Wade (11 page)

“Yes.” She signaled an okay to the widow where she hovered near the door. Ayla whisked herself from the room with more grace and dispatch then her round shape suggested. Chloe moved to close the window blinds then, and bring the lamp closer. She placed a trash can at the bed's edge, then stepped nearer to where he sat on the mattress.

For a moment, Wade was sure she had no idea where to start. Then she flexed her fingers and shook them as if to release tension. With only a brief glance that didn't quite connect with his eyes, she reached around him and began to loosen the scarf she'd applied as bandaging.

She had to lean over his knees so her pelvis pressed against them. It was interesting for him, but bound to be uncomfortable for her. With a hand at her waist, he moved her back a little as he spread his thighs, then guided her into the opening.

She was stiff and unresponsive for a long moment. Her gaze through the mesh over her eyes was ques
tioning. Abruptly he realized that the position was a copy of the one they'd shared earlier. That memory flared like a hot coal in his mind, though he tamped it down with an effort. “Just trying to help.”

She made no replay, but went back to her job.

Wade sat still while trying to breathe normally against the rise of pain in the gash as pressure was released. He could feel the warm ooze of fluid again and the beginning of a throbbing ache that he knew would get worse before it got better. Then as she pulled free one end of the cloth that was stiff with drying blood, he stifled a gasp.

She sent him an upward glance. “Sorry.”

He needed a distraction. The combination of Chloe's nearness and what was happening at his waistline wasn't helping his equilibrium. His strongest impulse at this moment was to lean forward and gather her into his arms, then lie back on the bed with her and drift into sleep.

Tweaking a fold of her burqa that was draped over his knee between two fingers, he said. “Your friend, the widow, didn't seem to mind me seeing her face. How come you're still wearing this tablecloth?”

“My hair would be exposed without my scarf. Besides, the front of my skirt is stained with your blood.”

“Ayla's hair isn't covered.”

“This is her home and she has no male relatives to care.”

“You're also unattached now,” he pointed out in
his most reasonable tone. “Anyway, you'll probably never see any of these people again once we leave here. What does it matter if they know we've been a little closer together than might be acceptable?”

Carefully she peeled away another section of makeshift bandaging that was stuck like glue. “We aren't gone yet, and we need their support. Ignoring their conventions isn't the best way to get it. And if we give them proof of wrongdoing then are taken by the police, we could be executed for…for what they think we have done.”

“We'd be innocent.”

“Tell that to mullahs who pass sentence.”

“You're sure it's not something else?”

“Such as?”

“Maybe a way to hide in plain sight?”

Her movements stilled. Resentment, or something near it, flashed at him from behind her little screen. “From what?”

“I'm not sure. Unwanted attention maybe?”

“Yours, I suppose.” The comment was dry.

“Or any other man's.”

“Brilliant deduction,” she said in cool irony, “and isn't it nice how well it matches Taliban edicts?”

She unwound the last of the scarf and tossed it aside as she finished speaking. It might have been an accident that she avoided his gaze by turning away to wash her hands, but he didn't think so. If the burqa wasn't a personal choice, then he could think of only one reason why she might cling to it.

He didn't much care for where that idea led him. Calling her on it didn't seem like much of a plan, however. If she was thinking of staying here, in spite of everything, then there had to be a better way to put a stop to it. She didn't respond to pressure tactics too well, as far as he could see.

Chloe dried her hands, then turned to him again. Stepping close, she griped the fullness of his T-shirt and began tugging the knit fabric from his jeans, a little here, a little there. The slow process as she tried to keep from hurting him was not comfortable. She was driving him crazy by inches.

Wade put his hands on hers to stop her. Then he grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it free of the long slash in his side in a single excruciating movement. While his body was still numb with the shock, he stripped the bloody mess off over his head.

“That must have hurt.” She took the shirt and dropped it into the trash.

“Get it over and done with, that's my motto,” he said, and immediately clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering as he shuddered with reaction.

“So macho. You do know you've made it bleed worse than ever.”

“Never mind. Just get started.”

“There's no anesthetic,” she said in doubtful tones. “I'll try to be as quick as I can.”

“Fine. Just don't reassure me anymore, will you? Or I may back out altogether.”

“You can't!”

Her lack of tact was, he thought, a measure of her concern. He must be worse off than he'd thought, not that he wanted to inspect the damage. In his driest tone, he said, “That was a joke. Sort of.”

