“No, but there’s always a solution.”
“I hope so.”
11
Naeem had spent most of the day resting on the floor beside Mahfuza, getting up only to pray and leaving for a brief time in the late morning to find water and food, both in increasingly short supply.
He had been on the frontline for five days at a stretch and was exhausted. Fighting to keep control over the vital M5 highway had been fierce, the Syrian army and their Russian supporters unleashing everything on them. Every time Naeem and his brothers had regained ground, they had lost it shortly after in a back-and-forth squabble over the same pieces of ground. Another unit had finally come forward to relieve them, and he headed back to the shelter he had found for Mahfuza, to get some much-needed rest.
Hopefully, it would all be over soon.
He looked over at his wife and daughter, wrapped up in blankets against the cold. Things hadn’t turned out the way he had planned all those years ago when they crossed the border. The dream of the Caliphate had collapsed, and he and his fellow fighters—men from all over the world who had been drawn to the ideal of the prophesied Dar al Islam, Land of the Muslim—had been reduced to fighting for a smaller and smaller piece of the country.
When little Malak had been born, she had been a gift from Allah himself, and he’d thought it a sign things would change, but he had been wrong. Staying in Syria, there was little to hope for. They wouldn’t succeed, the forces against them too strong and the morale among his brothers decreasing by the day.
He’d seen so many killed and wounded, and many of those who survived had given up and surrendered. He, too, had been close to giving up when he had been called in by the Amiat, the Caliphate’s secret police, just two weeks ago. He had been afraid at first, wondering why he had come to their attention. He was a good Muslim, had proven his loyalty to the Caliphate many times, first when he had served with the Al Hisbah, the religious police, then when he joined the frontline fighters of the Al-Khansaa Brigade.
When the Amiat had called him in, he thought someone had been spreading lies about him but was relieved to find it was nothing like that. Naeem closed his eyes, tuning out the background noise of explosions and gunfire, visualizing the meeting in his head. The Emir had told him he was being rewarded for his loyalty and had been chosen for the ultimate mission. He had come back from the meeting filled with a renewed purpose, his life holding meaning again.
He heard a noise beside him and opened his eyes again. Mahfuza was awake and watching him. He sat up and shifted backward, so he was leaning against the wall. She didn’t smile, just stared, her face expressionless. She rarely smiled anymore. It was only when he had told her they should consider getting out and moving back to Australia, he had seen any emotion in her expression. She didn’t believe him at first, but when he had given her the phone and she spoke to her father, she finally began to hope it was possible. He turned his wrist and looked at the cheap plastic Casio on his wrist. He would call her father again. Everything hinged on them getting out of Syria.
12
As they neared the house, they saw the diminutive figure of Marisel, Steve’s Filipina housekeeper running toward them.
“Sir, Ma’am...”
“What is it?”
“Mr. Steve.” Marisel paused for breath. “He wants you to come back quickly, he got a call.”
Without another thought, John burst into a sprint, leaving Adriana and Marisel behind. He reached the house, running through the open doorway.
“Steve?”
“In here.”
John followed the sound into the dining room, where Steve and Maadhavi were huddled around a phone lying on the table.
“My brother called. He had a call from Naeem, Mia’s husband. The child, Malak, is not well. He gave me a number. We’re trying to reach them, but I guess the signal is patchy.”
John moved around to look at the phone screen. “Video call?”
“Yup.”
John looked up as Adriana walked in, followed by an out of breath Marisel.
“Steve’s trying to call her,” he explained
“Okay.” Adriana moved around, so she could see the screen as well.
“Just try a voice call first,” John suggested. “It might be easier to connect.”
“Yeah, good idea.” Steve tapped on the phone screen. Nothing happened for a while, then the sound of the phone ringing came through the speakers. Steve looked up and nodded before staring back at the screen again.
“Allo?”
John saw Steve’s lip curl in distaste.
“Naeem?”
“Na’am. Min hdha?” the voice said. “Yes, who’s this.”
“Speak in English,” Steve growled. “You’re fucking Australian.”
There was a pause. “Who is this?”
“It’s Steve, Mia’s uncle. Where is she?”
“This is a Dubai number.”
“I know where I am, where is Mia?”
“Mahfuza... she’s here.”
“Put her on.”
They heard a muffled conversation, then a girl’s voice.
“Uncle Steve?”
“Mia?” Steve’s face softened.
“How did you get this number?”
“Your dad gave it to me. I want to help you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll work something out. But right now, are you okay? Are you safe?”
“Yeah... I’m okay... but Malak... she’s sick. I don’t know what to do.”
Maadhavi placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder as he continued.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She.... just sleeps, she won’t eat... and I think she has a fever.”
“Can you take her to a doctor?”
They heard a muffled boom.
“What was that, Mia?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Was that an explosion?”
“Yes, but not close. Don’t worry, we’re safe right now.”
“Okay.” Steve looked around at the others, a deep-set frown creasing his forehead. “Mia, can you get her to a doctor?”
“There’re no doctors here now. They’ve all gone.”
“Ask her if she can get her to an aid camp?” John murmured to Steve.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s my friend, Mia. Mia, can you get to an aid camp?”
“I tried. They gave me some medicine, something for her fever, but it’s run out. They said they won’t give
