“I have to leave, Rabia. You know I have to leave here.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I know. But you do not have to leave this night.”

She rose up on an elbow then, her long hair falling over her shoulder, her lush breasts bare under the starlight. And he agreed as she moved over him, blanketing him in the warmth and vitality of her body, that no, he did not have to leave her this night.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Rabia rushed into the cooking room and set her small parcel on the table.

“What surprises have you brought home from the market today?”

She spun around, startled to see Jeffery standing in the doorway. She was not yet ready to face him. She had not yet processed the news she had heard at the market. She had not yet decided what to do about it.

“Hey.” He limped over to her, touched his hand to her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head and turned back to the fresh vegetables she had purchased. “All is well. You… surprised me. I did not know you were behind me.”

“Well, you know it now. Yet your hands are still shaking. What’s going on?”

She had hoped to delay telling him. If she were truthful with herself, she had hoped to conceal the news completely. But she could not. He had to know.

“There was a runner in the market. I overheard him tell of an American Army patrol near Emarat.”

When she finally met his eyes, she saw both excitement and unbearable hope. “An American patrol? How many? When were they there?”

“He said twenty-five or thirty men. They have been coming through the village every five days for the past three weeks, offering aid, searching for Taliban, making camp overnight before moving on.”

His gaze left her face, and he stared at the far wall. He was in shock, she realized. He was searching, planning, seeking a way to make contact.

“How far is Emarat from here?” he asked abruptly.

“Farther than you can travel on a road heavily patrolled by Taliban.” She did not want him to go. She did not want to lose him.

But she knew what must be done.

“I will go,” she said, swallowing back the pain. “I will make contact.”

He didn’t hesitate. “No. It’s too dangerous.”

“I am Pashtun,” she said defiantly. “This is my country. My land. I am free to travel. They have no reason to suspect me.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you go, how are you going to make contact without being seen? No, Rabia, it’s too risky. I can’t let you do this for me.”

“And what would you do?” she countered angrily. “You cannot walk that far on your leg. You cannot run. You still have vertigo attacks that make you violently ill and unable to stand. You cannot drive because of it. So how do you plan to get there, let alone make contact? And if you are caught, how long do you think it will take them to connect you back to my father’s house?”

She could read his frustration and sense of helplessness through his eyes. She understood that his disabilities made him feel like less of a man. She knew it pained him to be so ruled by his injuries.

Several long, tension-filled moments passed before he looked back at her. “How can I let you go?”

She knew then that he understood she was his only hope.

“We will develop a plan together. We will make certain it is safe.” She touched a hand to his arm. “You will go home soon.”

He searched her eyes for an eternity, then drew her tightly against him. “If I could stay, I would. I would stay with you.”

She buried her face in his chest and pinched her eyes against the threat of tears. “I know this. I know this very well.”

Just as she knew this was the beginning of good-bye.

THE NEXT MORNING, his chest tightly knotted, he watched Rabia drive away from the cave where she had first hidden him. They had agreed that he couldn't stay in the house alone. There would be too much opportunity for a chance encounter with one of the villagers—or a return visit from the Taliban.

So here he was, where it all began, hiding in a cave like a coward. An even bigger coward for sending her to save him.

He had bedding, food, and water enough to last him several days.

Several days alone.

The panic knotted in his chest shamed him. Rabia had been his lifeline. There was not a day in his memory that she had not been in his life.

Now she was in danger because of him.

He ducked into the cave, olfactory memories of the month he’d spent here calling forward reminders of pain and opiate hazes and the shackle around his leg. Of Rabia coming to him every day.

Now she was gone.

If all went well, she would soon be back, and he would be gone from here.

The thought of leaving her drilled a hole in his heart.

And he was left feeling more alone than he’d thought humanly possible.

“WHAT IS YOUR business on this road?”

Rabia had expected the Taliban patrol to stop them. For that reason, she was covered in her burqa. Four fighters manned the checkpoint. Two approached the car.

Her father rolled down the rear window of her older-model Toyota and addressed them. “I am Wakdar Kahn Kakar, malik of the village of Salawat. I am traveling to Emarat to consult with the malik there.”

“Why does this woman drive?”

“This woman is my daughter. I am an old man. I have no sons. I am in need of her to drive me where I wish to go.”

The fighter walked around to the driver’s side. Rabia had hidden her hands in her lap to avoid breaking Taliban law. She kept her head down.

“Show your hands,” the fighter ordered.

She waited for her father’s consent. “Show your hands, daughter, so that they will know you are not a man in hiding.”

She did as she was told, apparently to their satisfaction, then quickly covered her hands again.

“Give me the keys.”

She did as he said, then waited while the guard opened the trunk and checked their luggage.

Finally, he returned the keys and motioned her to drive forward.

Grateful for once for the confining burqa that concealed how nervous she was, she started the car and drove on.

They encountered many more checkpoints on the three-hour trip, each one as nerve-wracking as the other, before finally reaching Emarat right before the noontime meal.

While they were not expected, they were welcomed with great generosity, as was the Pashtun custom.

Because her father was eager for the American askar to leave, he had consented to participate in the plan she and Jeffery had carefully worked out. Once inside the Emarat malik’s house, they would dine and socialize with the family, who would be eager to share news of the region. As soon as Rabia found out when the American patrol was due back through, she would attempt to make contact.

She didn’t have to wait long. The patrol was due the next day.

DRESSED AS A boy, her hair pulled up on top of her head and tucked under a cap, Rabia sneaked out of the house, careful not to wake the other women sleeping in the room with her. Heart pounding, she double-checked her pocket for the letter Jeffery had written and the blood and hair samples he had insisted she take.

“Since I can’t go myself,” he had said, handing her a knife, “they will need physical evidence as proof that I’m alive. The letter won’t be enough.”

The village was small, no more than three thousand people. It did not take her long to reach the outskirts of town, where the Americans were said to be camping. The land was flat here. Tonight a thick layer of clouds covered a sky that was usually lit with stars. She was glad for the absence of light, which made it easier for her to slip through the village undetected.

For long moments, she stood at the town’s edge and searched the terrain beyond. It took only moments for her eyes to acclimate and spot the shadows of several tents about a quarter of a mile away.

On a deep breath, she stepped out of the concealment of a row of dwellings and started walking through the dark toward the encampment. With each step, she prayed that there would not be Taliban fighters hiding in the dark. And as she grew closer and could make out the silhouette of an American soldier carrying a rifle, she prayed to Allah that he would not shoot her before she had an opportunity to tell them about Jeffery.

Chapter 21