Page 27 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

NINETEEN

Kabul, Afghanistan

Rhys held on for dear life as the Jeep bounced over the rutted road.

He wasn’t sure if the craters were the result of nonexistent maintenance or past explosions that had gouged out chunks of asphalt as they tore off entire sections of walls from the grim-looking buildings that lined the street.

Despite the damage, the buildings were still inhabited, and people carried on with everyday life in the sections that had been left undamaged.

Having left the central part of Kabul, they were now in a poorer section of town, one that looked like a film set for a war film.

Except this was reality. Exposed metal beams, broken windows, and piles of rubble covered nearly every block, making walking down the street a perilous business.

Ragged children played among the wreckage, calling out to each other and pretending to shoot their playmates with sticks.

Several women passed by, their attire ranging from burkas to traditional Pashtun dresses.

The colorful embroidered caftans looked incongruous amid the dusty ruins of what had once been apartment buildings.

Rob finally stopped the Jeep in front of a gray building. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes and the windows—those that were still intact—were small and grimy.

“Is this it?” Rhys asked.

“I’m afraid so. Come.”

They got out of the Jeep and walked toward the door.

The flat was on the ground floor. Rhys knocked, hoping they wouldn’t be turned away before they had a chance to state their business.

A woman dressed in a faded red kaftan over narrow leggings opened the door.

Over her graying hair, she wore a loose scarf that she instantly adjusted for modesty’s sake.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Khan. My name is Rhys Morgan, and that’s Rob Malone. We are from the BBC, but we are not here in our professional capacity. We are simply looking for a friend. Your son Ahmad said we could come speak to Ali,” Rhys said.

He hoped the woman understood some part of what he’d said.

Mrs. Khan must have been forewarned by Ahmad because she nodded and gestured for them to follow her.

An older man, presumably the boys’ father, came out of a back room.

He was dressed in the traditional loose cotton shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare.

Mr. Khan directed an angry look toward the Westerners and shepherded his three daughters, who’d appeared from what must be the kitchen, to see who’d come to see them, out of the way.

The girls, all younger than Ahmad and dressed like their mother, stared at the strangers, their dark eyes wide with curiosity.

A torrent of harsh words from their father sent them back to the kitchen.

Mr. Khan gestured toward the back room. It was unbearably shabby, with peeling blue paint and a narrow window covered with a length of bright patterned fabric tacked onto the top window frame.

A threadbare rug covered the floor between the two low beds that were positioned along the walls, across from one another.

A young man, possibly a year or two older than Ahmad, lay on the bed furthest from the window.

His head was wrapped in white gauze marred with dried blood.

His right hand and shoulder were bandaged as well, and one of his legs ended at the knee.

The stump was thickly wrapped, but the wound still oozed blood, soaking the bandage.

His eyes looked glazed as he stared up at the low ceiling, transfixed by the flies that circled overhead.

“Hello, Ali,” Rhys said softly .

The young man didn’t move, but his gaze slid toward the visitors.

“My name is Rhys Morgan. I’ve come from England. I’m searching for Jo Turing. She’s my friend. I believe you know her.”

Ali paled at the mention of Jo, and his uninjured hand grabbed for the blanket, scrunching the fabric between his fingers.

“Ali, did you take Jo into the mountains?” Rhys asked softy. He didn’t want to sound accusing and frighten Ali into keeping his silence.

Ali nodded.

“Was that when you got hurt?”

Another nod.

Rhys was just about to ask another question when Mrs. Khan came into the room bearing a tray with tea glasses, a tall pot, and a plate of biscuits. She looked from Rhys to Rob, then poured the tea. “Please,” she said, gesturing toward the glasses.

“Thank you,” the men said in unison and reached for the glasses. These people didn’t look like they had anything to spare; to refuse their generous offer of tea would have been rude.

Rhys took a sip of the strong, hot tea. Mrs. Khan had sweetened it generously, probably using sugar she could ill afford to share with strangers.

The taste of the tea made him suddenly homesick for London.

His loss was still fresh in his mind, but it was nothing compared to the misery he saw all around him, particularly in the mangled young man lying on the bed.

There was a small nightstand next to the bed, but there was nothing on it save a glass of water.

There were no painkillers to help him manage his pain, or even sleeping tablets to help him find oblivion from his predicament even for a few hours.

“Ali, please, what happened to Jo?” Rhys asked, fearing he wasn’t going to get an answer .

Ali struggled to raise himself on one elbow and looked at Rhys. He resembled his brother, except for the lines of pain etched around his mouth. “I take Miz Jo to mountains.”

