Ryan’s eyebrows gathered in a frown. “Some?”
Deirdre glanced around them, then at her watch. “Surely you don’t think Aziza is the first of our kind to disappear. It is a problem here, which is why the hotel tells us to always travel with company. In pairs, at least. It’s not stated as a warning, more as cautionary advice.”
The waiter returned with Ryan’s order, which he moved to one side. “Is there anyone in particular you think I should talk with at Encounters?”
She stared through the glass at the tourists going past, then looked directly at him. “Try the bartenders. They know everything, even if they try to tell you otherwise. Also Akbar, who’s employed here, might be able to tell you something. He works at reception, and he’s thick with the barmen.”
Shifting sideways on the seat, Deirdre said, “I have to go now. I’m on duty in an hour.”
“Thanks for talking to me.”
She smiled as she stood. “I’m glad someone’s looking for Aziza.”
Ryan bit into the croissant and followed her with his eyes as she exited the café. He made a mental note to find out more about Deirdre before the day was out. She was saying all the right things, but her energy was off, as his mother would say.
Chapter Five
The clanging of the lock warned them of the men’s approach before they appeared. Either they were back with more substandard food or they were coming for other nefarious reasons.
In halting English, Naima, who turned out to be Senegalese, told Aziza she was sure they would all be trafficked. Aziza had tried to make sense of her situation as she followed the sequence of events that brought her to the present moment.
Naima turned frightened eyes on her. “Don’t say anything,” she pleaded. “That way they might pass over us.”
In the doorway, their jailors stood in front of a tall, bearded man wearing a cream linen tunic. His authority was obvious as the other two nearly fell over themselves to get out of his way. Strolling, he went past the row of cots, coming closer to the back of the container. He pointed to one woman, then stopped a foot from where Aziza lay and pointed at an East Indian girl. She was little more than a child and shrank into a ball, sobbing.
The stout jailer shook his head and pointed to the entrance. As they jabbered back and forth, Aziza gathered that they were encouraging the man to take one of the other girls, who were closer to the front. From the looks of it, they had some kind of system.
When their jailor wouldn’t give in to the visitor, he stomped his foot and strode back the way he came. The door banged shut behind them, and the women breathed a collective sigh, then whispered to each other.
Earlier in the day, another visitor came. He brought two others with him, and they dragged two girls screaming from the container. Their cries chilled Aziza’s soul, and when the man she assumed was a buyer backhanded them across their cheeks, she wanted to get in his face. But what could she do while shackled like a slave?
As the day wore on she felt a tad better, but needed water, which seemed to be rationed. She ignored the food they provided but drank the bottled water when she couldn’t hold out any longer. Thankfully, it didn’t make her feel any worse. She wasn’t sure how many hours had passed since she regained consciousness. Someone had taken the watch Ryan gave her on her birthday. Her handbag, containing her phone and keys, was also missing.
At the thought of Ryan, her eyes smarted. Did he know what happened to her? And if he did, would he come halfway around the world to find her? A cloud of depression threatened to swamp her, but she kicked her chin into the air, then sat up. “Aye!”
“Are you crazy?” Naima whispered, her eyes round and red from her tears.
“Aye!” This time, Aziza banged on the wall behind her. She continued until the door opened and Hamid, the young jailor, stepped inside. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the gunman, who sent a glare in Aziza’s direction.
“What you want?” His words surprised her because she’d assumed he didn’t speak English.
“Bathroom. I need to use it again.”
He turned toward his partner, and they threw words back and forth until he sailed a set of keys through the air, which Hamid caught with one hand. He uncuffed Aziza and helped her stand.
The gunman pointed his rifle at her and though she didn’t understand what he said, his intent was clear. He’d shoot Aziza if she made any wrong moves.
She walked ahead of Hamid to a door a few feet away. He opened it, and they entered another container equipped with bathroom facilities. A toilet, basin, and shower occupied the clustered space. She faced the door and met Hamid’s gaze. “I’m not using the toilet with you watching.”
Aziza pushed the door, but Hamid slid his toe in the opening.
She yanked the flimsy, wooden panel toward her. “You better not spy on me while I’m in here.”
His foot stayed in the doorway, which didn’t leave her any choice but to do her business with him in earshot. Same as last time. As she washed her hands, the reality of her situation hit, and she scanned the small space for anything that might help her in a crisis. The primitive shower rail wouldn’t do her any good, but when her gaze landed on a curtain hook, Aziza smiled.
She unhooked one of the metal clips from the middle, hiked up her dress, and slid it into the side of her underwear. Thank goodness they hadn’t stripped her to the bone. She grabbed a bit of tissue, then moved back into Hamid’s line of sight to dry her hands. The dirt in the bottom of the shower stall told her it wasn’t used regularly, so with luck they wouldn’t notice
