Текст книги "Sandstorm"
Автор книги: James Rollins
Жанр:
Триллеры
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 31 страниц)
SEEB INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
PAINTER KEPTpace behind the trundling cart of gear and equipment. The heat off the tarmac seemed to boil the oxygen right out of the air, leaving only a heavy dampness to sear the lungs. Painter fanned a hand in front of his face. Not to cool himself, an impossibility here, but simply to stir the air enough to catch his breath.
At least they were finally moving again. They had been delayed three hours, confined to the jet due as a result of the heightened security measures after the attempted abduction of one of Kara Kensington’s associates. Apparently the matter had been resolved enough to allow them to disembark.
Coral marched beside him, eyes scanning everywhere, wary. The only sign that the late-afternoon heat had any effect on his partner were the tiny beads of sweat on her smooth brow. She had covered her white-blond hair with a fold of beige cloth supplied by Safia, an Omani headdress called a lihaf.
Painter squinted ahead.
The low sun cast shimmering mirages across the airfield and reflected off every surface, even the drab gray building toward which their group paraded. Omani customs officials in blue uniforms escorted the party, while a small delegation sent by the sultan flanked their sides.
These last were resplendent in the national dress of Omani men: a white collarless robe with long sleeves, called a dishdasha,covered by a black cloak trimmed in gold and silver embroidery. They also wore cotton turbans of varied patterns and hues and leather belts adorned in silver. On these belts, each man wore a sheathed khanjar,the traditional dagger. In this case, they were Saidi daggers, pure silver or gold, a mark of rank, the Rolexes of Omani cutlery.
Kara, trailed by Safia and her graduate student, remained in a heated discussion with these men. It seemed the expedition’s advance men here, Dr. Omaha Dunn and his brother, were being held by the police. Details on the thwarted kidnapping were still sketchy.
“And is Danny all right?” Safia asked in Arabic.
“Fine, fine, my lady,” one of the escorts assured. “Bloodied nose, nothing more. He has already been attended to, let me assure you.”
Kara spoke to the head official. “And how soon can we be under way?”
“His majesty, Sultan Qaboos, has personally arranged for your transportation to Salalah. There will be no further mishaps. If we had only known sooner…that you personally would be accompanying-”
Kara waved his statement aside. “Kif, kif,”she dismissed in Arabic. “It is of no matter. As long as we won’t be delayed.”
A half bow answered her. The official’s lack of offense at her tart response spoke volumes concerning Lady Kensington’s influence in Oman.
So much for the low profile, Painter thought.
He turned his attention to Kara’s companion. Concern crinkled the corners of Safia’s eyes. Her momentary peace at the end of the flight had vanished when she heard of the trouble here. She clutched her carry-on luggage in both hands, refusing to load it and its ancient cargo onto the luggage cart.
Still, a determined glint shone in her emerald eyes, or maybe it was just the reflection of gold flecks in them. Painter remembered her hanging from the museum’s glass roof. He sensed a well of strength in her, hidden deep but still present. Even the land seemed to recognize this. The sun, glaring harshly off everything else in Oman, glowed upon her skin, as if welcoming her, casting her features in bronze. Her beauty, muted before, shone brighter, like a jewel enhanced by a perfect setting.
At last, the party reached the private terminal building, and doors opened into a cool oasis of air-conditioned comfort. It was the VIP lounge. Their stay at this oasis, however, proved brief. Customs routines were hastily dispatched upon the authority of the sultan’s retinue. Passports were glanced at, visas stamped-then the five of them were split between two black limousines: Safia, her grad student, and Kara in one, Coral and Painter in the other.
“It seems our company is not appreciated,” Painter commented as he boarded the stretch limo with his partner.
He settled into a seat. Coral joined him.
Up front, beside the limo’s driver, a beefy Irishman ran shotgun. He carried a prominent sidearm in a shoulder holster. Painter also noted a pair of escort vehicles-one in front of Kara’s limousine, the other trailing. Clearly, after the kidnapping, security was not to be neglected.
Painter slipped a cell phone from a pocket. The phone contained a scrambled satellite chip with access to the DOD computer net and housed a sixteen-megapixel digital camera with flash uploading and downloading.
Never leave home without it.
He drew out the small earpiece and fixed it in place. A small microphone dangled from the line at his lips. He waited as the sat phone transmitted a coded handshake signal that crossed the globe and zeroed in on one person.
