“It is so hot today,” she said. “You should come in the water.”
“I will,” he said.
Her face fell into a frowning pout. She stomped her foot before turning at the edge of the pool, arching her back, looking over her shoulder to taunt him with the ripped swimsuit. “Do not wait too long. The water is making me wrinkle.”
“Just a tiny bit of work to do first, my little prune. You know, banking matters.” He reached for the laptop on the teak table beside his lounge chair and opened it up. Lucile had kept him so busy that he’d not logged on since returning home. It took only a moment to connect to Wi-Fi.
45
Sixteen hours and three layovers after leaving Seville, the aging Ariana 737 carrying Jack Ryan, Jr., and Dom Caruso made a rapid descent toward the Herat airport, south of the city. There were few missile attacks of late, but the pilots didn’t seem to want to try their luck by staying in the air too long at low altitude. The other passengers rocked sleepily in their seats, reading or chatting happily with seatmates, apparently used to the rapid descents. Strong winds buffeted the airplane even after they’d landed, causing it to shake as the pilot took them down the runway toward the sad-looking terminal.
Ryan rolled his neck from side to side, doing little to get rid of the kinks brought on by long hours of sitting, and more than that, the anticipation of seeing Ysabel Kashani. He beat his head against the tattered headrest.
“I swear I saw a cloud of dust fly up from the upholstery when we touched down.”
Caruso rubbed his face and leaned forward to look out the window. “This whole place is a dust cloud. I can already feel the grit between my teeth. You think they have any other colors here besides brown?”
The lone Ariana flight attendant stood well back in the galley as the passengers deplaned. Her smile was friendly enough, but she said nothing to the passengers, mainly Afghan men, as they filed past her.
Apart from the constant shove of a wind that seemed made more of dust than air, the first thing Ryan noticed was the smell. The odor of cooked meat and burning plastic reminded him of a time when he was nine or ten and had hidden his G.I. Joe on the barbecue grill. His dad had lit the burners without checking under the lid.
Jack wondered about snipers as he walked across the tarmac but forgot about danger altogether the moment he got inside the unnaturally quiet terminal and saw Ysabel. She wore a loose cotton dress in charcoal-gray and a blue headscarf. He’d expected her to be in a T-shirt and tight jeans, like the last time he saw her, but her clothing was relatively progressive for a severely conservative place like western Afghanistan, where many women wore a burka.
Two men stood beside her, glaring hard at the newcomers. One was darker than the other, with a head that was very close to being shaved and a long pointy beard that reminded Ryan of a billy goat. His head was up, hands at his sides, shoulders hunched forward in a slight crouch, as if spoiling for a fight. The other was taller, better fed, but with an intense sadness around his dark eyes. Like the first man, he had an olive complexion, but this one had a full head of hair, combed straight back, dark, but with a rusty tint in the right light. Ryan suspected he was the Russian. Neither man smiled. For that matter, neither did Ysabel.
She simply nodded in greeting.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “The van is this way.”
Caruso and Ryan were shown to a battered minivan across the street in the small lot, a warm dust-filled wind whipping them the entire way. The guy with the buzz cut introduced himself as Hamid as he slid open the back door. He left them to get in the van themselves and walked around to get behind the wheel, apparently uninterested in learning their names. Ysabel sat up front in the passenger seat. The release button that would have allowed someone to reach the rearmost seat was broken, forcing the remaining three men to squeeze in together on the ratty bench seat in the middle of the van. Dovzhenko took the far window, directly behind Hamid, and Jack took the middle, riding the hump. He didn’t mind. It gave him a more unobstructed view of Ysabel.
He leaned forward, hands on his knees. Sweating and more than a little nervous at seeing her again after so long.
“I’m surprised you didn’t give me one of those Indiana Jones slap-to-the-yap welcomes when you saw me.”
Ysabel gave him a sullen side eye without turning her head. “Oh, I would have,” she said, completely serious. “But public displays of affection are frowned upon in Afghanistan.”
Hamid took the Kandahar — Herat Highway north past the Afghan National Army Base, turning west before entering Herat proper. They drove past fields of saffron crocus and poppies, and orchards of almond and date and pistachio. Stands of willow and cottonwood trees flourished in the valley, in stark contrast to the barren hills.
Jack tried to make small talk, but Ysabel gave only curt answers, so the conversation never went anywhere. He couldn’t help but notice that she hardly even looked at him, and never met his eye.
“You’ve been here a year?”
She nodded but explained no further.
“How’s Avram?”
“My father passed away,” Ysabel said. “Jack. I want you to listen to me very carefully. We do not have to catch up. You do not have to pretend to be interested in my life.”
“Ysabel—”
She cut him off. “I never would have called and taken you away from your busy schedule had it not been absolutely necessary.”
Caruso bounced a fist on Jack’s knee, showing his fraternal support.
“Look,” Ryan said, “I get that you’re pissed at me. But are you sure you want to do this here, in front of everyone?”
“Do what?” Ysabel said, still staring forward. “I am only apologizing for taking you away from your busy life.”
Jack fell back in his seat, wedging himself between the two other men. “Suit yourself. It’s good to see you, too.” He turned to the Russian. “What’s your story? Did you get in some kind of trouble in—”
Ysabel wheeled in her seat, finally looking Ryan in the eye. “What was I to you, Jack? Were there other Iranian women after me? Do you have some Persian women fetish?”
“I thought we parted on good terms,” Jack whispered. “Your father made it very clear that your safety was paramount — and that any association with me put you in danger.”
“My father?” She spat, fuming now. “You would blame this on my father when he is dead and cannot defend himself?”
Jack looked to Caruso for help but got nothing. A silence fell over the interior of the van until Dovzhenko cleared his throat.
“I appreciate you coming,” he said. “I have information you might find useful.”
“I look forward to hearing it,” Ryan said.
More silence.
Hamid kept glancing in the rearview mirror, which, for some reason, was seriously beginning to piss Ryan off.
“Can I help you with something?” Ryan asked.
“No,” Hamid said.
“You keep looking at me like you have a question.”
“No,” the Afghan said again. “Merely an observation.”
“And what’s that?”
“I find myself surrounded by invaders.”
Ysabel looked sideways. “What are you talking about?”
“Persia, Russia, the United States — you have all invaded Afghanistan at one time or another. And now you sit here arguing among yourselves as if I am not even present.” Hamid shrugged. “The history of my country in microcosm.”
“I’m not invading anybody,” Ryan said. “I was invited.”
“How could you, Jack?” Ysabel said, ignoring her bodyguard. “You, my father, you were both supposed to be these enlightened men. How could you presume to make such decisions for me?”