Donna Andrews - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 793 & 794, September/October 2007

“What are we doing?” she had asked just the previous night. They had stepped into the doorway of a shop to get out of a sudden downpour. She had come into his embrace, her arms crossing behind his neck, her lips and body hungry. And then: “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “Are we falling in love?”

Then it was her turn to say, “I don’t know.”

“I’ve never had feelings like this before—”

“Nor I—”

“It’s a crazy thing to have happen—”

“I know. It’s insane—”

“With what’s going on and all. It’s not rational—”

“No, not rational at all—”

Still, they had kissed some more, and when the rain stopped they had walked with their arms around each other back to her apartment. But she would not let him come in.

“Wait, Morgan, please. Until tomorrow night. Let’s give ourselves a night to think about this.”

“I don’t have to think about it. I want you.”

“And I want you—”

“Then let’s go inside.” Gently he took her arm.

“Please, Morgan. Not tonight. Today is Friday. There is a khutba tonight. A special congregational prayer. I want to go to it. To see if perhaps there will be a message in it for me. For us.”

“I don’t understand,” Morgan said, confused. “I thought you walked away from all that. I thought you were liberated.”

“I am. But I still have my own beliefs. So, please. Wait. Until tomorrow night.”

So Morgan had waited.

And later that night Donahue had told him she was a police informant.

Now tomorrow night had come. And instead of thinking about making love to this pretty, sad-eyed, anxious young Afghani woman, Morgan was thinking about how to kill her.

At Lee’s apartment, she led Morgan into her tiny bedroom and lighted ivory votives in each corner that threw enough flickering yellow light to illuminate a bed made up with pristine white satin hemmed in puce, stitched with gold thread.

“This is our bridal bed,” Lee said softly. “At the khutba last night, the message I got was to follow my heart. That is what I will do.” She touched Morgan’s cheek. “You undress while I prepare our bath.”

“Our bath?”

“Yes. Before we make love, we must cleanse ourselves together.”

At that moment, Morgan desired her with an intensity he had never imagined he could feel. Through the open door to the bathroom, he watched as she ran water into a large old sunken family tub made of blue tiles. Then she began to undress. As did he.

When they stood naked in the now steamy little bathroom, Lee opened a basket and from it sprinkled small red, yellow, and white flowers onto the surface of the bathwater.

“These are wild honisoukes, ” she said. “You Westerners call them honeysuckles.”

They got into the tub together.

All thoughts of killing her left Morgan’s mind.

“Everything’s ready when you are, lad,” Donahue told Morgan the next day. “The two Iranians are straining on their leash to torch the lumber mill, God forgive us. All the men, weapons, and vehicles are in place, and we’re locked and loaded. We just need to give our two inside men one day’s notice.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ll set up our exit with Benny Cone. His Kabul contact said he’s flying in with a load of hijacked cigarettes tomorrow at noon.” Pausing a beat, he then added, “And just so you know, I’ll be taking Liban Adnan with Virgil and me when we go.”

Donahue’s ruddy Irish face darkened in a scowl. “How much does she know? And don’t lie to me, Morgan.”

“She knows everything, except the day. And the lumber-mill fire.”

“You bloody fool!”

“Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. She’s on our side. I guarantee it.”

“You guarantee it! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to! I warned you about her! We could be walking right into a trap, all of us!”

“That won’t happen, Donny. Listen to me. I confronted her about being a police informant. She admitted that at times she had cooperated with certain police officials, but only in matters involving drug smugglers, slave traders of children, things like that. Listen, think about it. If she had informed on us, if the military or the prison authorities knew about the plan, they’d already have moved in. They wouldn’t wait until we launched our attack; they’d have to take casualties and structural damage that way. They could have taken us anytime without a fight. All they’d have to do is seize our weapons stockpile and we’d be out of business.” He stared down Donahue. “I’m telling you it’s all right, Donny. You have my word.”

“I need more than your word to risk my life!” Donahue declared.

They fell silent for a long moment. The little office was still as death, as if both of them had stopped breathing.

“I didn’t have to tell you about her,” Morgan pointed out.

“I know that.”

“It should be easy enough for you to find out if there’s been a betrayal of any kind.”

Donahue nodded brusquely. “I’ll do you the courtesy of checking it out. I’ll meet with the two guards I’ve paid off. If anything’s amiss, they’ll know it. And if they try to lie to me, I’ll know it.” He came over to Morgan and got square in his face. “If you’re wrong, lad, you’ll never have a chance to be right again.”

It was as clear and cold a threat as Morgan Tenny had ever heard.

On Sunday at noon, Morgan was back out at the cargo terminal of Kotubkhel Airport. He hung around the Customs area, staying well out of sight so that Moazzah, the agent who had let him into the country, would not see him. Benny Cone’s old Constellation touched down an hour late, at one o’clock, and awhile later Morgan saw him come into the terminal and loiter around Moazzah’s desk for a few minutes while passing along several parcels of bribery goods. There was a cafe in the passenger terminal next-door, and Morgan gave one of the shoeshine boys near the baggage kiosks a handful of Afghani dollars, equal to about one buck U.S., to take Benny a note he had prepared in advance, which read: MEET ME CAFE. TENNY.

After watching to make sure the note was delivered, Morgan went over to the passenger terminal. It was a great anthill of people, long queues trying to check in at the counters of Ariana Afghan Airlines, which consisted of several old Air India airbuses repainted and being flown by Russian contract pilots. The only uncrowded counters were where the VIPs and others were checking in at UNHAS to board one of the modern daily United Nations Humanitarian Air Service jets that served Kabul. The terminal itself was filthy and stank of every imaginable odor; its air was infested with large, aggressive flies, and was smoke-filled by many passengers standing obliviously under No Smoking signs. Security guards, all of them in British Royal Air Force uniforms, stood everywhere, armed with H&K G3 automatic weapons.

Morgan went into the grubby little cafe on the upper level, purchased a bottle of unchilled Fiji water, and found a small table in the back corner, away from pedestrian traffic. Awhile later, Benny Cone sauntered in, located him, and came over to sit down.

“Well?” Benny asked. “Was I right?”

“Right about what?”

“About Kabul. Is it a shit hole or isn’t it?”

“It’s a shit hole,” Morgan agreed.

“Told you so.” The pilot tilted his head. “You ready to get out?”

“I will be, day after tomorrow, Tuesday. Can you be on the ground ready to fly at four in the afternoon?”

“I guess. Where to?”

“Anywhere you can set us down without papers. Karachi, where we can get sea transportation, would be nice; Abu Dhabi, if the Emirates are open; Bahrain or anywhere in the Gulf of Oman. I’ll leave it up to you.”