Page 28 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

TWENTY

Rob parked the Jeep in front of Cure International Kabul Hospital.

The single-story stone building looked more like a penitentiary, but it was one of the best hospitals in Kabul, offering not only medical care to poor Afghan families but also training programs for local doctors and nurses, who were in short supply.

Rhys followed Rob inside. The interior was warmer than the outside, but not by much.

Numerous people were waiting patiently to be seen, their faces masks of resignation as they stared into space or followed the goings on with some interest. Two young mothers tried to soothe crying children, and several injured men sat together in stony silence, blood seeping through make-do bandages as they waited to be attended to.

“Excuse me,” Rhys said to a middle-aged woman behind the desk. “I’d like to see the hospital director, please.”

The woman stared at him as if he’d said something grossly inappropriate. But she quickly recovered from her shock and returned her attention to whatever she’d been doing.

“The director is a very busy man,” she said, without looking up.

“I realize that, but I really need to speak to him. It’s rather urgent.”

“You can sit down and wait, but I guarantee nothing,” the woman said, dismissing him by turning her back to look for something in a filing cabinet behind her.

But Rhys wouldn’t be deterred. When she turned back to her desk, he took out his press pass from his pocket and showed it to the woman, giving her a moment to study it.

“I’m from the BBC. I’m here to write an article about your hospital and the important work you’re doing.

That sort of coverage can help increase donations and funding. ”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied him more carefully. “A reporter,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust.

“Yes, a reporter.”

“Sit,” she barked.

“I think you’d better do as you’re told.” Rob chuckled as Rhys lowered himself into a hard plastic chair next to him. “She likes you,” he added with a smirk.

“Do you think we have a chance of seeing someone today?” Rhys asked.

“Probably not, but it’s not as if you have somewhere to be. This is not a place where things happen quickly.”

“Right,” Rhys said. He wished he had something to read. “What are you doing?” he asked as Rob settled more comfortably in his chair and fixed his gaze on the screen of his mobile.

“Playing Candy Crush. It doesn’t require Wi-Fi.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s very relaxing. Give it a go.”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. This might take all day.”

And it did. By mid-afternoon, Rhys was hungry, thirsty, and frustrated.

People came and went, new casualties arrived, and patients who’d been released left, but still he and Rob sat in the plastic chairs, waiting to be seen.

Rob managed to procure some tea, which only made Rhys hungrier.

He should have had a heartier breakfast, but he hadn’t been very hungry that morning and settled for tea and toast. His stomach growled, and he gave Rob a lopsided smile.

“I can step out and find us something to eat,” Rob offered .

“There’s no food allowed in the waiting area and I don’t want to leave, in case we get called.”

“Suit yourself,” Rob replied and closed his eyes. Rob could sleep anywhere. It was the mark of a man who traveled for a living and slept in a different bed every night. Rhys just sat and stared at the wall.

The quality of the light outside changed as the afternoon wore on, the bright white light of early afternoon becoming softer and flatter as it painted oblong boxes on the linoleum floor. Rhys had managed to nod off but woke when Rob elbowed him in the ribs. “We’re up, mate.”

They were directed to a small office at the end of the hall, where a balding, middle-aged man in thick horn-rimmed spectacles sat behind a desk overflowing with files and reports.

“Thank you for waiting, gentlemen. As you can see, I’m a little busy,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Farouq Durani. I’m the director of this facility.”

Having lied about the purpose of their visit, Rhys could hardly get straight to the point. He spent a quarter of an hour quizzing Mr. Durani about funding, staff, mortality rates, and availability of supplies before finally broaching the subject of Ali Khan.

“Mr. Durani, the brother of a young man I’ve befriended since arriving in Kabul was brought into your facility several weeks ago. His name is Ali Khan.”

“What about him? Did he not receive adequate treatment?” Mr. Durani asked, his eyebrows raised in obvious surprise.

“He did, but I need to know who brought him in.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t alone when he got injured. He’d taken a colleague of ours into the mountains, and we’ve yet to find out what happened to her. If someone helped Ali, they might have found her as well.”

“What is your colleague’s name?”

“Jo Turing.”

Mr. Durani clicked a few keys on his keyboard and stared at the screen.

“No one by that name was brought in at any time in the last thirty days. I do see an entry for Ali Khan. He was admitted on December sixteenth. His left leg was shattered below the knee, he had a bullet wound in his right shoulder, and several other less serious injuries.”

“That’s correct.”

The director shook his head, his expression one of profound sadness. “It’s devastating for one so young to find himself disabled, especially in a country that doesn’t look after its invalids.”

“Mr. Durani, who brought Ali Kahn in?”

The man removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked tired and defeated. Rhys thought he was about to reply, but he remained silent as he replaced the glasses on his face.

“Is there a reason you’d rather not tell us?” Rob asked, obviously frustrated by the man’s reluctance.

“I have no wish to get involved, Mr. Malone. We operate on a shoestring budget and any mistake on my part could result in a decrease in funds and donations. The Americans are our friends,” he said, giving Rhys and Rob a meaningful look.

“We appreciate your dilemma, Mr. Durani,” Rhys said and got up to leave. “I will make a generous donation to your organization as soon as I return to London. You can count on that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Malone.” Mr. Durani shook their hands and watched them walk out the door .

“So, Ali was brought in by Americans,” Rob said as soon as they were back in the Jeep.

“They must have been military personnel.”

“They’d have to be, given where the explosion happened.”

“Do you know where their headquarters are?” Rhys asked.

“I do, but I also know a really good kebob place, which is where I’m going right now. I’m starving, and no self-respecting American officer will give you the time of day after five o’clock.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Look, Rhys, I’m flying home tomorrow. I sent my cameraman back several days ago.

I only stayed on to help you out. I’m afraid you’re on your own from this point on.

I can leave you the Jeep, and you can return it at the airport when you’re ready to leave.

I strongly suggest you contact the British Embassy and have them make an appointment for you.

You’ll never get close to a U.S. Army base on your own, not even with your press pass. ”

Rhys clapped Rob on the shoulder. “I appreciate your help, Rob, and I’ll take you up on your offer of both the Jeep and the kebobs. You must be thrilled to be going home.”

“I am. I’m more than ready to get out of this hellhole.”

“I’ve been here for less than a week, but it feels like a lifetime,” Rhys said as he climbed into the Jeep and buckled his seat belt.

“This place has that effect on you. It also serves to remind us how bloody lucky we are to live in a country that protects our rights and our religious beliefs.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Rhys said.

“No, you won’t. They don’t serve alcohol.” The men laughed bitterly, neither one particularly given to mirth, and drove off.