. She knows what she needs to do, or at least where to start. She grabs her car keys off the top of her bedroom dresser.

Thank God I never called Gerben.

She imagines Noor opening the door at Charlie’s house. Elma will launch into her apology, and when she tells Noor that the scholarship is still hers, Noor will break out into a glorious smile, perhaps even scream with delight and throw her arms around her.

All will be forgiven.

Elma hears the doorbell ring. She smiles.

Well that saves me a trip
.

She hurries down the corridor and flings the front door open to find Ivor standing there in a suit and a Houston Oilers baseball cap. Her heart sinks.

“Got a minute,” he says.

“I’m sorry but—”

“Have news regarding that UNDP post. Good news.”

Elma wavers.

Don’t let him do this to you.

“Come in,” she says.

She leads him into the sitting room.

“Want a drink?”

“Not much of a drinker.”

“Right, I forgot.”

Ivor settles himself on the arm of the couch. He smiles at her in that insincere way she’s so come to despise.

“You don’t look so good,” he says.

“Let’s cut the crap, Ivor, what do you want?”

“I want to tell you a story, two stories actually.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Please, indulge me, you’ll find it worth your while.”

Elma goes over to the drinks cabinet. She pours herself a couple more fingers of Glenfiddich.

“The first’s about a group called Al Qaeda. You heard of em?”

Elma shakes her head.

“It’s made up mainly of Arab mujahideen; men who came out here to fight the jihad and now find themselves at a loose end.”

“Fine they can all go home. Afghanistan will be better off without them.”

“And if only they could. Problem is their governments have no desire to see them return. You see these men are filled with a homicidal hatred of anyone they believe to be insufficiently Islamic, and if you’re the King Fahd or President Mubarak, do you really want these battle hardened zealots training their sights on your philandering ass? No, you’re much better off if they train them on someone else, the United States for instance.”

“I don’t see how any of this concerns me.”

“I apologize, the second story. It concerns a woman named Andrea Engelson, I assume you’ve heard of her.”

Elma nods.

“Great, then I can skip over her Peace Corps work in Peru and that celebrated memoir of hers, and get to the juicy part. You see while it’s expected that most memoirs contain embellishments, even downright lies, it’s what Andrea leaves out of hers that’s most startling. Her relationship, a torrid one it’d appear from the photos, with a doctor called Rafael Ramirez, or as his compatriots in Shining Path like to call him, Comrade Vladimir.”

Elma feels her pulse quicken.

“Now whether Andrea knew of Ramirez’s association with Shining Path is open to question. Odds are she didn’t, if anything he was most likely using her. However the fact that she went on a trip with him to Ayacucho, a rebel stronghold, and the day after they returned there was a deadly bombing in a Lima shopping mall, does raise suspicions, suspicions I’d suggest that need an immediate airing in the American media.”

Elma finishes what’s left in her glass and pours herself another.

“How are these two stories connected?” she says.

“It’s simple really. I need an asset inside Al Qaeda, or at least close to it. You want that position at UNDP.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“The potential asset I’ve lined up is a young man named Tariq Khan, but to reel him in I’m going to have to deliver him something, and what he wants is his sister, Noor.”

The full effect of the whisky finally hits Elma.

“No, never,” she says.

“Why? What is she to you, Elma?”

“She’s a friend.”

“A friend it seems who’s no longer living here.”

Elma’s face betrays her.

“Look,” Ivor says, “you and me, we don’t have a spouse or lifelong friends we hang out with every weekend. What we have is our careers, and the reason we give a shit about them is because, unlike most people, the work we do matters. Every day we make choices about whose life is worth bettering and whose isn’t. What’s your criteria, Elma? I sure as hell know what mine is. Whichever action saves the most lives that’s the one I plump for every time, otherwise all I’m doing is playing favorites.”

“If she marries this Prince her life will be miserable.”

“What because no Afghan refugee would want to live in the lap of luxury?”

“She doesn’t‌—‌she’s in love.”

It’s clear this is a piece of information Ivor wasn’t aware of. Elma’s feels her hand shake. She puts her glass down and grabs a hold of the bookcase.

“So for this love of hers, you’re prepared to allow thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of people to be condemned to a life of misery?”

“I don’t understand”

“You’re good at what you do, Elma. Hell, I’ve not run across someone who does your job better. But if Engelson gets that post, you know as well as I do she’ll use it purely as a vehicle for her next gig, and like I said, thousands will suffer because of that.”

“You could give the media this information without asking me to do this.”

“I could, but then I’d be responsible for anyone who dies in an attack I could’ve averted. No, the only way this works is if you tell me where this Noor Khan is. It’s the right thing to do, Elma. Hell, I’d go so far as to suggest it’s the courageous thing to do.”

FIFTY-THREE

IT IS THE
greatest feast any of them can remember; to call it grand would be to do it a disservice. Mukhtar serves up shorwa soup, crispy samosas and buttery pakoorha before piling onto the table koubedah kebabs, qorma, lamb shanks and qabili pilau with copious bowls of yogurt and chutney to dip everything in. For dessert there are milky ferree puddings, coils of bright orange jalebi, stacks of laddous candy balls, and row upon row of barfi fudge in a panoply of garish colors. Speeches are made and dreams are discussed. It is a celebration filled with laughter and tears.

Afterwards as they drink endless rounds of tea a plan is formulated. Charlie will rent a house for Aamir Khan, Bushra and Wali close to the hospital, and then he and Noor will fly to the States as soon as her visa comes through.

“We’ll go look at houses tomorrow,” Charlie says to Wali. “I think it should just be one floor so you can get around, with three bedrooms obviously—”

“No, no,” Wali grins, “two will be sufficient.”

“What you talking about, you’ll—”

Wali leans over and takes Bushra’s hand in his. Noor shrieks in delight.

“When?” she says.

“Wali asked my permission this morning,” Aamir Khan says.

From there chaos ensues. Hugs are given, more speeches are made, and even more tears are shed.

The phone rings, and Charlie excuses himself. It’s his father.

“There’s a man at the embassy in Islamabad,” his father says. “Steve Farrell, he’s in consular affairs, if you can get down there tomorrow he said he’d sort you out.”

“Does Noor need to go too?”

“No. He said just to bring her passport and a photo, and he should be able to do a temporary visa on the spot.”

Charlie stands there speechless.

“Look, I’m due in a meeting,” his father says

“Dad, wait‌…‌thank you.”

“My pleasure. I can’t wait to meet Noor.”

Charlie runs to his room and grabs his camera. When he returns to the dining room everyone looks in his direction.

“We’re going to have to postpone the house hunt.”

“Why?” Noor says.

“My father’s contact can get you a visa tomorrow.”

“Come on, this is a joke.”

Charlie shakes his head. Wali lets out a cheer.

“Now stand against that wall,” Charlie says to Noor, “the lighting’s good there.”

Noor does as she’s told. Charlie adjusts the zoom until Noor’s head fills the frame.

“You’re not meant to smile in passport photos,” he says.

Noor tries to put on a serious expression only to crack up laughing.

“Noor,” he says.

“I’m trying,” she giggles.