The Guardian (27 page)

‘And the last time it was displayed?’ Cianna asked skeptically.

Saunders looked at Akhtar, and the young man bowed his head. Akhtar spoke penitently. ‘The last time was in 1996, after the Soviets fled from my country. A civil war erupted and it seemed
as though it might never end. One of the strongest leaders in the country came to my father, and asked to see the Cloak – to give him inspiration, he said. My father allowed it, against his
better judgment, and the leader stole the Cloak and took it with him to a rally of his people outside of the mosque. He held it aloft and claimed his legitimacy based on the touch of Mohammed. He
later returned the Cloak to the mosque, but his brief display was enough. Two days later, inspired by the stories of the Cloak, his forces were able to finally take Kabul. He was installed as the
leader of Afghanistan.’

‘Who was he?’ Cianna asked.

‘Mullah Omar,’ Akhtar replied. ‘The leader of the Taliban. The dark age that swallowed my country for the next five years was in large part due to my father’s mistake.
Now there are only two people who can possibly lead Afghanistan, and they are both searching for the Cloak to provide the legitimacy they need to take power. I must make sure that the better of
these two succeeds, and that the worst fails.’

‘Who are the two?’ Saunders asked.

‘One is a man I work for in Kandahar named Gamol. He is the better of the two. He is older, and he remembers the days, even before the Soviets, when Afghanistan was a land of hope. He is a
politician – in all that means, both good and bad – but he would at least take the country forward, and that is what is needed.’

‘And the second man?’

‘The second man you met at the river tonight.’

‘Fasil,’ Saunders said.

Akhtar nodded. ‘Fasil. He is the only other who stands a chance of uniting my country.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He is a fanatic. A rising star in the Taliban before the invasion, he has stayed true to their principles. Even more, his view is that the Taliban was too lenient against non-Muslims, and
those Muslims who strayed from what he believes is the true path. He believes it was that weakness that led to the fall of the Taliban. For several years, he has been consolidating power among
those who believe that the true glory for Afghanistan is a return to the ways of the Taliban. The Sacred Cloak of Mohammed is the only thing that could draw him out of hiding in the mountains.
Twice before he has tried to capture it, but he has failed. My father was the mullah of the mosque where the Cloak has been kept for centuries. For generations, my family has had the great honor of
protecting the Cloak from harm, guarding it with our lives. We had been successful throughout history. Now it would seem that we – I – have failed. That is why I am asking for your
help. I am trying to save my country.’

Cianna stood up and looked at the young man. ‘I don’t give a shit about your country,’ she said. ‘I cared about my brother, and now he’s
dead
! He
didn’t take your goddamned relic; he took a dagger. Maybe that was wrong, but he did it for me, and he never meant to hurt anyone. You may not have pulled the trigger, but it’s people
like you who killed him. You and your whole goddamned country can go to hell!’

She walked toward the door to the motel room. Akhtar stood up and went after her. ‘Where are you going?’

She spun on him. ‘I am going to kill the man who murdered my brother.’ She held his gaze for a moment before she turned and reached for the doorknob.

‘Wait!’ he said. She turned to look at him once more, and again it looked to Saunders as though she might strike out at him. The young man seemed unintimidated. ‘I share your
rage,’ he said. ‘I am not like Fasil, though. He wants a return to the darkness. He wants to kill all those who do not believe as he does. I understand your hatred, but I want only
peace for my country.’

Cianna stepped toward him and put a finger in his chest. ‘You cannot possibly understand my hatred after what I saw today,’ she said in a slow-burning rage.

‘No?’ he replied. ‘When I was thirteen, just after the Americans invaded my country, the Taliban sent a messenger to my father. He reached my father as I was walking with him
in the center of the city. This messenger demanded that he release the Cloak to the Taliban so that they could inspire confidence in their supporters once again. My father refused. He had seen what
the years of Mullah Omar’s rule had wrought on my country. He would not make that mistake twice. The messenger smiled as though he knew my father’s answer even before he gave it. It was
almost as though it was the answer he had wanted. Then he pulled a long knife from under his robe, and sliced through my father’s throat. I was standing there, and I watched as the life
poured out of his body. I held him as he died.’

