“You are such a bastard,” she said, her voice was low, raw with emotion. “After what happened to Jon…” Turning, she handed A’ishah to Nekane, who took the little girl and disappeared back into the rear of the hospital.
When Amaia turned back, her eyes were filled with disdain.
“Amaia, don’t do this. Jon was my friend…” Corbett began, but could not find the words to finish.
“Your friend…? Really? Because you were there, weren’t you?” She asked, the tone of her voice becoming accusatory, defying him to deny it. “What gives you the right to come here now and ask for our help? The day Jon died… in Nairobi…? Where were you? Don’t lie to me. What was it the official letter said? ‘Complications from pneumonia’…? He was 36 years old, Michael. In the best shape of his life. His body was never recovered.”
In his mind’s eye, the image of Jon Alesander’s bullet-ridden body lay dead in the road. He tried to speak, to explain the unexplainable.
“It’s complicated...” He said at last. “I wrote you…”
“You liar. You never wrote anything. You’re as bad they are. No, worse, because Jon trusted you. Believed in you. And you betrayed him just like the rest.”
“Amaia, listen…” he tried again. “What happened in Kenya was fucked. We both knew the situation going in…”
“Except he’s dead and you’re not.”
Realizing there was nothing more he could say to alleviate her sense of betrayal and pain, Corbett swallowed hard. An awkward silence rose up between them. “Listen, just tell Tariq…” he started at last.
“Fuck you, Michael,” the rage in her voice rising as her words cut into him. “Just fuck you and get out.”
Staring at each other without moving, neither spoke. Then from the doorway behind him he heard Ella’s voice.
“Michael…?” she said.
Turning, he found her standing in the open doorway. Amaia did the same. For a brief moment, the two women stood staring at one another before Corbett finally turned, stepping between them.
“Ella…” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Yes… yes, everything’s fine,” she answered slightly flustered. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Gorka just wanted me to let you know we’re ready to leave when you are.”
“Sounds good… You go ahead. I’ll finish up here and meet you at the car.”
Her eyes darted from Corbett to Amaia and back again as if she were waiting for him to introduce her. When he didn’t, an uneasy silence filled the space between them.
“Was there something else?” he asked at last.
“No,” she answered. “No… See you at the car.” Then turning, she slipped back out the door and was gone.
“Seems a bit young…” Amaia said as she watched Ella leave.
“I really hadn’t really noticed,” he lied.
“That’s because you’re a man.”
Ignoring the remark, Corbett studied Amaia’s face, a face he had once loved, and wondered how things could have gone so wrong.
“Don’t forget to let Tariq know about his father,” he called after her as she disappeared through the double doors into the rear of the clinic.
Turning, he started for the door leading to the street. Reaching it, he hesitated once more and, out of habit, quickly scanned the intersection for any sign or trouble before stepping out into the brilliant sunlight.
FOURTEEN
A s the morning sun rose above Xeria’s rust-colored tile roofs, Jarral positioned himself in the shadow of the whitewashed building directly across from the free clinic. Having used the map, they had found at the gas station as a guide, Jarral had led the others to the abandoned farmhouse. Arriving in the dark, they had set up temporary quarters and an observation post. From the farmhouse, they could easily monitor all who might traffic along the dirt road to and from the university base camp.
The cloudbank had rolled in after midnight, obscuring the road. Unable to sleep, Jarral had arisen before dawn and, after performing his morning prayers, was waiting for the sun to rise when he heard the university Land Rover coming down the mountain. Aware that he would need to act quickly, he awoke the two men nearest the door as he ran for the red Peugeot. Telling them to jump in back, Jarral dropped behind the wheel, cranked the engine and raced after the Rover. Following the red glow of the taillights through the thick gray mist at a distance, he turned left at the main road and followed it down the mountain. Arriving a moment too late to join them, Buttar could only watch as they drove away.
Once they had finally descended below the clouds, Jarral eased back on the gas pedal, stalking the Rover while attempting not to arouse any undue suspicions. However, as the road became more demanding, he ordered the two jihadis with him – a large balding man with a beard named Amal and Moroccan named Khalid – to not let the Rover out of their sight so that he could focus on the road. Far ahead, whoever was driving the Rover was clearly a madman. They finally lost sight of the distant car on a hairpin turn when it passed a stake bed truck while nearly colliding with a hay wagon.
Reaching the outskirts of the village of Xeria, Jarral had driven off the blacktop into an empty field where he parked the car. Leaving it out of sight from the road, the three jihadis then walked the final two kilometers into town only to discover that it was market day. As Amal and Khalid, who had not eaten, sampled the roasting lamb, Jarral told them to keep a watchful eye for anyone who appeared to be out of place. The men nodded. Then splitting up, they moved separately through the market, intending
