Wade (12 page)

Their transport was a station wagon, a big, lumbering model almost forty years old. Such vehicles were popular for their durability, but also because
they provided maximum passenger and cargo space. The driver was Kemal, a Tajik who spoke Dari Persian instead of Pashtu. A large man with the thick, blond-streaked hair of his kind, he slouched behind the wheel in morose silence, perhaps from fear or resentment at being assigned to drive two Americans to safety. He sent the station wagon along at a pace that threatened to destroy the tires as they bounced into the holes that pocked the pavement, and would have gone faster if not for the sharp complaints of the young woman beside him. This was Freshta, one of the most daring of the RAWA operatives. She was with them to smuggle out of the country a video showing a woman being executed for the crime of adultery. Once in Pakistan, she would put it into the hands of RAWA members who would see that it reached Western journalists sympathetic to the cause of the women of Hazaristan.

Chloe sat on the middle seat with Wade who was every bit as moody as Kemal. He wore the burqa as if it were a penance, staring through the mesh screen like a hawk through the bars of a cage. His smoldering irritation might have been comical if it hadn't brought to mind the anger she'd felt when she first put one on. In any case, she didn't dare smile for fear he might snatch the despised garment off and throw it at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked, largely as an excuse for staring at him.

The look he gave her was more than a little sardonic.

“What I meant was, no dizziness or nausea? No bleeding because of the jolts?”

“No.”

The clipped sound of his voice scraped on her nerves, but she did her best to ignore it. He wouldn't be here if not for her, she reminded herself. If she had sent him on his way instead of dithering over whether to go or stay, he'd never have been hurt. She felt guilty that he'd come so far, gone to such expense, for nothing since she couldn't go back home with him. He'd brought the news of the inheritance that gave her the promise of independence as well, and she owed him for it. More than that, he was an American, her countryman. She refused to allow him to make her forget her obligation to him.

With the barest of glances in her direction, he asked, “How far do we have to go?”

“A couple of hours to the border, and the same to Rawalpindi on the other side. Everything will be all right once we reach Pakistan.”

“So we're still flying out?”

“I found the plane tickets in your jeans pocket.”

He gave a curt nod. “Your arrangements aren't too different from what I'd planned.”

“They wouldn't be, I suppose. There are a limited number of possibilities. The main problem will be the border crossing.”

“Right.”

“We've done the best we could.”

He made no answer. When she glanced at him, he was staring out the window again at the saw-toothed peaks that loomed ahead of them.

Time wore on. They left the river valley and began to ascend into the pass, winding along in a northwesterly direction over switchbacks that terraced the rocky brown slopes. As the climb grew steeper, they caught up with more slow-moving truck traffic and had to gear down to accommodate it. The trucks were hampered not only by the climb but also by the refugees that clogged the road, some alone, some in family groups, and many of them with everything they owned piled into ramshackle trucks or on handcarts, donkeys, camels and the occasional goat. The two hours Chloe had predicted became three as they crawled along, sometimes coming to a complete halt for moments on end.

The heat inside the station wagon grew stifling with the lack of air movement through the windows. The elevation of the pass wasn't high enough, at just over three thousand feet, to gain much in the way of mountain coolness, and the stone walls rising around them trapped and held the sun's warmth as well as blocking any breeze. Breathing became more difficult under Chloe's burqa, and she knew it was the same for Freshta and particularly Wade since he wasn't used to it. The smells of sweat, musty upholstery, exhaust fumes and the animal dung along the roadway didn't help matters.

The distance they advanced between stops grew shorter and shorter. The station wagon began to make ominous rattling sounds. Kemal got out the next time they came to a stall and poured water into the radiator from a plastic jug carried in the cargo area. They drank from the same jug, letting the cool liquid slide down their parched throats. Afterward, they inched along another few miles. Every now and then Kemal tapped the gauge on the dash panel and muttered into his beard.

The stone walls became cliffs that towered higher around them, far too high to climb. The sun slanted down below the peaks in the west, so the black shadow of the mountains inched lower on the near wall. The border station would close soon.

