“And mine,” Zalmay said weakly.
Morgan could tell that it was more than mere friendship for Zalmay, however. If the young man had found some sort of paternal protection among men like Marwat’s, then a man like Conley would have been much closer to a father figure to this orphan. Shit. This must be hell on the kid.
“Listen. We can’t bring him back. But what we can do is finish what you two started together and stick it to the people who did this to him. Everything’s prepared to get you into the United States. What do you say to that?”
“I say, we shall do it,” said Zalmay, with angry resolve.
Morgan nodded at him. “Now we have to figure out how to—“ He was interrupted by muffled yells coming from the next room. Before he could even get up to see what was happening, Baz was hushed by two whispers from a silenced weapon. And then she appeared in the doorway.
The figure in the burqa stood in stony silence, a faceless ghost, the sky blue of her garment contrasting with the black of the pistol she held in her left hand. She was looking right at Morgan through the mesh covering her face. She had the drop on him, and he had no way to defend himself. She took careful aim.
Zalmay sprang up with a bloodcurdling howl and charged at her. She turned the gun toward him and fired wildly, too fast to aim. Two shots missed their mark; two pierced his chest. He staggered but maintained his momentum. She fired again, aiming straight for his heart this time. He crashed to the ground at her feet.
Without wasting a millisecond, she turned the gun toward Morgan and pulled the trigger.
Click.
There was a flicker of recognition between them. Judging his own gun to be too far out of his reach, Morgan lunged straight at her instead. But with a lightning-quick about-face, she evaded him and dashed out the door as quickly as she had come in. Morgan ran after her, passing Baz, the poor bastard, still tied to the pipe, dead, in a pool of his own blood.
Morgan rushed into the street and saw her sprinting to his left, only a few yards ahead. He set off after her. His knee still ached and kept him from running at full sprint, but it was obvious her restrictive garments were cramping her speed. Within a block, he was hot on her heels.
With a final push, he grabbed at her, clutching cloth. She stumbled and fell; her head covering remained in his hand. She rolled on the dusty street, ending up on her back, so that he could see her face. It was striking, if a bit lined with age, haughty and high-cheeked, framed by short blond hair: a face he knew all too well.
“Natasha? T?”
She looked at him contemptuously and then at something behind him. He lifted his eyes from her. His single-minded chase had made him oblivious to everything around him, but now he saw that a number of men were running toward them. They had obviously spotted him as a foreigner. And even if she was obviously not one of their own, this was a culture of honor; he could easily get killed by a mob. They held back, but they were clearly ready to rush him and do some violence. He would be able to manage this, but not if he had to take Natasha prisoner at the same time. Plus, he knew very well that if he so much as touched her, he would be lynched. Begrudgingly, he cast her a look that said, you win this time. He turned around and dashed back to the safe house. A dozen indignant Afghans were left in his wake, screaming their resentments at him, but fortunately none followed him.
When Morgan got to the house, he saw that Zalmay still lay where he had fallen, his blood pooling on the ground. Morgan checked for a pulse. Nothing.
Morgan gritted his teeth. If it weren’t for this kid, T would have killed them both. He wished he had time to take care of the body, but he wasn’t safe staying in this place. T would find her way back at any moment. Morgan picked up the camera containing the memory card, his gun, and the car keys and ran out to Baz’s taxi.
As he drove away, he opened the glove compartment, ran his hands under the seats, searching until he found what he was looking for, what he knew had to be there—a tiny electronic bug, stuck to the bottom of the mat on the passenger’s side. So this was how Natasha had known where his rendezvous with Zalmay would be, and this was how she had found them afterward. Sorry I doubted you, Baz, he thought, as he tossed the bug out the window.
He popped the battery into the back of the cell phone that Baz had given him. He had to make two phone calls. The first was to Jenny. She didn’t pick up, so he left her a message on her voice mail. The second call was to Fastia.
“Two hours according to plan. But,” he added bitterly, “only one passenger.” Fastia acknowledged, and they hung up. Morgan removed the phone’s battery again.
T. Shit. He didn’t know what it meant, but he did know one thing—he could no longer trust the CIA. If she was involved, there had to be a traitor on the inside. To go back to the Agency without knowing who it was would be as good as suicide. He was, and would remain, completely on his own.