Page 29 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

O UR MISSION,” K URTZ IS EXPLAINING, “is to support local assets in Afghanistan and Iraq who qualify for the Special Immigrant Visa program, or SIV. Right after Kabul fell, we were able to evacuate eighty thousand Afghan personnel, but we abandoned another twenty-five to fifty thousand allies; an exact count is unknown as we lack a comprehensive list. To make matters more complicated, the principal applicant for the SIV, say the interpreter, is entitled to bring his family members as secondary applicants. Meaning that four years later, there are at least a quarter of a million eligible friendlies still left behind. Which is at least a quarter of a million people too high.”

Kurtz pauses, studies Daryl and me as if to see if we’re following his explanation. We nod as one. We’re hearing him. Speaking for myself, however, I’m not sure what this means.

We’ve followed retired army captain Sanders Kurtz and former first sergeant Tim Westwig back to their offices, which are located in a newly opened commercial park.

According to Kurtz, No One Left Behind’s main headquarters are in DC.

He and Westwig have just opened up a satellite office in Tucson, however, and given the organization’s close ties with the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, a significant number of the approved SIV candidates are arriving there from Afghanistan.

The space is so recently constructed, it still has that new carpet smell, though Kurtz and Westwig have already made a go at interior decorating—the wall behind them is covered in framed photos, including shadow boxes containing folded American flags and half a dozen group photos of American men and women in uniform.

Interspersed are other, more intimate snapshots of Kurtz with his arm around an Afghan male’s shoulder; a trio of soldiers grinning around a campfire; Kurtz relaxing in the front of a heavily armored vehicle with a man whose features look startlingly similar to his own.

Huge smiles split both their faces as they raise cold beers toward whoever’s wielding the camera.

No doubt about it—war is a human enterprise. I wonder how many of the pictured men and women made it home again.

“As a company commander, I personally oversaw fourteen interpretors,” Captain Kurtz continues.

“Those Afghans risked their lives day in and day out.

They worked seven days a week, rotating between time in the field and duties on base—assisting with interrogations, interacting with locals, and serving as go-betweens with the Afghan army.

They faced all the same dangers we did—roadside bombings, snipers, enemy ambush, while serving in a civilian capacity.

Which is to say, I watched unarmed men race toward burning vehicles to drag their US buddies to safety, let alone face down attacking assailants while radioing in enemy positions and coordinating air support.

We had one incident of a US commander being grievously wounded; his Afghan translator grabbed his rifle and took out both of the advancing Taliban.

“These men trained with us. They served with us. And now, we’re gone, and they’re left behind to pay the price.

These are guys who wouldn’t even take a weekend leave, because returning home put their families’ lives in jeopardy.

They did what they did because they believed in our efforts and hoped for a better future for their country. They didn’t let anyone down.”

Again, Daryl and I nod as one.

I raise a tentative hand. “You said Afghan men. Does that mean all the interpreters were males?”

“In the field, yes.” Westwig does the honors. “That’s not to say there weren’t plenty of skilled females. They generally served in different capacities, assisting with government ministries, enabling diplomatic efforts—”

“Admin,” I intone.

“It’s all necessary,” Westwig counters.

“But your program never assisted Sabera Ahmadi? You said she came to you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Showed up right here at our office.”

“Isn’t that a little unusual?”

Kurtz speaks up. “We actively publicize our organization, particularly within the Afghan community. Time is not on our side. Last year, we evacuated four thousand eligible persons. We’re very pleased to be able to bring that many individuals safely to the US.

But if you think of the overall number of folks left behind, it remains just a drop in the bucket.

Add that it takes three to five years to process a single SIV applicant and, well, our ability to reach enough people in a timely manner…

” He leans forward. “Let me put it to you this way—the Iraq SIV program stopped accepting new applicants in 2014. Over ten years later, it’s still actively working on processing the personnel still in the system.

Nothing quick or easy about government. Which, if you consider everything these people have at stake… ”

He doesn’t have to complete that sentence. We get it.

“So what did Sabera want to know?” I ask.

Again, Westwig and Kurtz exchange glances.

“Oh, come on,” I huff out—God save me from self-important men.