Then it loomed ahead of them. They crept closer, and the traffic line halted again. Kemal opened the door and got out to stand staring up the road. His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows drew together in a straight line at the edge of his turban.

Chloe looked at Freshta, who understood Dari Persian, as well as a half dozen other common dialects. Instantly the operative put a sharp-voiced query to Kemal. The exchange that followed was brief, with a sound that sent apprehension singing along Chloe's veins.

“Well?” she asked, suddenly breathless.

“The guard has stopped a truck and made the driver show his papers while they search the hold in back,” Freshta answered.

“And that's all?”

“By no means. They have made the woman who rides with him remove her burqa, so she may be searched as well.”

T
he station wagon crept forward again. Wade stared at the cliffs, but they offered no way out. They couldn't turn back without attracting the kind of attention they didn't want. The best thing seemed to be to keep going and hope the border guard was doing random searches. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so helpless. His own fault, of course, for leaving the details of getting out of the country to other people. Not that he'd have been able to arrange it any better.

It was infernally hot under the glorified bedsheet he wore. He didn't mind that so much as the lack of ventilation. His own body heat was trapped under the confining cloth, and the constant trickle of sweat made his wound itch and burn. On top of that was the sheer confinement, giving him the urge to yank it off and devil take the consequences. The surprising thing to him, after just a few hours of it, was that Hazaristan women hadn't risen as a body and murdered every man in sight. The burqa rage in this country had to far surpass any amount of U.S. road rage.

Chloe seemed all right with it. In fact, she was
amazingly calm about their slow creep toward possible arrest. No doubt years of wearing a damn burqa did wonders for self-control. It sure kept anyone from actually seeing you sweat.

While these thoughts ran through one part of his mind, another section was busy with contingencies. He grasped the weapon tucked into the waistband of his pants, testing to see how hard it would be to bring it into play. As Chloe glanced his way, he asked, “Kemal is armed, I suppose?”

“You can be sure of that.”

“He know how to use it?”

The look she gave him was cool. “I'd say so. The men of his family have been fighters for generations.”

“Why isn't he in the army then?”

“He was, until a Taliban unit overran his village a few months ago. Everyone in it was rounded up and shot for aiding the opposition forces. He lost his grandfather, his mother, two younger brothers, a sister and three nephews. Not unnaturally, he deserted when he heard. An older sister had been working with the RAWA, so here he is, aiding us while also acting as liaison between the organization and the opposition.”

Wade considered asking if the woman called Freshta had a similar background, but thought better of it. It seemed everybody had a horror story. “I didn't realize the two groups had the same aims.”

“They don't always. Some of the opposition leaders are as rigid in their interpretation of the Qur'an
as the Taliban. Still, the relative easing of restrictions in Afghanistan gives us hope.”

There it was again, her alignment with women like Freshta. Wade let it pass, however, since his mind was on other things.

The big truck in front of them blocked his view of the border station. All he could see was a couple of people standing on the side of the road as if waiting for the search to be over. The driver was watching them, too, his eyes narrowed and his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“What are the chances of Kemal opening fire if something starts going down?” he asked Chloe in a low murmur.

“Excellent. His job is to protect us as well as take us across the border.”

Her tone suggested that she considered it a reasonable arrangement. She apparently figured he was in no shape to use a weapon. He'd be the first to admit that he wasn't in top form, but he was stronger than he'd led her to believe. That was the way he intended to keep it for a while longer.

He suspected that the past two days at the RAWA stronghold had left Chloe feeling even more grateful than she had been before, and guilty that she was running out on her friends. He could almost see her withdrawal into the dedicated mind-set she'd shown during their meeting in the garden. If he was a betting man, he'd put money on her planning to get him out of the country and on a plane home then go under
ground to defeat the Taliban. That might be noble, but he couldn't let it happen. If he must play the invalid to keep her off guard, then so be it.

She seemed less wary of him while he was down, so to speak. He didn't mind reining in his normal fast rate of recovery if it allowed him to get closer to her. The time might come when he'd need every advantage he could find or manufacture.

