Page 10 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

An extraction. As if they were rotten teeth in need of pulling.

“Maybe the American can’t come.” He didn’t want to say that the American might have tried to reach them but been killed.

Or simply decided that with Poya’s father dead, they were no longer his responsibility.

“We could wait until the thaw. We’re safe for now. ”

“But for how much longer?” The small muscles in Mami’s jaw tensed. She was hollow-cheeked and her face, always smooth before, was lined with worry. “We’ve been running out of time since the Taliban started work on that road and since you…your…” Mami made a vague gesture. “Your time is short.”

“I’m careful. I never go anywhere without my eyes.”

She gave him a look. “You know it’s not just that.”

He did. Saying so out loud, though, made his problem much more real.

His problem was something he couldn’t quite cover up or mask, like his eyes.

Although he had read of people like him doing such things.

There was also a movie star…a teenage girl whose real name he couldn’t quite remember but she was Dorothy in the movie…

anyway, they had wound tight bandages around her chest. That way, she looked like the girl she was supposed to be instead of sixteen and coming into her womanhood.

And, of course, there were dancing boys, many of whom looked like girls, especially the young ones.

Given the right clothes, he could disguise himself just as well.

As if she’d read his mind, Mami said, “It’s not simply a question of disguise. There is your voice. That will give you away. Past a certain age, your neck…” Mami gestured at her own. “Your throat will not be right.”

A voice could be controlled. A throat might be hidden by a high collar. Didn’t he already disguise his eyes? He was an actor in the play of his own life. So, he knew a body might be molded and taped and made to fit, and he said as much. “It is done all the time.”

“This is not America. You would still attract attention.” His mother’s shoulders moved fractionally.

“And who truly knows? Your father idolized the Americans and look where it got him, got us. Besides, if you are found out…” She didn’t need to finish that thought.

Turning away, she fetched up a cloth and tugged open the grated door of their potbelly stove.

The hinges cried out, a high-pitched squeal that always sent a shiver tripping up Poya’s spine.

“We’ve waited,” she said, poking at embers with a metal rod before fetching up another large, black flat cake of dried yak dung.

“And your father’s American still hasn’t come. For all we know, he tried but...”

“But what?” Poya asked as Mami’s voice trailed off.

“But perhaps it is as I’ve said before. Your father’s friend was captured.

” Slipping in the patty, she stared into the stove’s glowing orange-red core.

“Or he’s dead. Or…I don’t know, maybe I didn’t understand the instructions and made a mistake.

” Shutting the stove’s door, she stood, put a hand to the small of her back, and groaned.

“Either way, this is no home for us, not permanently. Eventually someone will say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person and the Taliban will appear, ready to question us more closely. How we came to town and when. We’ve simply been lucky.

But that road is almost done, and that means more traffic, more people coming through. Well, if China lets anyone through.”

“But wouldn’t that be a good thing? Maybe we could go to China.” When Mami flicked a look, Poya amended, “Or maybe not.”

“We have a hard enough time here,” Mami said.

She really meant him . A bitter thought and one Mami didn’t deserve. “Where would you…” Poya caught himself. “Where would we go?”

“ We are not going anywhere. I am going back to Kabul.” She let out that same short bark of a laugh. “For what passes as civilization.”

“But you can’t. You can’t travel without a mahram.”

“And how much longer can you be that? Truly?” When Poya didn’t reply, his mother continued, “Believe me, a woman can buy a man to escort her anywhere. And if the money runs out…well, there are other ways.”

Poya didn’t want to think about that. “And what about me? What if you don’t come back?”

“You don’t think I’ve not thought about that? So many questions!” She made a cross gesture. “You will be fine for a while longer. I’ve reached an agreement with Ibrahim.”

“Meaning?”

“What do you think?”

Money. Ibrahim was the man in Sarhad whom Baba had trusted to shelter them—had, in fact, supplied Ibrahim with goods as a down-payment.

Again, something arranged by Baba’s American handler, but charity went only so far.

Money might not have a lot of meaning here, but that didn’t translate to money having no meaning somewhere else or becoming of value soon.

Funny, how money had meant virtually nothing here until the Taliban showed up.

