We were pushed inside, shouted into a corner. The shack’s one room was bare of furniture and crowded with people. Bekhir and his men sat on the floor with their backs to the walls. They’d been treated badly; they were bruised, bleeding, and slouched in attitudes of defeat. A few were missing, including Bekhir’s boy. Standing guard were two more soldiers—that made six altogether, including Mr. White and our escorts.
Bekhir caught my eye and nodded gravely. His cheeks were purpled with bruises.
Mr. White saw our exchange and skipped over to Bekhir. “Aha! You recognize these children?”
“No,” Bekhir said, looking down.
“No?” Mr. White feigned shock. “But you apologized to that one. You must know him, unless you make a habit of apologizing to strangers?”
“They aren’t the ones you’re looking for,” Bekhir said.
“I think they are,” said Mr. White. “I think these are the
“I told you, I’ve never seen them before.”
Mr. White clucked his tongue like a disapproving schoolmarm.
“Gypsy, do you remember what I promised to do if I found out you were lying to me?” He unsheathed a knife from his belt and held it against Bekhir’s cheek. “That’s right. I promised to cut your lying tongue out and feed it to my dog. And I always keep my promises.”
Bekhir met Mr. White’s blank stare and stared back, unflinching. The seconds spun out in unbearable silence. My eyes were fixed on the knife. Finally, Mr. White cracked a smile and stood smartly upright again, breaking the spell. “But,” he said cheerily, “first things first!” He turned to face the soldiers who had escorted us. “Which of you has their bird?”
The soldiers looked at one another. One shook his head, then another.
“We didn’t see it,” said the one who’d taken us prisoner at the depot.
Mr. White’s smile faltered. He knelt down next to Bekhir. “You told me they had the bird with them,” he said.
Bekhir shrugged. “Birds have wings. They come and go.”
