Head bent over her unfinished dinner, Carla lapsed into a half-conscious reverie, her thoughts like shadows in the candlelight.
Even in the dregs of her addiction, she had never felt this solitary. She had known in an instant that her spotting might precede a miscarriage—her mother’s accounts of the five heartbreaking losses preceding her own birth, a prelude to telling the teenaged Carla what a miracle she was, had darkened every day of her pregnancy. But the rushed visit to her doctor had confirmed her fears.
A trim, pleasant man in his forties, Dr. Dan Stein had an easy way of talking meant to mute his patients’ anxieties. But there was no changing his admonition. “You’re at risk of a miscarriage,” he told her after closing the office door. “But there are things you can do to help—no sex, no strenuous activity, as little moving around as you can manage. If possible, I suggest you go someplace where all you do is loll in bed.”
Sitting across from him, Carla thought of her mother, and then her father. “Not possible. And a long plane flight would be risky, wouldn’t it?”
The doctor nodded. “Your job is to take this baby as close to term as you can. We’re pretty good at dealing with premature births—especially if we can get you to Boston before delivery. In the meanwhile, do you have someone who can do your shopping and drive you to appointments?”
Once again, Carla realized how isolated she was. She had come to Martha’s Vineyard to heal herself, not to seek the company of others; with the baby’s father dead, and Adam gone, the only people she saw with any frequency were fellow alcoholics at AA meetings. “I can find someone,” she said at length.
The doctor considered her a moment. “There’s something else,” he ventured. “I want to give you an ultrasound and send the results to a specialist.”
Carla sat straighter. “Is there some problem with the baby?”
He’s not a baby yet, she imagined Stein thinking. “I’m certainly not saying that, Carla. This is a precaution.”
“So what is it that worries you?”
The doctor tilted his head slightly—in his body language, Carla had discerned, a signal of unease. “Nothing, yet. Your spotting could simply reflect the difficulties your mother had, back when fetal care wasn’t nearly this advanced. But it could also suggest a potential anomaly. For your sake, I’d like to rule that out.”
Mute, Carla nodded. Unable to look at him now, she gazed at the tile floor.
“Just take care of yourself,” Stein said gently, then felt compelled to add, “If you feel the baby isn’t moving, please call me right away.”
Carla had made it to the car before she felt tears in her eyes. We’ll make it, she had promised her son. No matter what’s wrong, I’ll take care of you.
Two mornings later, Adam and Hamid headed into the harsh terrain of Afghanistan’s southeastern borderlands—parched, tan, and dusty—on a rock-strewn road Adam had chosen over a better one. With every jolt, Hamid grunted his disapproval. “You’re getting soft,” Adam told him. “What would your forefathers say?”
Hamid shot him a sour look. “My forefathers,” he rejoined, “cut the heads off British soldiers and used them to play polo. Consider yourself fortunate.”
Adam grinned at this. “I’m already an organ donor,” he said. “But you can take the rest.” Lapsing into silence, he acknowledged the bitter truth beneath his companion’s jibe: someday soon, like the foreigners before them, the Americans would leave, and those who helped them would be left to face their enemies alone.
They drove on like this for miles, braking to avoid jagged stones that could shred their tires to ribbons. Now and then Hamid spoke of his young son, a gifted athlete, or the baby daughter for whom, unlike many Afghans, he desired a decent education. But that, too, depended on a fate America was unlikely to affect. The thought made Adam pensive. Not for the first time, he reflected that Hamid was his only friend in this place—or, at least, the only person outside his case officer who knew what Adam did. Through his aviator sunglasses, the film of dust on the windshield turned the undulating terrain a deeper brown. He could feel the Glock concealed beneath his Afghan shirt.
“I assume someone is watching us,” Hamid remarked. “Friends, for a change.”
“Several of them. They’ll radio us when they spot our new friend’s truck.”
At last they saw the huge rock formation Adam had charted, and labored toward it up the side of a steep hill. Hamid pulled up behind it, concealing their SUV from anyone on the road. “Now we wait,” Adam said.
Shaded by the rock, Adam and Hamid leaned their backs against it, sharing lukewarm water from a canteen. They did not bother to watch the road; other men, concealed in the hills above, did that for them. “This is the life,” Adam said. “Manly work in the great outdoors.”
Hamid did not smile. “Can we trust this man, I wonder?”
Adam shrugged. “Either way, it’ll be a surprise.”
The radio on his belt crackled. “Your man is coming,” a voice said in Pashto. Leaving Hamid, Adam came out from behind the rock, backpack slung over his shoulder, and saw a white Toyota truck spewing dust on the tortuous road. Knees bent, he edged down the hillside, gun in hand, and stationed himself in the path of the truck. It stopped two feet in front of him.
As Adam had instructed, one of Hakeem’s sons was driving. Walking to the driver’s side, Adam told him, “Drive one kilometer down the road. Then stop and pull up the hood, like your truck is broken down. Wait there for your father.”
Hakeem got out, his seamed face and narrowed eyes betraying no emotion. “Come with me,” Adam directed, and led him away from the rock formation that concealed Hamid and their Jeep. They reached a ravine cut into the hillside, invisible from the road, but not to those who watched them from above. Scrambling to the bottom, the two men were alone.
Adam put away his gun. “Thank you for this meeting,” he said courteously. “Have you brought me what I need?”
Briefly, the Afghan glanced up at the hills beyond, as though aware they were being watched. Instead of answering, he drew a parcel from inside his shirt and placed it in Adam’s hand.
Opening it, Adam studied its contents. A precisely drawn map of a village, specifying the structure where al-Qaeda supposedly held the POW. A credible sketch of the house from various angles, showing the windows and describing its features—apparently, the only door swung inwards. The last document, a photograph that appeared to have been taken surreptitiously, showed two men who looked less like Pakistanis than Saudis, standing in front of the nondescript hut.
Unslinging his backpack, Adam put the parcel inside. “You’ve done well.”
Still silent, the Afghan watched expectantly, waiting for payment. Instead, Adam took what appeared to be a rock from the backpack, and placed it in the Afghan’s hand.
Hakeem eyed it suspiciously, then spoke at last. “What is this?”
“American magic,” Adam responded. “This rock can hear voices. I want you to place it beside the house where they’re holding the American.”
The Afghan’s gaze flickered. “How will I do that?”
“I leave that to you. But the deed is worth four times what I’m paying you today.” He paused for effect. “This rock is also a secret of our government, and extremely valuable. If our enemies knew such a device existed, they’d want it very badly. You cannot lose it.”
The Afghan simply stared at him, surveillance device in hand. Adam took a stack of American money from his backpack, bound by rubber bands. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “Count it if you like.”
Hakeem inclined his head, as though to acknowledge the size of his reward. “I will do my best,” he said in the same laconic manner. Adam tried imagining him as a dinnertime companion.
There was nothing left to do. Hakeem departed first, beginning the long walk to meet his son. Adam waited for a time. Then he climbed out of the ravine, followed by his own misgivings.