Now, with a road knifing through town and into the Wakhan—with the start of trade with China and tourists coming back through, say, Tajikistan or even China because everyone knew the Chinese were masters at marching towards money—ready cash would have true value. “When will you go?”

“March. Best if I go before the work crews start again in April. With the road nearing completion, soldiers will likely set up their work camps further and further out. The last was a week’s journey on foot.

Yes,” Mami said, with a note of finality, “March will be best. I have put aside enough to get me to Kabul. I will leave money for you to use if I don’t return by August.”

“And then what? Where do I go?” He couldn’t possibly negotiate the mountains on his own. “I’ll have to come back to Kabul anyway. Doesn’t it make more sense for me to go with you?”

“No. You don’t have the luxury of that much time.” Mami paused as if to allow that to sink in. “Kabul will be much more dangerous. More Taliban about, more prying eyes and wagging tongues.” At the expression on his face, Mami’s expression softened. “I could be wrong, of course.”

He knew she wasn’t. No arguments could change that fact either. But the thought of trying to find his way on his own was almost more terrifying than what he knew was going to happen if he did nothing.

There was also no point asking what she would do once in Kabul.

She must know some of Baba’s old…well, you couldn’t call them friends, could you?

Not if they’d never arrived to help them.

Handlers, yes. He’d heard spymasters’ underlings referred to that way in a movie in Baba’s collection.

The film was a very old one about a spy in a divided Berlin.

Something about the cold? As he recalled that story ended badly because the spy fell in love. Love made you do stupid things.

So did blind faith. If Baba hadn’t found his handler, just how did Mami think she stood a chance? That was the thing about adults. They often thought doing something was better than being still and watchful and patient.

On the other hand, the reality was as plain as the face he must hide.

He was the impetus behind all this. If not for him, Mami would probably stay put.

No one had discovered her thus far. The chances were excellent they would never ask.

Although would the Taliban allow her to keep teaching?

Perhaps not. The Taliban never had gotten this far from Kabul before.

That fact was the reason his father had sent them here to Ibrahim.

Sarhad was a contingency, a place that was supposed to be a safe harbor to wait out the storm.

Baba couldn’t have known the storm would sweep through the whole country.

“So where, Mami?” he asked. “Where do I go? Herat? Try to find your relatives? Mami, I have never met them.” Besides, would her relations still be alive?

If they were, would they be willing to take him in if he appeared without his mother?

“Even if I did that, I still would be in Afghanistan, which we’ve agreed is no choice at all, not for me.

That leaves only trying to cross into Pakistan or India. ”

“Thanks to your father, you have a passport for both countries. You have one for Tajikistan,” Mami said. “He put by the cash for each country.”

“Which will run out eventually. Mami, even with the correct passport and papers, there will be no one to claim or speak up for me. There are no American aid agencies operating in any of those countries. We have no friends there. I have no way of even figuring out how to find Baba’s American or someone who worked with this American and might help me. ”

“You could go to the American embassy in Pakistan or Tajikistan. You might even go to India.”

“And say what? Mami, I don’t know what the American’s real name is. Do you even know?”

He watched her debate how much she should say. “Yes. That is, I know what message I was to send and to whom.”

“A coded message?”

“Yes.”

“To?”

Her teeth snuck out to chew her lower lip. “Do you remember Mr. White?”

Ah. I thought as much. “I remember.”

When he said nothing more, she studied his face. “You knew.”

Not a question. “I had a suspicion.”

“Because?”

“Of what we talked about.” Which he didn’t want to get into now, so he said, “When you followed Baba’s instructions to come here, how long were you supposed to wait?”

Her eyes slid to stare at her feet. When she replied, her voice was meek. Or, perhaps, ashamed? Embarrassed? “Two months. Three, at most.”

“Three months ?” She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d slapped him. “Mami, we’ve been here for almost a year and a half! Why did you wait? We could’ve gone together to India or Pakistan, or back into Herat to find your family.”

“Please.” She raised her hands in a weak, warding-off gesture. “I don’t know. I made a mistake. I thought, I really thought Mr. White would keep his word and was only delayed.”