“Commander Crowe,” a voice finally answered. It was Dr. Sean McKnight, his immediate superior, the head of Sigma.
“Sir, we’ve landed in Muscat and are headed to the Kensington compound. I was reporting in to see if you’ve received any intel on the attack on the advance team.”
“We have the preliminary police report already. They were snatched off the street. Fake taxi. Sounds like a typical attempted kidnapping for ransom. Common form of raising capital out there.”
Still, Painter heard the suspicion in McKnight’s voice. First the trouble at the museum…now this. “Do you think this could be related to London?”
“Too early to say.”
Painter pictured the lithe figure vanishing over the museum wall. He could still feel the weight of Cassandra’s Sig Sauer in his hand. Two days after her arrest in Connecticut, she had vanished from custody. The police van transferring her to the airport had been ambushed, two men died, and Cassandra Sanchez had disappeared. Painter had never thought to see her again. How was she connected to all this? And why?
McKnight continued, “Admiral Rector has coordinated with the NSA in gathering intel. We’ll have more in a couple hours.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Commander, is Dr. Novak with you?”
Painter stared over at Coral, who watched the scenery flash past. Her eyes were unreadable, but he was sure she was memorizing her surroundings. Just in case. “Yes, sir. She’s here.”
“Let her know that the researchers over at Los Alamos were able to discover decaying uranium particles in that meteoric iron sample you found at the museum.”
Painter recalled her concern over the scanner’s readings on the sample.
“They also support her hypothesis that the radiation from the uranium’s decay may indeed be acting like some sort of nuclear timer, slowly destabilizing the antimatter until it is susceptible to electrical shock.”
Painter sat straighter and spoke into the phone receiver. “Dr. Novak also proposed that the same destabilization could be happening at the antimatter’s primary source, if it exists.”
“Exactly. The Los Alamos researchers have independently expressed the same concern. As such, your mission has become time critical. Additional resources have been allocated. If there is a primary source, it must be discovered quickly or all may be lost.”
“Understood, sir.” Painter pictured the blasted ruins of the museum gallery, the bones of the guard melted into the steel grate. If there was a mother lode of this antimatter, the loss could be more than such scientific.
“Which brings me to my last item, Commander. We do have pressing information that concerns your operation. From NOAA. They report a major storm system developing in southern Iraq, blowing south.”
“Thunderstorm?”
“Sand. Winds clocked at sixty miles per hour. A real barn buster. It’s been shutting down city after city, shifting dunes across roads. NASA confirms its path toward Oman.”
Painter blinked. “NASA confirms? How big is-”
“Big enough to be seen from space. I’ll forward satellite feed.”
Painter glanced at the digital screen on the phone. The screen filled in line by line from the top. It was a real-time weather map of the Middle East and the Arabian Peninsula. The detail was amazing: the coastline, blue seas scudded with clouds, tiny cities. Except where a large, hazy blotch skirted the Persian Gulf. It looked like a hurricane, but one on land. A vast reddish brown wave even extended out over the gulf.
“Meteorological predictions expect the storm to amplify in severity and size as it travels south,” McKnight narrated as the image refreshed the screen. The blotch of sandstorm swept over a coastal city, obliterating it. “There’s chatter of a storm of the century brewing out there. A high-pressure system in the Arabian Sea is producing vicious monsoon winds, drawn into a low trough over the Empty Quarter. The sandstorm will hit the southern deserts like a freight train, then be whipped up and fed by the monsoon tidals, creating a mega storm system.”
“Jesus.”
“It’ll be hell out there for a while.”
“What’s the timetable?”
“The storm should reach the Omani border by the day after tomorrow. And current estimates expect the storm system to last two or three days.”
“Delaying the expedition.”
“For as short as possible.”
Painter heard the command behind the director’s words. He raised his head and glanced toward the other limo. A delay. Kara Kensington was not going to be pleased.
6:48 P.M.
CALM DOWN,”Safia urged.
They had all gathered in the garden courtyard of the Kensington estate. High limestone walls of crumbling plaster dated to the sixteenth century, as did the idyllic frescoes of climbing vines that framed off arched landscapes and seascapes. Three years ago, restoration work had returned the frescoes to their full glory. This was the first time Safia had seen the finished product with her own eyes. Artisans from the British Museum had overseen the details here, while Safia had supervised from London via digital cameras and the Internet.
The pixilated photos failed to do justice to the richness of the colors. The blue pigments came from crushed mollusk shells, the reds from pressed rose madder, as had been originally done in the sixteenth century.