Reproof was in the glance she flung in his direction, he suspected, though he couldn't be sure because of the damn screen. The barrier was absolutely maddening, almost more so than the pain in his side. He had to fight a wild need to bodily drag all that extra cloth off her. As a substitute, he made a silent vow to talk her out of it as soon as he could manage it.

He realized after a second that she hadn't looked away from him. She stood unmoving, her gaze focused on his chest and shoulders. As the seconds ticked past, it seemed he could feel it on his skin. Simple reaction made his flat nipples tighten into knots.

“What?” he asked, unexpected self-consciousness making his voice sharp. “You never saw a half-naked man before?”

“No. At least…No.”

“Never? Not even in the States?”

“At the swimming pool and the beach.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “They were only boys.”

It was a nice distinction, one he might appreciate at another time. For now, all he could think of was the obvious question raised by her admission. He opened his mouth to ask it, then closed it again.
Whether she was still a virgin, technically or otherwise, was none of his business.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for she backed away a step. Then she turned abruptly toward the sink to scrub her hands again.

The old watchman appeared at that moment. He carried a pot of water from which steam rose to wet his face. He said something to Chloe, but his voice was so low and rasping that Wade didn't catch it. Then he set down the pot, sent Wade a look of pity that needed no translation, and went away again.

“He wanted to know if he should hold me down?” Wade asked in a lame attempt at humor.

“He said a car will arrive shortly to take us to a safer place,” she answered as she began to remove sterile scissors and needles from the scalding water with a pair of tongs. “The driver should be here by the time we're done.” She paused. “I don't suppose there's anything you absolutely must have from your hotel?”

He thought of the satellite cell phone in his suitcase. Nat would be waiting for a report. There were arrangements that still could be made, given enough time. Yet it seemed the best way to make sure that Chloe got out of the country was to let her call the shots. She hadn't done badly thus far. “Nothing,” he answered. “At least nothing important enough to risk going after.”

“Good. That's good.”

Turning from the instrument table, she indicated
that she was ready. Wade lay down on the plastic sheet. As she lifted his feet to the mattress, he rolled to his side, facing her. He bent his arm and rested his head on it, making himself as comfortable as possible. Then he closed his eyes.

The smell of some strong, old-fashioned soap filled his nose as he breathed deep, trying to relax. Seconds later, he felt the heat of a wet cloth moving over his bare skin. It was soothing as it passed over sensitized nerves, wiped away the itch of dried blood. He thought she followed the path of the cloth with her fingers, trailing them over the muscles of his abdomen and along the dip of his waist to his back. Whether from that touch or because of cool air brushing over damp skin as she shifted, he broke out in a rash of goose bumps along his backbone and the tops of his shoulders.

All pleasure in the experience suddenly vanished as she began to clean the wound, making a thorough job of it. It was a drastic reminder of what would come next.

The first piercing stab of the needle was the worst. Wade went rigid, feeling it in every atom of his being. Then he forced his mind to let go of the pain. He breathed deep, not fighting it but allowing it to flow through his body and away from him. After that, he lay perfectly still while she fastened his flesh back together like sewing a ripped seam.

Finally it was done. He was strapped up again with enough gauze and tape to wrap a mummy. The widow
Ayla returned for this last stage, bringing with her glasses of hot sweet tea for both him and Chloe. When he had drunk down this primitive form of glucose, she and Chloe pulled a baggy shirt with a deep neck slit and no buttons on over his head so he would put no strain on his stitches. Then they left him alone to exchange his jeans for a pair of khaki pants that looked like a designer knockoff. No underwear was provided to take the place of his blood-caked briefs. He raised a brow, but ignored the oversight since complaining didn't seem worth the effort.

The tea should have been sweeter and stronger. He was sweating by the time he was dressed, and needed help to walk across the room to the door. He said a polite and fairly coherent thank-you to the widow for her help and hospitality, or thought he did, then accepted the support of both Chloe and the watchman to the waiting car. The driver held the door open, and Wade slid gratefully onto the seat.

After that, everything came at him in flashes, like photo slides blinking one after the other across a screen. There was a gate that they rolled through without stopping. A fortress with gun-toting guards posted on the roof. A young woman with voluptuous breasts emphasized by a bodice embroidered with blue flowers and carrying a toddler on her hip. A pallet filled with down in a room with no windows. A taste of bread and chicken broth swallowed in darkness. Quiet, peace and sleep.

