The ice-cold air chilled his lungs and his head swam from the exertion of climbing the stairs. Whoever had hit him had cracked his head good. He paused for a moment, but a rifle barrel in the small of his back told him to keep moving. When he got closer to the top of the steps and the flashlight being shone on him, he saw it was being held by a teenage boy with a scraggly beard. He wasn’t sure, but thought it was probably the kid who’d surprised him when he’d first come to the village. The teenager urged Floyd through a doorway that led into a small antechamber full of shoes and coats. The boy opened an interior door and ushered Floyd into a large, well-lit hall.

  There were fifty or sixty people in a space about the size of a tennis court. The floor was bare cedarwood, but the walls were hung with ornate woven rugs and a large fire burned in a central hearth. A brick chimney rose into the steeply angled roof. The people were nearly all men and had clustered before the fire. The only two women Floyd could see in the throng were both in their sixties and were seated in heavy armchairs covered in the chipped remains of old gilding. Next to these women were three older men in similar, once grand chairs. These five seemed to command reverence from the assembled crowd.

  “Amrikani,” a gray-haired man in a brown shalwar kameez said, looking at Floyd. He was seated in the armchair at the center of the line of elders.

  “You are accused of being a spy and a thief,” the man said in English.

  He turned to the crowd and said something in Kamviri.

  “I’m neither of those things,” Floyd protested.

  The elder continued as though he hadn’t spoken, “The punishment for these crimes is death.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE ELDER BARKED a command in Kamviri, and a man stepped forward from the crowd. He was dressed in black, a red sash tied around his waist. He held a long sword in his right hand. Reflected flames danced along its polished blade. Floyd’s stomach lurched as he realized he was looking at his executioner.

  “I’m not a thief or a spy,” he protested, backing away. “I’m an American soldier who was shot down. You can hold me as a prisoner of war, but you cannot execute me.”

  The elder said something Floyd didn’t understand. Scarface and his other jailer grabbed hold of Floyd’s arms and pushed him forward. He tried to resist, but they held fast and forced him on. The executioner’s gaze did not waver. Floyd could tell from the thin half-smile on his face that this was a man who enjoyed his work.

  After a few steps, Scarface and his companion forced Floyd to his knees.

  “No!” he cried, trying to push himself up.

  He was rewarded with a punch, which dazed him.

  “Don’t struggle and it will be quick,” the elder advised.

  Floyd fought and bucked against the two men holding him, but they dragged him to the right of the fireplace, where the crowd parted to reveal a wooden block stained black and marred by deep scores. Two metal eyelets and a long leather strap left no doubt as to the block’s purpose.

  “You can’t do this,” Floyd protested as he was hauled over to the block.

  He tried to force himself up, but someone threw the leather strap over his shoulders and a moment later he was pinned in position. His legs kicked at the floor, to no effect.

  “No!” Floyd yelled as he saw the executioner approach.

  The man raised his sword and muttered something under his breath. Reflected flames danced across the blade, and the edge glinted in the golden light.

  Floyd felt a lump form in his throat and his stomach churned with nausea as he faced reality: he was about to die. He would never see his wife or children again. Never hold his son or hug his daughter. He felt tears spring to his eyes.

  “Please,” he begged.

  There was a sudden crash and the clatter of wood hitting something solid. Someone yelled something in Kamviri, and there was commotion in the crowd. The elder replied and was challenged by a new voice. Floyd tried to turn, but he was held fast. He heard footsteps behind him, and another exchange with the elder.

  A moment later, a man came into view. Although he wore a navy blue shalwar kameez beneath a thick woolen coat, there was no mistaking his Western features. He reached out and began to pull the leather strap from Floyd’s shoulders. He could have wept when he felt it go slack.

  The new arrival helped him to his feet and offered Floyd his hand.

  “My name is John,” he said in a British accent.

  “Joshua Floyd, Captain, US Army. How did you…?”

  “I advised them that executing a US soldier would have repercussions. I’m sorry, I only just learned of your capture, otherwise I would have been here sooner.”

  The elder said something to John.

  “He says I must pledge my honor for you.”

  Floyd looked lost.

  “It means they’ll execute me in your place if it turns out you are a spy or a thief,” John explained gravely. “Don’t worry,” he added, breaking into a smile, “he has no intention of killing me. He’s just trying to save face.”

  John replied to the elder, and a murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  John steered Floyd toward the exit and led him out into the freezing night.

  CHAPTER 20

  FLOYD HAD NEVER been more pleased to feel himself shiver at the cut of an icy wind. The stars had never shone so brightly, nor the air tasted so sweet. Floyd’s British guardian angel led him along a rough track that ran between two rows of terraced houses, and every step felt like a gift. The bleak threat of death had brought the little things of ordinary life into sharp relief for him.

  “Harsh conditions can create harsh people,” John said. “It probably won’t seem like it now, but that’s not true of the Kom people. They’re usually very friendly and welcoming. It must have been the uniform. Americans haven’t done much good here.”