Safia took in the rest of the gardens, a place she had once played in as a child. Baked red tiles lined the grounds, amid raised beds of roses, trimmed hedges, and artfully arranged perennials. An English garden, a bit of Britain in the center of Muscat. In contrast, though, four large date palms dotted each corner, arched and shading a good portion of the garden.
Memories overlapped reality, triggered by the perfume of climbing jasmine and a deeper sandy scent of the old town. Ghosts shifted amid the dappled tiles, shadow plays of the past.
In the center of the courtyard, a traditional Omani tiled fountain with an octagonal reflecting basin tinkled brightly. Safia and Kara used to swim and float in the fountain’s pool on especially hot and dusty days, a practice frowned upon by Kara’s father. Safia could still hear his amused bluster, echoing off the garden walls, as he returned from a board meeting to find them lounging in the fountain. You two look like a pair of beached seals.Still, sometimes he would take off his shoes and wade in with them.
Kara stalked past the fountain with hardly a glance. The bitterness in her words brought the present back in focus. “First Omaha’s adventure…now the bloody weather. By the time we’re under way, half of Arabia will know of our excursion, and we’ll not have a moment’s peace.”
Safia followed, leaving the unloading of the limos to the others. Painter Crowe had announced the dire meteorological news upon his arrival. He’d kept his face neutral. “It’s a shame you can’t buy good weather,” he had finished glibly. He seemed to so enjoy goading Kara. Still, after all the roadblocks Kara had erected to keep the two Americans from this expedition, Safia could hardly blame him.
Safia caught up with Kara at the arched entry to the old palace, a three-story structure of carved and tiled limestone. The upper levels were adorned by shaded balconies, supported on ornate columns. Sea blue tiles lined all inner surfaces of the balconies, calmingly cool to the eye after the blinding glare.
Kara seemed to find no comfort in coming home, her face tight, the muscles of her jaw tense.
Safia touched her arm, wondering how much of her shortness of temper was true frustration and how much was chemically induced. “The storm’s not a problem,” she assured her friend. “We were planning to travel to Salalah to examine Nabi Imran’s tomb first. It’s on the coast, away from any sandstorms. I’m sure we’ll be there at least a week anyway.”
Kara took a deep breath. “Still, this mess with Omaha. I’d hoped to avoid too much notice-”
A commotion at the gate interrupted. Both women turned.
An Omani police car, lights silently flashing, pulled to a stop alongside the pair of limousines. The rear doors opened and two men climbed out.
“Speak of the devil…” Kara mumbled.
Safia found it suddenly difficult to breathe, the air gone heavy.
Omaha…
Time slipped slower, paced by the dull beat of her heart in her ears. She had thought she’d have more time to prepare, to settle in, to steel herself for the meeting. She felt an urge to flee and took a step back.
Kara placed a hand on the small of her back, supporting her. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered.
Omaha waited for his brother-then the two of them crossed between the black limos. Danny’s face bore two black eyes, his nose bridged by a bandaged splint. Omaha had an arm on his brother’s elbow. He wore a blue suit, jacket tucked in the crook of his free arm, white shirt rolled up at the elbows, stained with dirt and dried blood. His gaze lingered a moment on Painter Crowe, eyes traveling up and down his form. Omaha nodded in wary greeting.
Then he turned in Safia’s direction. His eyes widened, and his feet slowed. His face froze for a breath, then a slow smile faltered, then firmed. He wiped a few lanky locks of sandy hair from his eyes, as if disbelieving the sight.
His lips mouthed her name, and on the second attempt he spoke aloud. “Safia…my God.” He cleared his throat and hurried forward, abandoning his brother for the moment.
Before she could stop him, he reached out and embraced her, falling into her. He smelled of salt and sweat, familiar as the desert. He squeezed her hard. “It’s good to see you,” he whispered in her ear.
Her arms hesitated in returning his hug.
He straightened and stepped back before she could decide. A bit of color had risen to his cheeks.
Safia found language beyond her at the moment. Her eyes flicked to movement over Omaha’s shoulder.
Stepping around, Danny offered a wincing smile. He looked like he’d been mugged.
Safia’s hand waved at her own nose, glad for the distraction. “I…I thought it wasn’t broken?”
“Greenstick fracture only,” he assured her, a hint of Nebraskan accent in his voice, fresh from the family farm. “Splint’s only for support.” His gaze wavered between Omaha and Safia, stalling his own smile.