‘I don’t care,’ Cianna said coldly. ‘Don’t you get it?’ She turned and started back toward the door, but Akhtar grabbed her by the arm and spun her back
around.

‘The Taliban messenger who killed my father? He is the same man who killed your brother today.’

She looked at him. ‘Fasil,’ she said.

‘That is correct. So do not think that I misunderstand your hatred. That is why I am asking for your help. It is not just for my country; it is to avenge my father. To avenge your brother.
Otherwise, all is lost.’

She stared at him for a moment before answering. ‘All is lost already.’

Detective Morrell made his way through the parking lot at the boathouse along the Charles River. The place was a maze of police cars and uniforms, with crime-scene tape draped
across stakes hammered into the ground at regular intervals across the lot. He held his badge up, and met every curious glance with a look that made clear he would not be deterred. This was
Cambridge, and he was outside of his jurisdiction. He wouldn’t be prevented from looking around, but the local authorities would be wary of the outside intrusion, particularly from a Boston
detective. The two forces worked well together when necessary, but the Cambridge cops felt the condescension occasionally directed their way by police officers from the neighboring big city. Under
normal circumstances he would try to be sensitive to that dynamic. These were not normal circumstances, however.

After a moment, Morrell caught sight of Peter Amano, a detective with whom he’d worked in the past, and made his way toward him. The expression of recognition on the man’s face when
he looked up and saw Morrell soured quickly.

‘Pete,’ Morrell said as he drew close. He didn’t offer his hand. He touched people in a familiar way as little as possible.

‘Detective Morrell.’ Amano forced a smile. ‘What brings you out to our little suburb?’

‘My brother was murdered last night.’

The smile faded from Amano’s face. ‘I heard. I’m sorry about that.’

‘Fuckers used a power drill on him. It wasn’t pretty.’ Morrell spoke evenly, letting each word fall like lead.

‘Yeah,’ Amano said. ‘I heard that, too. Like I said, I’m really sorry.’

‘I hear you got a nasty one out here, too.’

Amano nodded. ‘It is that. There are some very sick people sharing our world with us.’

‘And you haven’t even met any of my ex-wives.’ Amano looked curiously at Morrell, as though he couldn’t tell whether the older detective was making a joke or not.
Most
humor springs from truth
, Morrell thought. He kept the notion to himself, though. ‘What happened?’

‘We’re still not sure. It’s remote over here; no houses or other buildings for a few hundred yards in any direction. A few people taking a night stroll along the river, though,
heard what sounded like a full-on shoot-out in there. Unfortunately, they didn’t have their cell phones with them. It was twenty minutes before we even got the call; by then, whatever
happened out here was over. It sure as hell left a mark, though.’ Amano turned toward the east wall. ‘We’ve pulled twenty shells out of the plaster in this wall alone. We’re
still finding more. Military-issue. Looks like one hell of a battle.’

‘Two dead?’ Morrell asked.

Amano nodded. ‘Two dead. One shot in the forehead at close range. Looks like he was executed. Same with the second except he was shot in the back. But he wasn’t involved in the
shoot-out.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’d be hard to pull a trigger with no hand.’

Morrell looked at him. ‘No hand?’

‘Yeah. Like I said, there’re some fucked up people in this world.’

‘You know anything about the vic?’

‘We’re learning. Ex-military. Just got back from Afghanistan. Grew up over in Southie, but no present address we’ve been able to identify yet. Apparently he has a sister who
lives over in Boston, but we haven’t been able to track her down. I’ve got people over there waiting to see if she makes it home. This can’t be the kind of news she’s
looking for today.’

Morrell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Over on Mercer.’

‘In Southie,’ Morrell commented quietly.

Amano’s face curled into a frown. ‘Yeah, in Southie. That mean something to you?’

‘Maybe.’ His memory went back to the little apartment near the projects, and the girl there who had seemed so familiar. His heart was pounding. ‘You got a name?’

Amano now looked suspicious. Morrell knew what the man was thinking. The last thing he needed was for a Boston Detective to come over to his town and solve a high-profile case like this.
‘Phelan,’ he said at last. ‘Charles Phelan.’

