Page 32 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

I F A LIAH IS SURPRISED BY my sudden interest in illegal mining, she does her best to get over it as she collects her thoughts on the subject.

“Afghanistan has long been rich in gems and minerals—”

“Got that.”

“Going back over two thousand years,” she insists.

“So I’ve heard.”

“But it lacks the necessary infrastructure for large-scale mining.”

“I know that, too.”

She skewers me with a look. I get her point, fall silent.

“Instead, the mining involves small sites, generally excavated by hand,” she continues. “The local men will form cooperatives to lease the land from the owners, who can be anything from corrupt bureaucrats to wealthy landowners to corrupt, wealthy landowning bureaucrats.”

“Sabera’s uncles?” I guess.

“I believe so. Previously, the Taliban had utilized mines to fund their operations against the republic, so the government made it illegal. But of course, that didn’t mean it stopped.

In many remote villages, it’s one of the only ways to earn a living.

And precious gems can always be sold over the border in Pakistan, where there’s a ready market.

“It has generated much talk in the Afghan community. Both from those who were frustrated by the former government outlawing mining—because how else were they going to feed their families?—to those who were angry and resentful of the wealthy few who actively engaged in continuing the illegal mines, mostly so they could profit at the locals’ expense. ”

“Do the miners get paid?”

“A percentage of what they find. On a good day, that might mean the equivalent of one week’s pay for a few hours’ work. Like any kind of hunting, however, it can also mean weeks of absolutely nothing. But all of the time, it’s extremely dangerous.”

“High risk, high reward.”

“There’s no training, no safety equipment.

The men learn as they go. They blast with homemade dynamite they make by mixing old gunpowder in plastic sleeves.

They use ancient pneumatic jackhammers fueled by even more ancient petrol-run generators to work the seams, followed by pickaxes and hammers.

Others will sort through the piles of rubble by hand, looking for the day’s find—the most valuable being tourmaline with blue and green or green and pink coloring.

You probably don’t even know what tourmaline is. ”

“Never heard of it.”

“Yet in my country, men die for it.” Aliah shrugs, as if to say that is the way of the world.

Maybe it is. “The work is very hot and difficult, but the men can’t afford to spend money on safety equipment.

They work dawn to dusk, blasting, jackhammering, squatting, sorting, no helmets, safety glasses, respirator masks.

And they must work fast if they’re going to find enough to make the day’s haul, meaning they rarely shore up the walls.

“Many families in these towns have men missing limbs from blast injuries or suffering head injuries due to a tunnel collapse, or perpetually sick with a wracking cough. Then again, the work affords the opportunity for a man to support his family, which can be anywhere from twelve to twenty people. Even under the ‘new’ government, there were very few jobs that could do that. Now, I understand the Taliban has brought mining back. Made it legal and even encouraged some of the former national soldiers to operate artisanal mines in their backyards. The Taliban charge them a hefty tax, of course. But it has enabled some of the men who were in the Afghan National Security Forces to survive. At least for now.”

“It is a hard life in your country,” I state softly.

“Yes.”

“But you, your fellow refugees, miss it.”

“Home is always home, like family is always family. It doesn’t have to be perfect for it to feel like the place we belong.”

“Do you know what happened to Sabera’s uncles?”

“I believe they were killed along with her father and brother when Kabul fell. Maybe by the Taliban, maybe by others settling an old score. These things happen.”

I would like to say not in the US, but I’ve spent too much time in inner cities ravaged by gang violence to make such an argument.

“Do you know if her uncles worked with anyone from South Africa?”

Aliah appears genuinely bewildered by such a question.

“Any other information on Sabera’s family?” I press.

“She didn’t speak of home that often. She had not been in this country long, remember, and trying to figure out the here and now is hard enough, without pining for something you will never have again.”

I nod. I want to definitively connect some dots—the attempted abductor of Zahra is unquestionably South African and absolutely connected to Sabera’s family’s illegal Afghan mines.

Or even the attempted abductor is certainly a South African mercenary tied to Sabera’s activities with the army’s intelligence unit.

But there’s not enough information for either theory yet.

Also, I’m not sure how knowing the answer to either supposition helps.

The why isn’t nearly as important as the who and the where. And given Isaad has now disappeared as well as his wife, I feel we’re losing ground on that front.

There’s movement behind me. Based on Daryl’s beaming smile, I know who’s joined us even before I feel the slight tug on my ponytail.

I twist around in my seat to discover Zahra peering at me with her big gray eyes. Apparently, she’s had a good day in the kitchen, because she’s covered in sugar and flour and is wearing a small smile.

“Hiya,” I say.

“Hiya,” she repeats back.

That officially exhausts my small child vocabulary. Daryl has no such problem. He picks up his empty bowl and dramatically shows it off. “Best firni I ever had,” he declares, then picks up what once was my dish. “Both bowls of it.”

Zahra giggles. I scowl. I would’ve happily finished my pudding if someone hadn’t stolen it.

Daryl remains unrepentant. “Did you make it all by yourself?” he asks Zahra.

She gives a quick shake of her head.

“Next time?”

A shy nod.

The girl wanders around the table to Aliah, then climbs aboard her lap. Aliah wraps her arms around her, resting her cheek atop the child’s dark hair.

I feel a tug inside my chest. The way the four-year-old tucks in so trustingly. The way Aliah curls around her so protectively. The feeling of serenity emanating from them both.

I don’t remember my mother ever holding me like that.

But then, I don’t have many memories of my mother.

She was always out of the house working in order to compensate for my father’s drinking.

As a child, I resented her and idolized him, because that’s what children do.

Now, as an adult, I feel my own loss less and wonder about hers.

Maybe she would’ve liked a moment with her daughter curled against her.

Maybe she would’ve liked one minute to hold her child and feel at peace.

These are the things I wasn’t smart enough to question when I was young, and now it’s too late. My mother and father are buried side by side at a cemetery I never visit. And not so much due to their failings, but because I don’t want to acknowledge my own.

Aliah’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and immediately sits up, her gaze darting to me, then Daryl with intensity. I don’t have to see the caller ID to know it’s Isaad.

“Hello,” she answers brightly, moving Zahra off her lap so she can rise to standing, put some distance between herself and the curious child. Zahra doesn’t seem to notice, her attention on Daryl’s empty pudding bowl, which she scrapes hopefully with her finger.

Daryl and I keep our focus on Aliah. She hasn’t spoken another word, but her expression has gone from optimistic to puzzled. Abruptly, she pulls the phone from her ear, inspects the screen.

“Call dropped,” she murmurs. Just in time for it to buzz again. She answers, starts to speak, stops. Her gaze is growing more and more concerned as the call apparently fails once more.

Now she’s pacing the spice aisle, her movements jerkier. Zahra starts to take notice.

“More pudding?” Daryl booms out, startling all three of us. But this garners Zahra’s attention as he hastily takes her hand and ushers her toward the rear kitchen.

Aliah’s phone buzzes for the third time. “Isaad?” she whispers. Then louder, “Where? What? Isaad. Isaad, can you hear me?”

She holds the phone out between us. I can hear heavy breathing. A gurgling gasp. A long, shuddering sigh. Then…

“Isaad!” she demands.

This time the call remains connected. Only for the silence to go on and on.

“Isaad?” Aliah repeats.

But there’s no answer.

I pluck the phone gently from Aliah’s shaking fingers. Then I produce my own mobile to dial a whole new number.

“Detective,” I say when he finally picks up. “I believe we have a situation…”