Shadow of Betrayal (3 page)

“Not safe. You should not be out here.”

The little girl smiled at Marion. It was doubtful she could understand a word that was being said.

“I told you. I’m just trying to go home,” Marion said.

“No car? Alone?”

Marion looked at him for a moment, then shook her head.

“You will be killed,” the man said, but he lowered his own gun, indicating the bullet would not come from him. “Wait until morning.” He nodded at the spot she had been hiding in when the convoy passed. “There. You will be safe. I will not… give you trouble.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to go.”

The man’s eyes grew distant, then he said, “Wait.” Only this time she knew he didn’t mean for her to hide out in the alley all night.

He turned and walked quickly away, disappearing behind the back of the shop. The little girl followed him, though more reluctantly, stealing glances back at Marion, until she, too, was gone.

Though Marion felt the need to continue her journey, she did as the old man asked. Less than a minute later he was back, this time alone. The pistol he’d held in his hand had been replaced by a rectangular box that tapered at one end and fit snug in his palm.

He hesitated a moment, then held it out to her. She took it, unsure what to do with it. Without taking it from her hand, the old man turned the device so that the tapered end lay across her palm. In this
direction, her thumb fell naturally across the top of the box and rested on top of a square button.

“Touch someone with this end,” the man said, pointing at the wide edge of the box. “Push button. Electric.”

“You mean shock?” she asked. “Like a Taser?”

He looked at her like he hadn’t understood what she was asking.

“Electric. Electric,” he said, then he shook his body, imitating the results.

“I can’t take this from you,” she told him, holding it back out.

“Bring it back,” he said. “After the sun comes up.”

She took a breath, then nodded and said, “Thank you.”

Without another word, he walked back the way he’d come. Marion then turned and retraced her steps to the street.

For thirty minutes Marion worked her way through half-paved side streets and dirt paths, avoiding the main roads altogether. Any time there was even the slightest sound, she would stop and wait until she was sure there was no threat. In her right hand she held on tight to the Taser as if it were a talisman guaranteeing her passage through the city.

It seemed to work, too. She had seen no one else on her trip. And while she had heard a few more military vehicles, they had been distant and of no concern.

That was until she turned onto the street where the orphanage was located.

There were two vehicles double-parked in front of the three-story building that housed the orphanage—a jeep and a sedan, both with headlights on, and drivers sitting at the ready. Two other soldiers stood near the open door of the building.

She was three blocks away, so they hadn’t noticed her. But if she continued on, she wouldn’t even make it to the next block without being spotted. There weren’t enough cars to hide behind, and, in the curfew-induced stillness, any movement would draw attention.

She doubled back, then went two blocks farther away before cutting over to the dirt alley that ran behind the orphanage. Water ran down the center of the road, the last remnants of the storm that had
passed through earlier that evening. Other than that, the road was quiet. There were no soldiers anywhere in sight.

Marion made her way past run-down and bullet-strewn buildings that had survived coup after coup and would undoubtedly survive at least one more. The orphanage building was as old as the others, but better cared for, someone having taken the time to slap concrete patches over the worst damage. From her previous visits, Marion knew the ground floor was taken up by a small office, a kitchen, and a combination dining room/meeting place. On the second and third floors were rooms for the staff, dorms for the children, and a few makeshift classrooms.

Roslyn’s Place, that’s what everyone called it. But it had no official name. Nor was it sponsored like places in other parts of the city. Those orphanages had the backing of large religious agencies or other NGOs—non-governmental organizations.

Roslyn’s Place had no backing. It was just something that had been started by a Swiss woman who had visited the country twenty years earlier and had never left. Frau Roslyn had intended it as a facility where children could come, feel safe, and perhaps even learn something during the day. But when she realized that many of the kids who came to her had nowhere else to go in the evenings, she began letting them stay. It wasn’t long before the occasional baby or toddler would be left at the front door. Roslyn could have turned them over to an official facility, but she never did. She felt the responsibility had been given to her, so she had no intention of passing it on.

Now, the first thing she did every morning was open the front door and look down.

With the help of a few locals whom Roslyn paid out of her modest savings, she did it all on her own. When Marion had stumbled upon Roslyn’s Place two months earlier, she’d made it her personal mission to do what she could to help out. Using her position within the UN, she’d been able to arrange for a shipment of school supplies, and had even convinced a European-based aid organization to send packages of nonperishable food every few weeks. But racing through the city in the middle of the night on foot was not something she had ever foreseen as part of her commitment.

Marion ducked down and passed below the darkened first-floor windows, making her way over to the dingy door on the far side. It was the back entrance into the kitchen, where most of the supplies were brought in. She put an ear to the wooden surface and listened. The room beyond was quiet. She grabbed the knob and gently turned it. As Frau Roslyn had promised on the phone, the door was unlocked. Marion had been warned that the hinges were not the quietest, so she slowly worked the door open just enough so she could squeeze inside.

Low light seeped into the kitchen from the window near the door. But it was more than adequate for Marion’s night-adjusted eyes to see. She skirted past an old wooden table covered with pans and boxes and bags, and tiptoed over to the doorway that led out into the dining hall. There was no actual door, just a flower-print drape covering the opening. At serving time, it would be moved out of the way and held in place by a hook mounted on the wall.

Marion pulled the curtain back just enough to peer into the other room. The dining hall was also unlit, but like the kitchen, there was more than enough illumination shining through the windows from outside. The tables were empty, and the ragtag group of chairs and benches were all neatly in place. Everything ready and waiting for the morning meal.

Marion pushed the curtain out a little so she could look to her right toward the front of the building, and immediately caught her breath. There was someone standing against the wall only a few feet away. Her first instinct was to let go of the drape and escape out the back door into the night. But she didn’t move. Frau Roslyn’s words from her rushed call earlier came back to Marion.

