Free Refuge by N G Osborne Page B

hotel; a white, five storey building with a red neon sign up top and billowing fountains in front. A bell boy runs up, and Charlie throws him the keys. He hurries inside. The lobby’s unlike any other place he’s been in Peshawar. With its marble floors, vast displays of fresh flowers and smartly dressed managers it’s almost five star.
    Charlie scans the guests in the adjacent lounge; there isn’t a woman amongst them. Over by the front desk he sees a couple of ex-pats and by the concierge desk a veiled woman in a red and gold shalwar-kameez.
    Oh my God, she’s come.
    Charlie edges around the lobby until he is standing right behind her. He breathes in her sweet rose water perfume. His pulse quickens.
    “Hi,” he says.
    The woman turns. His heart sinks.
    “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”
    He looks around the lobby. A woman in a green burqa is sitting in the corner. He hadn’t seen her on his first sweep; it’s as if the burqa had acted like camouflage. The empty chair next to her begs for him to sit in it.
    Wouldn’t a burqa be the perfect disguise if she wanted to meet me?
    The woman looks in his direction. He turns around; there’s nothing but the elevator bank behind him. He turns back. She’s still looking at him.
    It’s got to be her.
    He walks over and sits down in the empty chair.
    “Hi,” he says. “I’m so glad you made it.”
    The elevator dings, and a gorilla of an Afghan steps out with four AK-47 toting bodyguards. The Afghan strides towards them like a prizefighter heading towards the ring. Charlie snaps his head back towards the woman. She continues to stare straight ahead.
    Oh shit, she set me up.
    As the group gets closer, he remembers what Wali told him in the car.
    They always start with the small stones so as not to kill you too quickly.
    He thinks of fleeing, but by now it’s too late. The group stops in front of them. Charlie attempts a smile and the leader glowers back at him. The woman stands up and for the first time Charlie notices her hands. They’re covered in age spots; she must be at least seventy. With the woman in tow the group head for the door. Charlie sighs with relief.
    That’s it. Only Western women from now on.
    “I apologize for troubling you?” someone says.
    Charlie turns to find a man in a faded blazer and threadbare shalwar kameez sitting in the vacated seat. He has a thin film of sweat on his brow and is tugging on his sleeves.
    “Your name would not be Charlie Matthews by any chance?”
    “Sorry, do I know you?” Charlie says.
    “No, but I believe you are friendly with my daughter.”
    Charlie’s slowing heart begins to race once more. He watches a bead of sweat wind its way down the man’s brow and along the ridge of his nose.
    “My name is Aamir Khan. It’s my desire to have a conversation with you.”
    “Look I’d love to, Aamir, but I’m late for my friend—”
    “Perhaps you could call him and say you have been detained.”
    Charlie detects a bulgebeneath Aamir Khan’s breast pocket. It’s just where a holstered gun would sit.
    “Maybe we could have some tea in the lounge,” Aamir Khan says.
    Charlie sees no other option.
    “Sure. After you.”
    “No, after you. I insist.”
    Charlie stands up and walks through the lobby.
    He wouldn’t shoot me in the back, would he? Not in front of all these people.
    They enter the lounge, and Charlie sits down at a free table. Aamir Khan takes the chair opposite him. A waiter approaches, and Aamir Khan orders two cups of tea. He pulls at his sleeves once again.
    Is this how they do it? Stare into your eyes before they kill you.
    Aamir Khan dabs at his brow with a handkerchief. The waiter comes back with a tray and pours each of them a cup.
    “Do you have sugar with your tea, Mr. Matthews?”
    “No thanks.”
    “I am wicked, when I am afforded the chance I tend to overindulge.”
    Aamir Khan plops two sugar cubes into his cup and then goes back for a third. His hand is shaking.
    Maybe he