  The track was illuminated by lights in the windows of the houses they passed. To Floyd’s left, the roof of the nearest house formed a support for the one above, and beyond that stretched an unbroken run of five similar step structures built into the mountain until the next lateral track, which cut through the town. Narrow alleyways separated each run of houses from their neighbors, and enabled people to access the homes in the center of each “staircase.” The same pattern of construction was visible to Floyd’s right, going down the mountain.

  “This place is something, isn’t it?” John remarked.

  Floyd nodded.

  “I couldn’t believe it, when I first saw it. That people managed to build like this in these mountains before modern technology. Or that they’d want to. But spend long enough here, and you understand why.”

  Floyd hadn’t reached that revelatory moment yet. His lungs were acclimatizing to the thin ice-cold air, and he was still getting over having almost been murdered.

  “Live at the limits of existence,” John said, “and you understand what it means to be truly alive.”

  It sounded like a snowboard manufacturer’s tagline.

  “You been here long?” Floyd asked.

  “Uh-huh,” John replied. “Some years.”

  Floyd could appreciate the majesty of the place, but he couldn’t think of anything better than being curled up on the sofa with his family, watching a movie and munching caramel popcorn. He didn’t need to be on the edge to appreciate life. He’d been close enough to the brink far too many times to forget the view. Tonight was just the latest and most painful trip.

  “Up here,” John said, and hurried left, along one of the lateral alleyways that ran directly up the mountain.

  Floyd’s heart starting pounding a little harder and his breathing grew labored. He envied John, who marched ahead as though the slope wasn’t there. Kamdesh was located at an altitude of six thousand feet, well above the point at which most people noticed a reduction in oxygen. Floyd told himself it didn’t mean the Englishman was any fitter than him, only that he hadn’t just come around from a sharp blow to the head.

  He was glad when John slowed by the third house. The Englishman walked past the stable level and went up some steps and through a door that led to the upper floor. He held it open for a puffing Floyd to follow.

  “Took me months to acclimatize to the altitude,” John said as Floyd shuffled inside.

  He entered a small hall with two wicker benches and a run of wooden pegs along one wall. There were boots arranged on the benches and thick coats on the pegs, a combination of modern mountain gear and traditional Nuristani garb.

  John removed his coat and boots, and Floyd took off his boots and rubbed his aching sides.

  “Any idea who has my flight jacket?”

  “We’ll find it,” John replied. “Now you’re not dead, it’s not a trophy. Taking it would be theft, and, as you’ve gathered, thieving is taken very seriously here.”

  Without his coat, John looked lean and muscular. He wore a traditional sweater adorned with an eight-pointed red star woven into blue wool. He opened an inner door, and Floyd was greeted by a blast of warm air and an umami, meaty aroma that lit up his taste buds. He started salivating almost immediately and his stomach growled.

  They stepped into a large, open-plan living area. A rustic kitchen with a wood-fueled stove was located in the heart of the space, beneath a hanging stone chimney. There was a rough dining table, and around it rugs and throws that created a living area focused on the hearth. Toward the downslope, a set of curtains had been drawn back to reveal the rooftops of the houses below, and beyond them the dark shadows of the mountains on the other side of the valley. To the right of the window was a screened sleeping area with a large mattress on the floor.

  A Western woman in a traditional Nuristani dress tended a pot on the stove. She glanced at Floyd. Her light brown hair fell straight around her shoulders. She had a tiny, almost button nose, and a wide mouth with thin lips. Her cheeks and nose were covered with delicate freckles. At first glance, she seemed fragile, but her eyes gave her away. They were beautiful wide ovals of amber brown, but there was a hardness to them that Floyd had only ever seen in the eyes of soldiers.

  “So they didn’t kill him?” she asked. Floyd immediately recognized a Californian accent. “I’m Christine. Chris to my friends.”

  She came over and offered Floyd her hand. He felt nothing but confidence when he shook it.

  “Joshua Floyd. Captain, US Army. How did you two wind up out here?”

  “Life is full of surprises, right?” John replied. “How about you? First time in Afghanistan?”

  Floyd smiled at the evasion. “First time on the ground.”

  “You sightseeing?” Christine asked. “Or looking for something in particular?”

  “Heading for the border. I lost some friends.” Floyd’s mood darkened at the thought of the pitched battle that had cost so many lives.

  “Sorry to hear that,” John replied. “We understand your loss.”

  The two of them shared a knowing look.

  “I told the elders I would make sure you’re not a threat to the village,” John said.

  “No threat. Just passing through.”

  John nodded thoughtfully.

  “Is there a phone anywhere?” Floyd asked.

  John shook his head. “No cell signal up here, and the landline went down yesterday. Happens pretty regularly. Usually a couple of weeks before it’s fixed.”

  “Nearest phone outside of Kamdesh is about three hours’ drive. Maybe four in these conditions,” Christine said. “There are government checkpoints on the roads, which I’m guessing you want to avoid.”

  Floyd nodded. “I just want to get home to my family.”

  “We might be able to help you get to the border,” she said.

  “Can you ride?” John asked.

  “Badly,” Floyd replied.

