Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

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 round from a sharp blow to the head.

He was glad when John slowed by the third house. The Englishman walked past the stable level, 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 jumper 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.

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 waistcoat 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.