“Why would you take her to such a dangerous place?” Rhys asked, unable to stop himself. Jo must have paid him well enough to overcome his objections, if he had any.

“She ask to go. She pay good. We go before too much snow. I drive in friend’s truck. Miz Jo, she take pictures but want to get closer. I turn off road and drive on track. There’s IED. Big explosion. Then shots. They shoot me in shoulder.”

“And Jo?” Rhys pleaded. “What happened to Jo?”

“Miz Jo dead,” Ali whispered. Tears slid down his hollow cheeks. “My fault.”

“Did you see her die?” Rhys asked. He barely recognized his own reedy and tearful voice.

Ali nodded. “She dead.”

“Who helped you?” Rhys asked. Someone must have come along and taken Ali to a medical facility. He would have died otherwise.

Ali shrugged. “I wake up in Cure Hospital.”

“Is that when you lost your leg?” Rhys asked gently.

Ali nodded again. “Bone shattered. Need to come off.”

“Ali, I need to find Miss Jo’s body. Where did this happen?”

Ali called out in his own language and his father came into the room. Ali explained something, and the man left and returned with paper and a pencil, which he handed to Ali. His father looked angry, and a rapid stream of words flew from his mouth .

Ali nodded and replied curtly. He then drew a crude map and marked the spot with an X. “Here. But don’t go. Don’t go,” he said again more vehemently.

“Thank you, Ali. And it wasn’t your fault,” Rhys added. Ali turned his face to the wall.

Mrs. Khan stood just outside the room, ready to show them out. “Thank you, Mrs. Khan,” Rhys said. He took out all his cash and pressed the bills into the woman’s hand. “For Ali,” he said.

The woman’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude and she squeezed Rhys’s hand. She clearly didn’t speak English, but her eyes said it all. Rhys’s money wouldn’t make much difference in the long run, but perhaps it would buy her son some immediate relief.

“I’m sorry, Rhys,” Rob said as soon as they climbed back into the Jeep. “I suspected Jo wouldn’t be coming back but didn’t want to say anything. You were so hopeful. Kabul is bad enough, what with several bombings per week, but going into Taliban territory is suicide.”

“Ali said she was taking photos,” Rhys said. “What would she have been photographing out there?” He was still trying to wrap his mind around what Ali had said, hoping against hope that there was some way Jo might have survived the ambush.

“Rhys, the mountains are riddled with caves. They are perfect hiding places, and not only for the Taliban. Most of the heroin that finds its way to Europe is produced right here in Afghanistan. They have ninety percent of global market share on illegal opiates. Opium is their biggest export. There are insurgents in these mountains, but also warlords and drug traffickers. Jo came too close to something she wasn’t meant to see.

If the explosion didn’t kill her, then a bullet did. ”

“But Ali survived. ”

“Ali is not important. He’s a nobody. He’s not worth killing, but Jo Turing is a world-renowned photojournalist. She can do serious damage. She’s gone, Rhys. I’m sorry.”

Rhys buried his face in his hands. He felt hollow and numb with grief.

Jo had been young and vibrant, and so full of life.

To die so randomly was pointless and unfair.

Why did she have to go trekking into the mountains that were riddled with explosive devices planted by the insurgents and landmines left over from the Russian occupation?

Surely no photo was worth such risk. Ali should have known better than to take her, but having seen the poverty of the Khan family, Rhys could hardly blame the young man.

Jo must have paid him handsomely to take such a risk, and now his life was ruined.

Surviving in Afghanistan was hard enough when you were whole, but to lose a limb was as good as a death sentence.

Ali would end up begging in the street if his family couldn’t afford to care for him.

“What now?” Rob asked. “Will you tell her sister?”

“No. Not yet. I must find Jo’s remains. If I can’t bring Jo back alive, I’ll at least bring her home to bury. I won’t leave her here.”

“Rhys, how in the bloody hell will you find her remains?”

“Someone brought Ali to the hospital. Someone found them out there in the mountains. Surely they didn’t leave Jo there to be devoured by animals and roasted by the sun.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Ali was still alive. Jo wasn’t.”

“Ali got hurt in that explosion,” Rhys protested. “He lost a leg. He was in agony, and in shock. He says Jo died. Maybe she did, but I won’t give up until I know for certain.”

“All right, then. Where to now?”

“To the hospital where Ali was taken. After that, to every other hospital in Kabul. ”

Rob nodded. “You missed your true calling sitting behind your posh desk, mate. You should have been an investigative reporter.”

“There’s more than one way to make a difference, Rob.”