A stretch of awkwardness grew wild and weedy.
Painter appeared, arm out. He introduced himself, shaking hands with the two brothers. Only for a moment did his eyes flick toward Safia, making sure she was okay. She realized he was buying her time to collect herself.
“This is my partner, Dr. Coral Novak, physicist out of Columbia.”
Danny straightened, visibly swallowing as he surreptitiously took in her figure. He spoke too quickly. “That’s where I graduated. Columbia, that is.”
Coral glanced at Painter, as if seeking permission to speak. There was no outward confirmation, but she spoke anyway. “Small world.”
Danny opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. His eyes followed the physicist as she stepped to the side.
Clay Bishop joined them. Safia made the introductions, finding solace in the routines of etiquette. “And this is my graduate student, Clay Bishop.”
He grasped Omaha’s hand in both of his, shaking rapidly. “Sir, I’ve read your treatise on Persian trade routes during the time of Alexander the Great. I hope to have a chance to discuss some of your explorations along the Iran-Afghani border.”
Omaha turned to Safia and Kara. “Did he just call me ‘sir’?”
Kara broke up the introductions, waving everyone to the arched entrance of the palace. “There are rooms assigned to each of you, so you can freshen up before supper and relax afterward.” She led the way into the palace, her fashionable Fendi heels tapping on the ancient tiles. “But don’t get too comfortable here. We’ll be leaving in four hours.”
“Another plane trip?” Clay Bishop asked, hiding a groan.
Omaha clapped him on the shoulder. “Not exactly. At least one good thing came from the mess this afternoon.” He nodded to Kara. “It’s nice to have friends in high places, especially friends with nice toys.”
Kara frowned back at him. “Have all the arrangements been made?”
“Supplies and equipment have already been rerouted.”
Safia stared between them. On the way here, Kara had made furious calls to Omaha, the British consulate, and Sultan Qaboos’s staff. Whatever the result, it did not seem to please Kara as much as it did Omaha.
“What about the Phantoms?” Kara asked.
“They know to meet us there,” Omaha said with a nod.
“Phantoms?” Clay asked.
Before anyone could answer, they reached a hall leading into the south wing, the guest wing.
Kara nodded to a waiting butler, oiled gray hair, hands behind his back, dressed in black and white, pure British. “Henry, could you please show our guests to their rooms?”
A stiff nod. “Yes, madam.” His eyes twinkled a bit as they swept over to Safia, but he kept his face passive. Henry had been head butler here at the estate since Safia was a child. “This way, please.”
The group followed.
Kara called after them. “Supper will be served on the upper terrace in thirty minutes.” It sounded more like a command than an invitation.
Safia stepped to follow the others.
“What are you doing?” Kara asked, taking her by the arm. “Your old rooms have been aired and readied for you.” She turned her toward the main house.
Safia stared around her as they walked. Little had changed. In many ways, the estate was as much a museum as a residence. Oil paintings hung on the walls, Kensington ancestry dating back to the fourteenth century. In the room’s center stood a massive antique mahogany dining table, imported from France, as was the six-tiered Baccarat chandelier that hung above it. Safia had her twelfth birthday party here. She remembered candles, music, a blur of festivity. And laughter. There had always been laughter. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she circled the long room.
Kara led her to the private family wing.
When she was five, Safia had moved from the orphanage to the estate, to act as playmate for young Kara. It was the first room she had ever had to herself…and a private bath. Still, most of her nights were spent nestled with Kara in her room, the two of them whispering of futures that never came.
They stopped outside the door.
Suddenly Kara hugged her tight. “It’s so good to have you home again.”
Returning the genuinely warm embrace, Safia felt the girl behind the woman, her dearest and oldest friend. Home.And at this very moment, she almost believed it.
Kara shifted. Her eyes were bright in the reflected glow of the wall sconces. “Omaha…”
Safia took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I thought I was ready. But to see him. He hasn’t changed.”
“That’s so true,” Kara said with a scowl.
Safia smiled and returned a quick hug. “I’m fine…honestly.”
Kara opened the door. “I’ve had a bath drawn, and there are fresh clothes in the wardrobe. I’ll see you at dinner.” She stepped away and continued down the hall. She passed her old room and continued toward the double set of carved walnut doors at the end of the hall, the suite belonging to the master of the estate, her father’s old rooms.