“They’re coming back,” the old woman had said.

The call had woken Marion. “Who?” she’d asked, trying to focus.

“It’s them. The ones we talked about. They’re making the rounds again,” Frau Roslyn said. “I just got the call. They’ll be here soon, I’m sure of it.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about. Last time they only stayed a few minutes and then they were gone.”

“We didn’t have what they were looking for last time.”

It took a second for Marion to realize what Frau Roslyn was
saying. When she did, she could feel the blood drain from her face. “Iris.”

“Yes.”

That had been enough to start her on her night journey.

Marion steadied herself and took another look at the person who was standing on the other side of the door. With calmer eyes, she realized the shape was too small to be one of the soldiers. It had to be one of the children from upstairs. The form shifted against the wall, turning toward the back and allowing the light from outside to play across the child’s face.

Dominique. Of course.

Marion pulled the curtain open a little more, then whispered, “Dominique.
C’est moi.
Mademoiselle Dupuis.”

Dominique didn’t even jump. “I heard you come in,” she said in French. “Frau Roslyn sent me to wait for you.”

Marion leaned her head through the opening. “Where is she?”

“With the soldiers.” Dominique pointed above them. “You stay. I will get her.”

“I should come with you.”

The girl shook her head several times. “No. She doesn’t want them to see you. Wait. It will only take me a minute.”

The girl turned and ran off before Marion could say anything more. Not sure what else to do, Marion pulled her head back into the kitchen and let the drape close over the opening. She tried not to think of anything, but her mind wouldn’t let that happen.

Iris. Why would they want her?

The girl had been left at Roslyn’s Place only a week before. Not a baby, but no more than four or five. Iris couldn’t tell anyone how old she was. It wasn’t just that she didn’t know; she had no concept of age and probably never would. She’d been born with Down syndrome and would forever need the help of others to survive. What tears had been on the girl’s cheeks when they found her soon disappeared in smiles and laughter as Frau Roslyn and the other children welcomed her into their family.

Marion could hear someone enter the dining room. She gripped the Taser tightly in her hand, ready in case the new arrival was not a
friend. But when the curtain was pulled aside, Marion relaxed. It was Roslyn.

The old Swiss lady was short and thin with a wrinkled face and white hair that stopped just above her shoulders. And while her appearance did nothing to hide the fact that she’d seen more years than most, she exuded an inner strength, a confidence that made the toughest of men pause before deciding to take her on.

“Come with me,” Roslyn said.

Without another word, the old woman went back into the dining room. Marion followed.

“How long have they been here?” Marion whispered once she caught up to her.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“They haven’t found her, then?”

“No,” Roslyn said. “But they know she was here. Someone must have told them. They say they won’t leave until they find her.”

They crossed the dining room toward the hallway that led to the office at the front of the building. Marion was about to ask another question, but Frau Roslyn held up her hand, stopping her.

“You must be quiet,” the woman said. “They will hear you. And if they hear you …”

She didn’t have to finish the thought. They both knew what would happen.

As they entered the short hallway, Frau Roslyn paused. There was light at the far end where the small building lobby was located. Above them, Marion could hear the movement of several heavy sets of feet. There were also the muffled cries and voices of children unsure why they had been woken in the middle of the night.

Frau Roslyn took several quiet steps forward, passing the door on the left that led to her office, and another on the right to the makeshift first aid station. Again, Marion followed.

They stopped a couple feet shy of the end of the hallway. If anyone had walked by, the light from the lobby would have been more than enough to expose Marion’s presence.

Frau Roslyn leaned to her right, looking into the lobby. The angle would give her a view of the front door. When she straightened and
turned around, she whispered almost too low for Marion to hear, “Two soldiers, but they’re still outside. Come on. We don’t have much time.”

She pushed past Marion and opened the door to her office. Unlike the back entrance, the hinges on this door were well oiled and made no sound. Frau Roslyn motioned Marion inside, then she closed the door, easing the latch into place.

“The soldiers,” Marion said, “they won’t hurt the children, will they?”

The woman shook her head. “Jan is up there.”

Jan was Roslyn’s cousin. A large Swiss-German man who had the benefit of being a former member of the Swiss government, something Roslyn would have made sure the soldiers knew.

“Where’s Iris?” Marion asked.

Roslyn put a finger to her mouth, then turned and edged her way around the large metal desk that seemed to take up half the room. She reached up and made sure the curtains across the window on the back wall were fully closed. Then, instead of sitting down in the old wooden chair, she continued past the desk to the sidewall. Like the rest of the room, the wall was painted off-white. On it were hung several framed pictures of Frau Roslyn with children who had at one time or another lived in the orphanage. They all seemed to be smiling and happy and content.

The old woman moved one of the pictures to the side and touched a spot on the wall. There was a faint click, then the wall eased open an inch. Roslyn reached around the edge of the opening and pulled the wall out like a door.

Marion’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Come, come,” the old woman said.

Marion hesitated a moment longer, then moved around the desk and joined Frau Roslyn.

Since the hidden door swung out into the office, Marion had not been able to see what was inside until the door was all the way open. The space it revealed wasn’t large, maybe a meter deep at best, and only as wide as the opening. It was made even more cramped by the fact that it wasn’t empty.

One of the older boys was inside. He was maybe thirteen or fourteen. Marion had seen him many times before but couldn’t remember his name. In his arms he held another child. A girl, much younger than he was. Her head rested against his chest and her eyes were closed in sleep.

It was Iris. There was no mistaking her.

The old woman held her hands out, and the boy gave her the child.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“She slept the whole time, Frau Roslyn.” The boy smiled. “She was very good. Are they gone?”