Page 77 of Cross Down
“Speaking,” he says.
“This is Captain Susan Jones of the DC Metro Police. Mr. Palmer, is your wife Lucille Palmer?”
“Yes, yes, she is. What’s this about?”
“I’m afraid—”
Walter interrupts. “Wait, what? DC? The District of Columbia? My wife isn’t in DC.”
“Where is she, then?”
His voice rises. “Orlando! In Florida! At a Mary Kay convention.”
Susan glances at Ned, and Ned nods. He’s got a lot on his plate. He has to tell John what he found out about Elizabeth Deacon, prep for the next status meeting, and send a team of FBI agents to the home of Walter and his late wife to look for clues as to why a middle-class suburban mom would come to the District and strap on a suicide vest.
Oh, yeah, and he has to get his left shin looked at before it bleeds through the bandages.
The Metro Police captain takes a breath. “Mr. Palmer, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.”
Chapter
86
Breakfast is relativelyluxurious because we’re in the home of the local tribal leader, Gul Hazara. We gather in one big room with plenty of soft carpets under our feet, and there are large platters of flatbread, cottage cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, boiled eggs, sweet biscuits, and lots of tea.
Some of the tribesmen in the crowded room are staring at my skin, others are staring at Elizabeth, and a couple look from one of us to the other like spectators at a tennis match.
At one point, Gul excuses himself from this room, and in a quiet voice, Deacon asks, “How did you know that was Gul Hazara?”
“You should know my methods, Watson,” I say, eating a piece of flatbread with some kind of jam spread on it. “Our traitorous guide Bibi said Gul Hazara controlled this area, and when I first saw him, he was surrounded by guards and followers. Mostly, though, it was because he recognized you on sight. I figured he had to be the local leader you mentioned earlier, the one who didn’t show up for that meeting.”
“Good call,” she replies, sipping a cup of tea.
I say, “Who is this guy, then, that you’d risk your ass to sneak into Afghanistan at least five times to meet with him?”
There’s the briefest of pauses, and I know her intelligence-officer mind is working hard, deciding how much to reveal to me.
“We’re hoping that two or three years down the road, when the Taliban are defeated, Gul Hazara will be the new president of Afghanistan.”
I say, “Defeated? For the second time? Man, you Company folks do love to dream.”
She doesn’t answer. Gul Hazara comes back in, squats down, and speaks rapidly in Tajik. All the guests get up and slowly walk out, most of them giving us one more look before departing.
He folds his hands in his lap and says, “Well, Miss Elizabeth, Mr. John. What brings you here?”
Deacon says, “Thank you for your hospitality, your graciousness, and this marvelous meal. We are in your debt.”
He says, “It is hard sometimes to keep track of those debts owed to you.”
Deacon reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a small black zippered bag. She places it on the carpet and says, “You know I always settle my debts, Gul Hazara.”
He doesn’t take the bag, but a hint of a smile appears on his bearded face. “So you do. And what other debt do you intend to incur today?”
“There is a village nearby that was bombed and destroyed two years ago,” she says. “My comrade and I need to visit it.”
Within seconds, Gul Hazara transforms from confident leader to a shrinking man clutching at worry beads. “Why?”
“We need to see it so we can learn who did it. And perhaps why.”