“You’re operating as a private nonprofit, correct?

That hardly grants client confidentiality.

Let alone, in case you didn’t realize, Sabera vanished three weeks ago, her husband is now in the wind, and oh, yeah, just yesterday someone tried to kidnap their daughter. ”

“What?” Kurtz and Westwig exchange startled glances.

“Exactly! The perpetrator had a British-adjacent accent. Ring any bells for you?”

Another exchanged look. At this point, I want to reach across the desk and knock their heads together. Daryl seems to sense my agitation. He places a large hand on my shoulder. When the big bruiser ex-con becomes the calming influence, you’re definitely in trouble.

“Sabera knew her mother was working in intelligence,” Kurtz relents. “On behalf of MI6, to be exact. And while No One Left Behind is comprised primarily of former US military connections, we partner with a fair number of Brits, given their own history in the country.”

I have to raise my hand again. “Hang on. You’re saying Sabera’s mother was like a British spy? For real?”

Kurtz smiles. “Even as a child, Sabera recognized that when her mother went to the local markets, she was doing more than simply shopping for tea. Maryam Shinwari would pass a note here, pick up a slip of paper there. According to Sabera, she and her mother never spoke of it, but it was an open secret between them. Then, when her mother died in 2014—”

“How?”

“Cancer. Sad for any family, but particularly dramatic in the case of Maryam, as her father was a doctor of note in London—and wasn’t involved in her treatment.”

Kurtz lets that sink in.

“Sabera remembered overhearing her uncle demanding to know why Maryam’s parents weren’t doing more to help.

Her father simply said that wasn’t an option, though no one ever explained why.

It made Sabera more interested in delving into her mother’s background, including her mother’s extracurricular market activities. ”

“Which I’m guessing proved to be enlightening?”

“Maryam’s family emigrated from Afghanistan to England when she was a young girl,” Westwig explains.

“Father opened a medical practice, his brothers established various business dealings. Basically, the entire Tabrizi family made London their new home. Except one day, Maryam meets Saber Shinwari, who’s a doctorate student at Oxford.

They fall in love and Maryam returns to Kabul with her new husband, despite her family’s disapproval.

“Then the Taliban seized control, and Maryam and her young son fled to London for safety. They spent five years living with her family, until the Taliban fell in 2001. After which time, Maryam declared she’d be returning to her husband in Kabul.

Except her family strenuously objected. If she went, that was that—they were cutting all ties.

Obviously, she made her decision and they made theirs.

To the best of Sabera’s knowledge, her mother never saw or spoke to her family again.

“But this is what the London Tabrizis didn’t know—Maryam wasn’t just returning to Afghanistan out of love, but out of duty. While in the UK, she’d been recruited by MI6. They needed her to return to Kabul and go to work.”

“So Sabera’s mom is like a female James Bond?” Now I’m totally enthralled. I wonder what it meant to Sabera to learn her own mother was some kind of super spy. Isn’t that what all children secretly fantasize about, that their parents aren’t the tired, boring people they appear to be?

Westwig shrugs more philosophically. “According to our MI6 contacts, Maryam Shinwari’s orders weren’t exactly high risk—essentially, she was to resume her old life of mixing and mingling with the Afghan elite.

Between her husband’s respected position and his family’s expansive commercial dealings, they routinely hobnobbed with high-ranking ministry officials, other wealthy businessmen, and society’s movers and shakers.

As you may know, Afghanistan’s government had quite a reputation for corruption.

MI6 wanted Maryam Shinwari to get the lay of the land—gather up intelligence on who was cozying up with whom, which government ministers were suddenly flush with cash, et cetera.

Basically, who could be bought, who could be sold, and who could potentially be blackmailed. ”

I nod thoughtfully. I can see where that kind of insider information would be of interest to a spy agency, especially one with historical involvement in the country. “So what happened?”

Both men stare at me blankly.

I wave a hand to move their story along. “Sabera’s mother got discovered? Someone else also noticed that she was passing notes in the market, her husband became angry, it all went to hell? Come on. What?”

“Maryam Shinwari contracted cancer,” Westwig states slowly. “She became seriously ill. Then she died. That’s what happened.”