Safia turned away and pushed through the door to her own chamber. Beyond lay a small but high-ceilinged entry hall, a greeting chamber once used as a playroom but now a private study. She had studied for her Ph.D. oral exams in this room. It smelled freshly of jasmine, her favorite flower and scent.
She crossed through the room to the bedchamber beyond. The silk canopied bed looked as if it had not been disturbed since she had left here to go to Tel Aviv so long ago. That painful memory smoothed as her fingers trailed down a fold of Kashmiri silk. A wardrobe stood on the far side, near the windows that opened upon a shadowed side garden, gloomy with the setting sun. The planted beds had grown a bit hedgy since last she had stared out from here. There were even a few weeds, which touched a well of loss she hadn’t known was so deep.
Why had she come back? Why had she left?
She could not seem to connect the past to the present.
A tinkling drip of water drew her attention away, to the neighboring bathing chamber. There was not much time until dinner. She shed her clothes, letting them drop to the floor behind her. The bath was a sunken tile tub, deep but narrow. Water steamed into the air with a whisper that could almost be heard. Or maybe it was the shifting layer of white jasmine petals floating on the surface, the source of the room’s perfume.
The sight drew a tired smile.
She crossed to the tub, and though she couldn’t see the step hidden beneath the waters, she entered without hesitation, instincts from a past perhaps not entirely misplaced. She settled into the steamy warmth, sinking to her chin, leaning back against the tile, hair spreading over the water and petals.
Something deeper than sore muscles loosened and relaxed.
She closed her eyes.
Home…
8:02 P.M.
THE GUARDpatrolled the alleyway, flashlight in hand, the beam pointed at the cobbled path. His other hand scraped a match against the limestone outer wall of the Kensington estate. The tiny flame flared with a hiss. He failed to notice the black-cloaked figure hanging in the deeper shadows cast by the wide leaves of the date palm that hung over the top of the wall.
The light ate away the shadows, threatening to expose the climber. Cassandra pressed the trigger on her grappling gun’s winch. The slight noise of its oiled mechanism was covered by the bark of a stray dog, one of many that ran the streets of Muscat. Her feet, muffled in slippers, fled up the wall as her body was hauled upward, drawn by the thin steel-alloy grappling cable as it rewound back into the handheld pistol. Reaching the top, she used her momentum to fling her body atop the wall, then lay flat.
Razor-sharp glass shards were embedded along the top of the wall, planted to deter interlopers. But they failed to penetrate her lightweight black Kevlar bodysuit and gloves. Still, she felt one shard pressing near her right temple. Her mask hid and protected the rest of her face, except for a strip open across her eyes. Nonreflective night-vision goggles rested atop her forehead, ready for use. The lenses were capable of taking an hour of digital footage and were hooked up to a microparabolic receiver for eavesdropping.
Painter Crowe’s own design.
This thought drew a thin smile. She loved the irony. To use the bastard’s own tools against him…
Cassandra watched the guard vanish around the corner of the estate. She freed her grappling hook and resecured it to the muzzle of her compact gun. She rolled onto her back, ejected the spent compressed-air cartridge from the pistol’s grip, grabbed a fresh cylinder from her belt, and slapped it in place. Ready, she swung around and crawled along the jagged parapet of the palace wall, aiming for the main building.
The outer wall did not merge with the palace, but surrounded the structure from a distance of ten meters. Smaller gardens filled the narrow space, some separated into private, hedge-lined shade gardens, dotted with fountains. The tinkling of dancing water echoed up to her as she continued along the parapet.
Earlier, she had scoped the estate, ensuring the security schematics supplied to her by the Guild were accurate. She knew better than to trust ink and paper. She had personally checked each camera’s position, the schedule of the guards, the layout of the palace.
Ducking beneath the overhanging leaves of another palm, she crept more slowly toward a section of the palace ablaze with light. A tiny columned court framed arched windows that looked in upon a long dining hall. Candles, carved into delicate flowers and afloat in silver basins, flickered atop the table, while others tapered out of elaborate candelabras. Crystal and fine porcelain reflected the firelight. Figures mingled before the silk-draped table. Servants bustled among them, filling water goblets and offering wine.
Lying flat to hide her silhouette, Cassandra lowered her digital goggles over her eyes. She did not activate the night-vision mode, only toggled the magnification, telescoping closer to the action. Her earpiece buzzed with the amplified conversation, sounding tinny from its digitalization. She had to keep her head very still to fix the parabolic receiver on the conversation.