The dreams came then. Never quite the same, they
were also never really different. Sometimes the oilman's wife died from a knife slash to the throat instead of gunfire. Other times, it was Chloe who died. Or Ayla. Or the woman with the blue rose bodice. Or the stepsister whose children cried in the night. All the visions were filled with endless blood and pain. And in all of them, he was running, running, but unable to stop what was coming, yelling warnings that could not be heard.

Now and then, someone would come and lie down beside him, someone with a woman's soft body and sweet, clean scent. She held him against her, smoothing her hands over his shoulders and down his back, or else she would turn her back against him and allow him to hold her. She didn't move, even when his lax fingers cupped her breast as they fell naturally into place over her.

He knew the woman in his dreams, knew the shape and feel of her body and the balm of her touch. Knew her name and the secrets of her mind. He wanted her, needed her with a raw desperation that ate at him, clawing into his side. He was aware, with the wisdom of dreams, that to say so, to speak her name, would be to make her disappear. So he was silent. And while she was there, the nightmares remained at bay, as if she had some magic to banish them and allow him to sleep.

But often he woke alone, staring into the dark with his clothes wet with sweat and thirst like an ache in
his throat. In those few lucid moments, he realized that his companion of the night was gone, and wondered if delirium had played tricks on him and Chloe had never been there at all.

“H
ow long have we been here?”

Chloe turned quickly at the low-voiced question. Wade was watching her, his gaze troubled yet clear. She hadn't realized he was awake. Leaving the pallet she'd been straightening, she took the few steps that separated their sleeping places and went to one knee beside him. “Not quite forty-eight hours,” she answered, reaching automatically to lay her fingers on his forehead. “You seem better this morning.”

His smile had a rueful twist. “I've felt worse.”

“I think your fever is lower.”

“Could be.”

She removed her hand and sat back. There was a pause. His gaze flicked over the veil-like scarf that covered her hair and the lower portion of her face, then returned to her eyes. All the things that had passed between them hovered unspoken. She thought that he meant to make some comment, and waited for it, trying to decide what she'd say.

It had not been an easy time. She'd slept only in snatches and mostly at his side since that was the only way he remained calm. Some of the men in the com
pound had taken care of his more personal needs, but she had sponged him to keep down the fever, given him water and spoon-fed him at intervals around the clock. She'd listened to his disjointed ramblings and held him with almost guilty closeness. Never had she known a male as she knew this one, though she really didn't know him at all.

Apparently he was as reluctant to bring things out into the open as she was. He glanced beyond her shoulder for a second before he spoke again.

“What's been going on? Have I missed anything?”

She weighed her answer, trying to decide if he was well enough to hear it. He needed to be, and soon. They couldn't stay where they were much longer. “The police are looking for you,” she said finally. “You are accused of abducting me from my stepbrother's house.”

“Figures.”

“Yes. Ahmad is hiding the fact that I left of my own will and with a strange man. That leaves marriage as an open option should I be returned to him. Naturally he can pretend to discover my crime afterward as an excuse for getting rid of me.”

“Once he's gained control of the money from your dad.”

“Exactly.” She hesitated, then added, “The police also think you killed my stepsister when she tried to stop this kidnapping.”

The little color he had receded from under his sun
tanned features. “What about her husband? Is he saying nothing?”

“It seems so.”

“Meaning?”

It was a question she'd been trying to answer for herself without much success. “Ismael loved her, I'm sure of that much. He may be protecting his children, since he knows that Ahmad will make them orphans if he finds out the extent of his cooperation with her activities. Only his mother would be available to look after the girls then. Ahmad could, and probably would, take them from her.”

“You think he'd really kill kids?”

“Who can say?” she answered with a tired sigh. “They may be literally the children of a she-goat in his mind, and therefore tainted. But he could also take them to be brought up as good little Muslim girls by the grandmother and grandfather who raised him, and that would be merely a different kind of death.” Her stepfather, Imam, might have intervened, since he was still officially head of the household. But his connection with the opposition forces in the hills made him a traitor who could be shot on sight if he left their mountain stronghold.

“This stepbrother of yours is psychotic,” Wade said in disgust.