The truck ahead pulled into place for its turn, and Kemal eased the station wagon another few yards forward. They watched as the driver was ordered out and patted down for weapons. Freshta exclaimed under her breath, then spoke to Kemal in sharp tones. The driver spread his hands in the universal gesture of helplessness. A second later, he reached down and felt under his seat as if checking a hidden weapon. Wade felt his stomach muscles contract. The prospect of a gun battle was all right, but he didn't care for the idea of the two women being caught in the middle of it.

The truck driver was given the all clear. He climbed back into his rig that was large by Middle Eastern standards, but was like a toy compared to its American equivalent. As the guard waved him on, he pulled across the border and rumbled away, leaving the station clear.

Chloe reached out to put a hand on Wade's arm. “Lie back,” she urged. “Close your eyes and act sick.”

Playacting went against the grain. It might be worth it to prevent a confrontation that could get the women
hurt, however. Besides, it was hard to resist the appeal in her eyes. He slumped down lower in the seat and closed his eyes.

Kemal pulled forward. Wade heard the border guard speak from a position near the driver's side window. A rustling sound indicated that their identification papers were being handed over. During the pause while they were scrutinized, Wade noticed the calls of birds. Somewhere a donkey brayed then fell silent again.

“Out,” the guard commanded. “Out of the vehicle.”

“Wait,” Freshta began.

“Do not speak. Out. The women will remove their coverings.”

Wade heard the swift intake of Chloe's breath. No one in the station wagon moved or spoke. The magnitude of this disaster seemed to hold them in its grip, as though it had taken away their ability to react.

He put a hand to his side, then began to sit up. “Kemal,” he began, searching for the words in Pashtu that would alert the driver to be ready to make a move.

Abruptly Chloe swung toward her door and shoved it open. She erupted from the vehicle in a flurry of blue fabric. Screaming like a madwoman, she flew at the guard. With her face inches from his, she railed at him, calling him a defiler of women who sought to breach the sanctity of the veil for his own lewd and immoral purposes. Advancing on him, she demanded
to know how he would feel if the women of his own family should be subjected to so shameful a necessity.

The guard blustered and waved his arms, but backed away the whole time. He was obviously demoralized, as if he'd never seen a woman in a temper before, never had one dare take him to task.

Chloe stalked him, talking faster, louder, waving her arms so her burqa flapped as if she would take flight. It looked as if she meant to chase the man back into his own guardhouse. Wade felt a warning tingle run down his spine. She was getting too far away from the station wagon and too near the guard. The man's face was turning red, and his frown growing blacker.

With his pistol gripped tight in his hand, Wade spoke in an urgent undertone to the woman called Freshta. “Call her back,” he instructed. “Do it now. Tell her that I need her.”

“It will be as well,” the young woman answered in concern. Lifting her voice, she did as he'd suggested.

Chloe glanced back at them, then turned again to the guard. With a final gesture of angry contempt, she snatched their papers from his hand, then turned her back and strode toward them. Flinging herself in at the open door of the station wagon, she slammed it shut. Even as the sound echoed off the stone walls around them, she touched Kemal's shoulder. “Go,” she said. “Drive away. Now!”

The driver said something incomprehensible,
though the way he gripped the weapon he held in his lap spoke volumes.

“He says the guards will begin to fire at any moment,” Freshta translated.

Chloe put her hand on the woman's shoulder. “They won't if we go now. We have the initiative. Tell him. Please.”

She was right, Wade saw. Their window of opportunity was getting narrower every second, however. Already, the guard was walking toward them again.

As Freshta spoke to the driver in a fast undertone, he began to wag his turbaned head.

Wade had had enough. In hard, but low command, he said, “Drive!”

The driver recognized the tone, if not the meaning. He flung down the pistol and jerked the station wagon into gear. They untracked with a screech of rubber.

Regardless, the Tajik had the presence of mind not to turn the departure into an escape. After that first jerk, he pulled away like a man on a family outing.

They seemed to move too slowly, in fact. The contrast between the instinct for speed and the actual turning of the wheels made it feel as if they were crawling. Wade strained for the sound of a shout, a shot, anything that would indicate an alarm. At the same time, he fought the urge to pull Chloe down beside him so she wouldn't make quite such a good target.