She knew all the players present.
The lanky graduate student, Clay Bishop, stood by one of the windows, ill at ease. A young serving girl offered to fill his wineglass. He shook his head. “La, shuk-ran,”he mumbled. No, thank you.
Behind him, two men sampled a tray of varied hors d’oeuvres, traditional dishes of Oman, bits of braised meat, goat cheese, olives, and slivered dates. Dr. Omaha Dunn and his brother, Daniel. Cassandra knew all about their narrow escape earlier. Sloppy work on the part of the kidnappers.
Still, she eyed the pair. She knew better than to underestimate an opponent. Defeat lay along that path. There could be strengths to this pair that bore watching.
Omaha chewed around an olive pit. “While you were in the shower,” he said, sucking on the pit, “I checked the weather report on the local news. The sandstorm shut down Kuwait City, shoved a dune right down Main Street.”
The younger brother made a noncommittal noise. He did not seem to be paying attention. His gaze followed a tall blonde as she entered on the far side of the room.
Coral Novak, Sigma operative, her replacement.
Cassandra turned her attention to her adversary. The woman’s coolness seemed too practiced, especially considering how easily she had been taken down at the museum, caught off guard. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed with distaste. This is who they thought to take my place at Painter’s side? Someone green to Sigma?No wonder things had to change.
On the heels of the woman, Painter appeared. Tall, dressed in black slacks and black shirt, formal, yet casual. Even from her perch on the wall, Cassandra recognized his study of the room, circumspect, out of the corner of his eye. He was taking in all sights, analyzing, calculating.
Her fingers tightened on the wall’s shards of glass.
He had exposed her, threatened her position with the Guild, brought her low. She had been perfectly poised, spent years cultivating her role as a lead operative, earning her partner’s trust…and at the end, maybe even something beyond simple loyalty.
Anger built in her chest, stirring bile. He had cost her everything, driven her out of the limelight, limiting her role to ops that required total anonymity. She rose from her spot and continued along the wall. She had a mission. One thwarted before by Painter, at the museum. She knew the stakes involved.
She would not fail this night.
Nothing would stop her.
Cassandra worked around to the far wing of the palace, toward a lone light in the darkness at the rear of the building. She rose up on her toes and ran the last distance. She could not risk missing her target.
At last, she settled before a window that looked down upon an unkempt garden. Through the steamy window, a lone woman reclined in a sunken bath. Cassandra scanned the remaining rooms. Empty. She listened. Not a sound.
Satisfied, Cassandra aimed her grappling gun toward an upper balcony. In her left ear, she heard the woman mumble. It sounded groggy, a dream, a choked cry: “ No…not again…”
Cassandra pulled the gun’s release trigger. The hooks snapped wide and sailed through the air, spiraling a thin cable of steel behind. A tight zipping noise accompanied it. The grappling hooks sailed over the balustrade of the third-story balcony.
Securing the hooks with a snug pull, Cassandra swung from the wall toward the garden below. Wind whistled. Dogs barked in a neighboring alley. She landed without breaking a twig and leaned against the wall beside the window, one ear cocked for the sound of alarm.
Silence.
She checked the window. It had been left cracked open a finger’s breadth. Beyond, the woman mumbled in her dreams.
Perfect.
8:18 P.M.
S AFIA STANDS in the waiting room of a large hospital. She knows what is going to happen. Across the way, she spots the bent woman walking with the limp, entering the ward. Face and form covered in a berka. The bulge under the woman’s cloak evident now.
…not like before.
Safia lunges to cross the waiting room, frantic to stop what is going to happen next. But children crowd around her feet, clambering at her legs, snatching at her arms. She struggles to push them away, but they cry out.
She slows, unsure whether to console or push forward.
Ahead, the woman disappears into the mass of people by the desk. Safia can no longer see her. But the station nurse raises her arm, points in Safia’s direction. Her name is called.
…like before.
The crowd parts. The woman is spotlit in her own light, angelic, cloak swelling out like wings.
No, Safia mouths. She has no air to speak, to warn.
Then a blinding explosion, all light, no noise.
Sight returns in an instant-but not hearing.
She is on her back, staring as silent flames race along the ceiling. She hides her face from the heat, but it’s everywhere. With her head turned, she sees children sprawled, some aflame, others crushed under stone. One sits with her back to an overturned table. The child’s face is missing. Another reaches toward her, but there is no hand, only blood.