“You could say so. Others might call him devout and a good patriot, though extreme. He's declared a jihad against you.”

Wade lifted a brow. “I thought that was some kind of holy war.”

“Yes, though it's broad enough to include war against any infidel. It can also mean a struggle or crusade against evil in any form. You are not only an unbeliever but have impugned Ahmad's honor and defiled his house, and for that you must die.”

“As slowly and painfully as possible, I suppose?”

His voice was flat. It was a good indication, Chloe thought, that he understood the seriousness of the threat. “Just so.”

“It seems like cheating for good old Ahmad to bring the police into it. What kind of revenge is it if they chop off my head for him?”

“The main thing is that it makes getting you out of Hazaristan more difficult.”

“Just me?”

He was sharp, regardless of his bout with fever. “Us. I should have said us.”

“What about the people who helped out the other night?” he asked. “No repercussions for them?”

“Everything has been quiet with Ayla and her watchman. Not even a visit from the police.”

“That's good. I'd hate to repay her by causing her arrest.”

“She requires no repayment.”

He gave her a straight look. “Maybe I need to make it.”

“Your code, of course.”

“Simple gratitude,” he corrected.

She saw that perfectly well, since she felt the same about all that had been done for her over the past few days. It just wasn't what she'd expected from him. “The sooner we are away from here, the better it will be for everyone.”

“Ready when you are.”

“You're sure?”

A wry smile tilted one corner of his mouth. “You don't believe me?”

“You've been extremely ill,” she said. “A little fever isn't unusual with a wound, but I was afraid I hadn't cleaned it well enough, or that the infection would turn into blood poisoning.”

“You did fine. Don't worry. I'll make it.”

Something in his voice snagged her attention. She studied his features, half-hidden now behind a two-day growth of beard that gave him the raffish look of a bandit. They seemed refined by fever, but gave nothing away. After a moment, she said, “We'll go this afternoon then. If we time it right, we can reach the border checkpoint just before the guard changes, when they are less likely to inspect papers too closely.”

“Assuming we have papers? Other than American, I mean.”

“That's been taken care of. We travel as Saudi nationals.”

“I can handle that.”

“We'll be taking the higher route through Azad Pass at the Pakistan border. It's the one favored by
refugees because of the camps set up by the Pakistani government, so we should have plenty of company. Once over the border, it will be easy enough to reach Rawalpindi.”

“I'm impressed.”

She looked for mockery, but found none. “It's been done before. Taking people out, I mean. Besides, we've had plenty of time to think about it.”

“You had help?” His gaze was steady as he waited for her answer.

“From the women who run this safe house, the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan.”

“A scary thing, revolutionary women.”

“Yes. We hope so.” In an effort to gloss over the moment, she went on quickly. “You should eat something to rebuild your strength. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat a horse. Not that it would be my first choice on the menu.”

“Don't worry,” she said in dry reassurance. “It's far too great a delicacy these days to waste on an American.”

She turned away and left the room. Her smile faded as the heavy door clicked shut behind her. She had been half-afraid to broach the escape plan to Wade Benedict, afraid he'd refuse to consider something that didn't involve fast transport, heavy weaponry and him in control. It had gone well, almost too well. She'd think he was up to something except that she didn't see how that was possible.

There was one part of the escape plan that still had to be implemented. She'd thought it best to put it off until just before they left the fortress. Wade wasn't going to like it, she knew, but maybe waiting until it was too late to change the plan would make it easier to gain his cooperation. She could only hope.

 

“Not just no, but
hell
no!”

Wade wadded the burqa that Chloe had just handed him into a ball, then slung it across the room with such force that it bounced off the wall. She glared at him and went immediately to pick it up.

“You must wear it,” she declared, thrusting it toward him again. “The guard at the checkpoint won't look twice at yet another woman covered from head to toe.”

“That's because no man would be caught dead in one of the things.”

“You'd rather take a chance on being spotted with your height and puny excuse for a beard?” she demanded with a wave toward his dark stubble. “Especially when the guard may have been warned to watch for Americans?”

“It's better than hiding behind women's skirts,” he answered with dogged illogic.

“You won't be hiding, just escaping notice.”

“Oh, sure. And a funny-looking female I'll make, standing a head taller than you.”