Freshta began to turn in her seat. “Don't look
back,” Wade warned. “Act as though we have a perfect right to leave.”

“Just so,” she said with a judicious nod, and faced forward again.

Chloe was staring at him. He risked a glance, half-afraid of what he might see.

“You're giving the orders now?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“All I wanted was to get you out of there, pronto, before that goon recovered from the shock of seeing a woman turn into a witch in front of his eyes. You won, hands down. No use pressing your luck.”

“I thought…” She stopped.

“What?”

“That you might be afraid I'd be hurt.”

She was trying to see past the screen that concealed his features. Well, good luck to her. “I guess you could say that.”

“Then I should thank you.”

He was stunned into a long silence, during which they drove ever farther into Pakistan. “That's it?” he asked finally. “You're not mad because I horned in on your rescue operation?”

“You gave the orders that were required. You backed me up when I needed it. I'm grateful.”

He laughed and gave a slow shake of his head.

“What's so funny?”

If she could be that forthcoming, then so could he. “Not funny, but amazing. What you did back there was one of the bravest things I've ever seen. I've
known combat veterans who'd have thought twice about charging an armed guard with only words for weapons.”

She looked down at her hands. “I was just so mad that I…that it went all over me. The idea that he would take away the burqas the instant they might cause a problem, or that he could prevent us from leaving a place where staying is a daily penance, just made me crazy.”

“Whatever the reason, you did it. You got us out.”

She met his gaze there in the moving station wagon as the Hazaristan border fell away behind them, met and held it without instantly looking away as she usually did. The color of her eyes was a deep aquamarine-blue, he discovered, and almost crystalline in their clarity. She saw him, saw through him, as no one else ever had or would, or so it seemed. Deep inside him, something stirred as if in ancient recognition. And he wanted her as he'd never wanted anything or any woman in his whole life, wanted her with a pure longing that transcended physical desire to become soul-shattering necessity. He stared at her transfixed, aware that here and now, when he was most profoundly glad to be a man, he was dressed like a damn skirt-bound woman.

“I was terrified,” Chloe said, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

It was then that he noticed the fine tremors that shivered along the folds of cloth covering her. Brave
beyond words while she needed to be, she was paying the price now that the danger was over.

He reached out and touched the shape of her arm under her burqa, following it to the elbow and along her forearm until he could grasp her hand. With a tentative, inviting movement, he tugged her toward him.

Her gaze became valley-deep and edged with pain. Seeing it, he knew beyond a doubt that she meant to leave him. Still, he didn't look away. And after a second, she moved to his side, fitting herself against him while being careful of his knife wound. She relaxed by degrees, letting him hold her while they wound down out of the rift of the Azad Pass. He'd thought she might cry, but she did not. Together, they lay back, their eyes wide as they stared at the road ahead of them.

The station wagon had covered no more than fifteen miles when white, smokelike steam began to seep from under the hood, streaming back with the speed of their travel. It smelled of hot metal as it swirled in at the windows, and its pungency stung their eyes. Chloe sat up, and Wade followed suit. Kemal slowed, staring anxiously ahead as if in search of a place wide enough to pull off the road. Before one appeared, the engine died.

The Tajik steered onto the narrow shoulder as they rolled to a stop. He sat for a moment with disgust printed on his face. Then he slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. Opening the door, he
got out and stalked to the hood. He popped it loose, then flung it upward on its hinges.

Steam boiled out in a dirty cloud. The driver jumped back with an exclamation followed by a string of obvious invective. Freshta gave a nervous laugh, then bit her lip. With a worried glance over her shoulder in Wade's direction, she said, “You must know something of American machines. Is this one on fire, do you think?”

“Running hot again,” Wade answered. “I'd say the head's probably cracked.”

“A serious matter then?”

“Can't drive with it, if that's what you mean. The engine will have to be replaced.”

Freshta looked at Chloe, apparently for enlightenment. As the concept was translated, she said, “I fear this will be difficult, since a similar vehicle that has been smashed must be found. It will take time, much time.”