  “Good enough.” John smiled. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “In the meantime, you look like someone who’s forgotten the taste of food,” Christine said. “Let’s eat. Pull up a chair. It’s goat stew and rice.”

  “Smells delicious,” Floyd replied, smiling at the prospect of sating the worst hunger he had ever experienced.

  CHAPTER 21

  MOST OF THE people around me wore the same strained expression. Worry pulled their features tight, conversations were quiet, smiles false and fixed. I was in the emergency room in the Mid-Hudson Hospital in Arlington. I’d ridden in the ambulance with Jessie, who’d been knocked unconscious in the collision. Ted Eisner had been brought along in a separate vehicle. The tough old veteran had insisted Jessie go first, so I’d been in the waiting area when he was wheeled in, sitting upright on the gurney, complaining to the paramedics that they were being overcautious and that he was, in his own words, “As spry as a prime steer.”

  There were a dozen people in the waiting area. A couple had been there longer than me, but most had come in after I’d arrived, a little over an hour earlier. The waiting area was made up of six rows of ten green plastic chairs. I was sitting opposite the vending machines on the same side of the room as the reception desk, watching the double doors that led to the ER ward.

  I sensed movement to my left and saw Rafael Lucas, Private’s go-to New York attorney. Rafael was a Spaniard who worked for one of the world’s largest law firms. He was an elegant, handsome man from an old aristocratic Cantabrian family, and there was a hint of the 1930s in the way he dressed. He was wearing a black herringbone top coat, tailored suit, and vest with shirt and tie. He looked out of place in this provincial hospital.

  “You OK?” he asked as he took the seat next to mine.

  I nodded.

  “And Jessie?”

  “She was pretty beat up when I pulled her out,” I replied. “They’re checking her now.”

  “I guess I owe you,” a voice said behind me, and I turned to see Ted Eisner scowling and not looking the least bit grateful. “I told the damned quacks there was nothing wrong with me. Now I’ve got to deal with all the goddamned insurance paperwork.”

  “Do you know who those men were?” I asked.

  “No. And I don’t know you either,” he snapped.

  “I told you, Mr. Eisner, my name is Jack Morgan and I run Private, a detective agency. This is Rafael Lucas, my legal counsel. I’m looking for Elizabeth Singer, and I need to find her before the men who assaulted you do.”

  Ted fixed me with a hard stare. I could sense him taking the measure of me.

  “What do you reckon they want with her?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s clear they’re prepared to kill to get it.”

  “And what do you want from her?” Ted asked.

  “Someone who loves her has hired me and my organization to bring her back safely,” I replied. “I want to help her.”

  A medic in blue scrubs came through the double doors and scanned the room. His eyes settled on me and he headed over.

  “Mr. Morgan?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Your colleague is asking for you.”

  “How is she?”

  “She has a fractured rib and some minor contusions, but she seems OK otherwise. We’d like to keep her in overnight to rule out any neurological damage, but at this stage I don’t expect any complications. She should make a full recovery.”

  “Give me a second, please,” I said, and the medic nodded and went to wait by the doors to the ER. “Please, Mr. Eisner, we just want to help Beth. If you know anything…” I left my remark hanging.

  He shook his head and looked down at his feet, which kicked aimlessly at the linoleum.

  Giving up on Ted, I turned to Rafael. “Coming?” I asked, and he nodded.

  We headed for the emergency room, and that was when Ted Eisner finally spoke.

  “I have a tracker on my car. Put it on a couple years ago when they offered me a discount on my premium. I gave Beth my car.”

  “Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Eisner. I appreciate it. Can you find out the details?” I asked Rafael. “Give them to Maureen Roth. See if she can get a fix.”

  Rafael nodded and hung back to talk to Ted.

  I followed the medic through the double doors and along a corridor into the emergency room. Bays were separated by screens and drapes, but I still managed to see some of the human misery concealed within: a man with a bloodied stomach who looked as though he’d been stabbed; a kid with a broken arm; an emaciated woman who was totally out of it, being questioned by a doctor who was asking about her opiate intake.

  The medic led me to the sixth bay, and behind the curtain I found Jessie sitting up in bed. She was wearing a hospital gown, and pulled up a thin blanket when I entered.

  “I’ll leave you to talk,” the medic said, before withdrawing.

  “Sorry, boss,” she said.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “Not being quick enough. Letting myself get taken out.”

  “Don’t even start,” I said. “They were pros. They would have made rough work of anyone.”

  “Well, I feel bad about it.” She moved and immediately grimaced.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like someone dropped an elephant on my chest. They want to keep me overnight.”

  “That’s OK. I’m going to follow up a lead,” I said. “Ted Eisner’s car is fitted with a tracker. He lent it to Elizabeth Singer.”

  Rafael entered, his phone to his ear.

  “Mo-bot has been able to get a location,” he said after he hung up. “The vehicle is parked outside a motel in Bloomsburg.”

  “You bring a car?” I asked, and he nodded. “I want you to stay with Jessie a while. Make sure she’s OK…”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” she cut in, but I ignored her.

 

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