Page 18 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)
TWELVE
Rhys glanced at his watch. He had several hours before he was due to meet Rob, but the first thing he had to do was take a shower.
Even his eyeballs felt gritty after the drive in the open Jeep.
He grabbed a towel and a change of clothes and walked down the hall to the communal facilities.
The bathroom was relatively clean, but he’d seen more luxurious bathrooms in a caravan.
He stripped off his clothes, then turned on the water and watched it trickle down, the water pressure barely stronger than that of a melting icicle. Oh well, when in Rome …
After his less-than-satisfying shower, Rhys headed down to reception. It was the most natural place to start his inquiries and there was no time like the present. He asked the young man behind the desk for the hotel manager and was met with an expression of pure trepidation.
“It’s all right, I’m not here to complain,” Rhys reassured the young man. “I need to speak to him regarding a personal matter.”
Looking somewhat mollified, the young man picked up the phone and made the call. A few minutes later, a middle-aged man with a luxurious moustache came out of a door behind the reception desk. He wore a black suit, a tie, and a phony smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Aasif Zahir, manager of this hotel. How may I be of help?” Rhys saw tension in the man’s face despite the smile. Mr. Zahir probably had his hands full with Westerners whose expectations couldn’t possibly be met in an establishment like this one.
“Mr. Zahir, my name is Rhys Morgan, and I’m looking for a friend.” Rhys extracted a photograph of Jo from his shirt pocket. “She stayed at this hotel until sometime in December, I believe. Then all communication ceased. ”
Mr. Zahir tried to keep his expression bland as he looked at the photograph, but Rhys saw a spark of recognition in his dark eyes. The man raised his gaze to Rhys’s face and studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether to tell him the truth, before answering.
“Yes, Miss Turing stayed here for some time. She went out one day in December and did not return.”
“Do you still have her possessions?” Rhys asked.
“I can’t show you her things, Mr. Morgan. They’re private.”
“Mr. Zahir, I’m not here to steal her laptop or riffle through her knickers.
I’m simply searching for clues as to where she might have gone so I can try to find her.
Please, let me see her belongings. You can stay and observe me to make sure I don’t take anything,” Rhys added, hoping this made him sound transparent.
He didn’t bother to berate the man for not calling the authorities.
Mr. Zahir didn’t seem to want to involve himself in Jo’s disappearance and clearly didn’t see the whereabouts or well-being of the guests as his responsibility once they left the hotel.
“All right,” the manager said with a sigh. “Follow me.”
Rhys followed Mr. Zahir into a windowless room at the back of the hotel.
Rows of metal shelves filled the space. Some were empty, but most held suitcases, items of clothing, books, tablets, and even laptops.
There were cardboard boxes filled with mobile phones, sunglasses, and coins.
Mr. Zahir led Rhys down a long row toward a shelf where he pointed to a nondescript case. The tag read Jo Turing .
Rhys took down the case, set it on the floor, and opened it.
Inside were Jo’s clothes, haphazardly packed by some maid who’d been ordered to clear the room, a paperback copy of A Tale of Two Cities , toiletries, and shoes.
In one of the zippered compartments, Rhys found her passport and a small notepad.
He took out the notepad and flipped through the pages, which were covered with scribbled words, fragments of sentences, and numbers.
One of the pages read, “See Ahmad Khan.” The name was doubly underlined.
“Do you know who this Ahmad Khan might be?” Rhys asked the manager, who looked as if he’d just swallowed a spoonful of acid.
“He’s one of the waiters. I don’t know what she wanted with him. He’s a good boy.”
“Is he here now?”
Mr. Zahir shook his head. “He’ll come at six for the dinner shift. He won’t be able to help you.”
“I only want to ask him some questions. I’m not here to lay blame, Mr. Zahir.
I only want to find my friend,” Rhys reiterated.
He couldn’t blame Mr. Zahir for being fearful.
This wasn’t London or New York; this was Kabul, a city that had been torn apart by conflict, invaded, and plundered by various foreign armies for longer than a millennium.
Mr. Zahir had to tread carefully if he wished to keep his job and support his family.
Rhys briefly wondered if Mr. Zahir was in any way related to General Zahir, who’d been the chief of police until his recent resignation.
Most likely not. Zahir was a name common to the region.
“Will you be in your room at six?” the manager asked. “I’ll send Ahmad to see you. Mr. Morgan, Ahmad’s family relies on his job to survive,” he added, his tone sharp.
“I understand, Mr. Zahir.”
Rhys followed the manager out of the claustrophobic room and returned to his own.
He sat on the bed and stared out the window.
The golden glow of a winter afternoon had turned to the gentle lavender of twilight that made the previously dull-looking mountains suddenly appear picturesque.
Calls to evening prayer blended with the cacophony of traffic.
The room was too stuffy, and the bed too hard, but Rhys wasn’t in Kabul for a holiday.
He reclined on the bed and folded his arms, lacing his fingers behind his head.
He had about an hour before the waiter arrived, so he allowed his eyes to close, overcome by jet lag and a feeling of hopelessness.