Phelan
. It all came swarming back on him in an instant.
Charlie Phelan. Cianna Phelan.
He’d met them the few times he’d been by Nick’s bar years ago. They were
kids – like mascots in the place – who did dishes and waited the occasional table. It was a long time ago, but it was too much of a coincidence. Morrell felt a rage welling up within
him. He had to find the girl. He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Amano studying him carefully.

‘Is there something I should know?’ Amano asked.

Morrell looked at the Cambridge detective. The man had shared information with him, and he knew that Amano was expecting Morrell to return the favor. It was fair, after all, and in any other
situation Morrell would have honored the code and reciprocated. But this situation was different. It wasn’t some addict or unidentified gangbanger lying in the morgue with his guts drilled
out, it was Morrell’s brother, and he’d be damned if someone else was going to get to the girl to question her before he did.

‘No,’ Morrell said, his jaw stiff. ‘There’s nothing you should know, Detective.’

‘She cannot leave. We need her help.’

Akhtar’s voice was quiet and calm, but determined. Saunders frowned as he studied the young man’s face. He agreed that their chances of locating the Cloak seemed far greater if
Cianna helped them. She had known both her brother and Nick O’Callaghan better than anyone else. If either of them had ever had possession of the Cloak and had hidden it, she would be the
person best able to puzzle out its location. But Saunders had also seen the look in Cianna’s eyes, and he understood her need for revenge. It was a powerful human drive, and it fueled so many
of the world’s conflicts. He knew that if they pushed her too hard, they would lose her to that drive.

‘Let me reason with her,’ Saunders said. ‘I can convince her.’

Akhtar nodded. ‘I hope so.’

She was in the bathroom. Earlier she had started to leave the motel room, but Saunders had prevailed upon her to stay. ‘Where are you going to go?’ he’d asked. ‘Are you
going to walk the streets blindly, hoping that you will run into him?’ She hadn’t had an answer to that. ‘Maybe we can help each other.’

Her face remained hard. ‘You don’t care about Charlie,’ she said. ‘ To you this is some sort of geopolitical chess match. I don’t see it that way.’

‘Maybe,’ he’d admitted. ‘But at the moment, it seems to me that our interests are aligned, even if our motivations aren’t.’

Her eyes had blazed back at him and he could feel her hatred. It wasn’t directed at him; it was directed at the entire world. It made her dangerous, and that might make her useful. Her
clothes were wet and disheveled, and a single tear cut a track through the dirt and grime on her face from the boathouse. There was a smear of her brother’s blood on her neck. ‘Clean
yourself off,’ he’d said. ‘Then we can talk.’

Without a word she’d walked past him and into the bathroom. She’d been in there for several minutes.

‘She’ll stay,’ Saunders said to Akhtar. He didn’t feel as confident as he sounded, though.

‘She must.’

‘Or what?’ Saunders asked sharply.

Akhtar said nothing for a moment. ‘Do you not understand how important this is?’ he asked at last. ‘Do you understand what is at stake? If Fasil finds the Cloak, Afghanistan
could fall. All of the work that my people have done in the last ten years, all the sacrifice will be for nothing.’

‘Americans have been dying in your country for a decade, too,’ Saunders reminded him.

‘Yes, they have,’ Akhtar agreed. ‘Nearly two thousand. And for every one of them, more than twenty Afghans have died. If Fasil is permitted to take control of the country back
for the Taliban, all of that will be for nothing. More than that, the conflict could spread. People throughout the region will believe that democracy is not the way, and that the United States is
nothing more than a paper tiger, unwilling to stand by those who stand with you. It cannot be allowed.’

Saunders said nothing. He knew Akhtar was right; he just prayed that Cianna would come to the correct decision on her own.

The door to the bathroom opened a moment later. She stood there, her clothes straightened, her face cleaned, her hair slicked down and parted. Her eyes had turned dark and her face had drawn
tight. In so many ways she seemed like a completely different person.

‘I’m going after him,’ she said.

Saunders took a deep breath. ‘So are we. If we work together, we have a better chance of finding him.’

‘You don’t care about finding him,’ she said. ‘You care about finding the Cloak.’