looked away.
She sat and smiled up at the server, the same Filipino kid who’d brought Javier his beer. “Just the usual, Bayani. Thank you.”
If Javier hadn’t recognized her face, he certainly would have recognized her voice—soft and feminine, but with that undercurrent of steel that made millions of viewers take her every word seriously.
She drew one of those fancy iPhones out of her handbag, turned it on, and began to poke intermittently at the screen, probably checking her email. She glanced up and smiled at the server when he returned with a glass of white wine. “Thank you.”
Aware he was staring, Javier dug into his steamed clams the moment they arrived at his table, buttery goodness exploding in his mouth with every bite. He could live without the opulence and the fancy architecture that were such a part of Dubai City. But the food and brew?
Oh, yeah. He could get used to this.
He finished the clams just as his steak arrived. He ordered another beer, his gaze working its way back to Ms. Nilsson, who was eating a salad and sipping her wine. She was reading something on her smartphone, her attention focused. He willed himself to look away, turning his attention to the laughing crowd of Westerners, British accents mingling with Australian, Italian, and what sounded like German.
Then Javier saw something he didn’t like.
He wasn’t the only man in the restaurant watching her.
Laura Nilsson took another sip of her wine, relieved to see her investigation was coming together. It had taken months to make contact with the village elders, to earn their trust. At first, they had all refused to talk to her, fearing reprisals from the Taliban. But eventually one outraged father had come forward and told a heartbreaking story of how Taliban leaders had forced him at gunpoint to hand over two of his daughters. The girls, eight and ten years old, had been forced into marriage to two different men, raped over the course of a week, and then divorced and left behind. When the villagers had gone to the Afghan government for redress, the Taliban leaders had claimed that the farmer owed them money. Giving away daughters in payment of debts was a long-established tradition in Afghanistan, and so the government had done nothing.
Laura knew this was far from the first time such a thing had happened. Taliban fighters were using small villages as harems, abusing marriage and divorce laws for the sake of sex, preying on defenseless girls as young as eight and nine.
It made her sick.
She tapped out a quick email to Nico, the head of her security detail, asking for an update on her visa snarls and letting him know she had a date and time for her visit to the village. She would interview the girls and their father in hopes of exposing this abuse—and generating international pressure for the Afghan government to stop it.
A shadow fell across the table.
She glanced up, expecting to see Bayani with a pitcher to refill her water glass. Instead, she found herself looking up at two big men with heavy mustaches. Both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties, their dark hair graying, their faces ruddy from sunburn and too much alcohol. One wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with black slacks and a black striped tie, the other a gray suit.
“You are Laura Nilsson.” The one in the suit held out his hand, his accent distinctly Russian.
Why did people think that because they recognized someone, they had a right to intrude on that person’s space?
Irritated but not wanting to be rude, Laura shook the man’s beefy hand. She spoke some Russian, but opted for English, afraid that speaking their language would only encourage them. “I’m sorry, but I’m working and not—”
“Yuri,” the other one said, interrupting her and extending his hand as well. “I always watch you in the TV when I am in America.”
She stood, shook his hand, too. “It’s nice to meet you both, but I’m afraid I don’t have
She sat and smiled up at the server, the same Filipino kid who’d brought Javier his beer. “Just the usual, Bayani. Thank you.”
If Javier hadn’t recognized her face, he certainly would have recognized her voice—soft and feminine, but with that undercurrent of steel that made millions of viewers take her every word seriously.
She drew one of those fancy iPhones out of her handbag, turned it on, and began to poke intermittently at the screen, probably checking her email. She glanced up and smiled at the server when he returned with a glass of white wine. “Thank you.”
Aware he was staring, Javier dug into his steamed clams the moment they arrived at his table, buttery goodness exploding in his mouth with every bite. He could live without the opulence and the fancy architecture that were such a part of Dubai City. But the food and brew?
Oh, yeah. He could get used to this.
He finished the clams just as his steak arrived. He ordered another beer, his gaze working its way back to Ms. Nilsson, who was eating a salad and sipping her wine. She was reading something on her smartphone, her attention focused. He willed himself to look away, turning his attention to the laughing crowd of Westerners, British accents mingling with Australian, Italian, and what sounded like German.
Then Javier saw something he didn’t like.
He wasn’t the only man in the restaurant watching her.
Laura Nilsson took another sip of her wine, relieved to see her investigation was coming together. It had taken months to make contact with the village elders, to earn their trust. At first, they had all refused to talk to her, fearing reprisals from the Taliban. But eventually one outraged father had come forward and told a heartbreaking story of how Taliban leaders had forced him at gunpoint to hand over two of his daughters. The girls, eight and ten years old, had been forced into marriage to two different men, raped over the course of a week, and then divorced and left behind. When the villagers had gone to the Afghan government for redress, the Taliban leaders had claimed that the farmer owed them money. Giving away daughters in payment of debts was a long-established tradition in Afghanistan, and so the government had done nothing.
Laura knew this was far from the first time such a thing had happened. Taliban fighters were using small villages as harems, abusing marriage and divorce laws for the sake of sex, preying on defenseless girls as young as eight and nine.
It made her sick.
She tapped out a quick email to Nico, the head of her security detail, asking for an update on her visa snarls and letting him know she had a date and time for her visit to the village. She would interview the girls and their father in hopes of exposing this abuse—and generating international pressure for the Afghan government to stop it.
A shadow fell across the table.
She glanced up, expecting to see Bayani with a pitcher to refill her water glass. Instead, she found herself looking up at two big men with heavy mustaches. Both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties, their dark hair graying, their faces ruddy from sunburn and too much alcohol. One wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with black slacks and a black striped tie, the other a gray suit.
“You are Laura Nilsson.” The one in the suit held out his hand, his accent distinctly Russian.
Why did people think that because they recognized someone, they had a right to intrude on that person’s space?
Irritated but not wanting to be rude, Laura shook the man’s beefy hand. She spoke some Russian, but opted for English, afraid that speaking their language would only encourage them. “I’m sorry, but I’m working and not—”
“Yuri,” the other one said, interrupting her and extending his hand as well. “I always watch you in the TV when I am in America.”
She stood, shook his hand, too. “It’s nice to meet you both, but I’m afraid I don’t have
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