“You won't be standing. You'll be in the back seat pretending to be carsick or pregnant or whatever you
like that will allow you to slump in your seat. Anyway, the major part of a man's extra height is in his leg bones. We'll look more equal sitting next to each other.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his fingertips into his armpits. “I won't wear it.”

“You have to,” she cried in angry desperation. “There's no other way. So you don't like it, so what? I don't like it, either. No woman likes it, but we have to put up with it all the time. I don't see why you can't endure the hateful thing for a couple of hours.”

He stared at her for long seconds. “Whose idea was this?”

“Several of us decided on it.”

“Including you.”

She lifted her hands and let them fall so the burqa slapped against her knee. “There's nothing personal about it!”

“You're sure it's not because of what I said the other night?”

“Absolutely not.” That much was true, which didn't mean it hadn't occurred to her that he'd be getting a taste of something he was so sure was a deliberate choice.

“I suppose you'll be covered up head and ears, too?”

“Of course.”

He stared at her for long seconds, the intensity of his gaze an indication of the swift pace of his thoughts. Then he put out a hand and snatched the
burqa from her, shaking it out like a bedsheet. It hung in his hands, an enormous spread of cream-colored fabric since it was long enough to cover him to the ground. His reaction was profane. He rolled it up with a winding motion and shoved it back at her again.

“No.”

“Yes!” She pushed it against his chest. “If I'm to get you out of this country, you have to help.”

“I'm supposed to be taking you out of here.”

“Well, you can't. Maybe that's my fault. Maybe it's bad luck, bad karma or just bad timing. It doesn't matter because nothing can change it. We have to go on from here. And wearing this damn burqa is the best way to do that.”

He fastened his gaze on the veil across the bottom of her face that wavered with her every angry breath. Slowly a look of consideration tinted his hazel eyes a darker shade of green. “I'll make you a deal,” he said at last.

“A deal?” Every ounce of the wariness rising inside her was in those words.

“That's right. It's fair enough, I think, considering what you want me to do.”

“What is it?”

“I'll put this thing on if you'll take yours off.”

“My burqa?”

“And the scarf thing, veil or whatever you call it that you're wearing.”

She lifted a hand to the cloth cover. “No, really. I need camouflage, too.”

“Doesn't have to happen now,” he said with a magnanimous gesture. “But the minute we're safe on the other side of the border, off it comes.”

It was a reprieve, though he didn't know that. Any unveiling would be minimal, since she had every intention of leaving him in Pakistan and returning to Ajzukabad with the driver.

“Fine,” she said.

His features went blank with surprise. “That's an agreement?”

“Yes.”

“You'll get rid of everything, let me see your face with nothing in the way?”

“I just said so, didn't I?” she demanded in irritation. “Though I fail to see why it's so important to you.”

“I don't like people keeping things from me.”

Uneasiness shifted through her. He couldn't know what she had in mind. Could he? “I'm not.”

“Aren't you? Then take it off now.”

“I don't have time.” She dropped the burqa on the pallet and moved toward the door. “You might want to get ready, too. We leave in ten minutes.”

His comment, and expression when he made it, remained with Chloe during the long ride to the border. All she wanted to keep from Wade was her intention to go back to Ajzukabad. Well, and how much she knew about the things that haunted his dreams. And yet, she'd felt such instant resistance to letting him see her naked face. Why was that? Vanity, maybe,
the fear that he'd be disappointed? Or was it nothing to do with him personally, but reluctance to expose any portion of herself to any man? Was it not so much her physical appearance she was keeping to herself as the thoughts and feelings that might show in her face? She'd grown so used to concealing these things, to pretending to be a passive nonentity in a world of masculine violence. The burqa had become a mask of compliance she wore while going about her subversive activities behind it. To be forced to cast it off and stand with all her resentment and animosity in plain view was like being stripped naked. It might be all right in another place and time where everyone wore the same open face, but not here, and not now.

The town fell away behind them. They began to climb the lower reaches of a mountain range that blended eventually into the Hindu Kush. The sere hills rolled ahead of them in shades of beige and gold, ochre and brown that complemented the dusty green of juniper and pine forests. Behind these rose the misty, cloud-shrouded ranges of some of the tallest mountains in the world. High in their blue and purple fastness lay a handful of high-altitude passes through the mountains that had served as trade and invasion routes for centuries, and still did. One of these, the Azad, or Free, pass carved out during the wars of the British Raj, was the route they would be taking.