Refuge (47 page)

Charlie tries to wrench himself up off the bed. He feels as if he’s drunk ten tequila shots and collapses back onto his pillow. When he opens his eyes, Jurgen is standing over him.

“But what about Noor?” Charlie says. “What do I do?”

“You do what I did. You try and forget.”

Jurgen places Charlie’s duffel bag on the chair.

“I packed what I could from your house.”

“I’m going to find her, Jurgen, I’m going to find her.”

Jurgen gives him a sympathetic smile.

“You deserved better than this, Charlie.”

Jurgen leaves, and two nurses come in. They dress him in a clean t-shirt and his now blood splattered jeans. Not long after three soldiers and an officer arrive. They put him in a wheelchair and take him down to a waiting ambulance. At the terminal, a burly soldier lifts Charlie into the wheelchair, and with the three other soldiers they enter the arrivals hall. The crowd falls silent, even the taxi drivers stop searching for prospective clients. They bypass immigration, pass through the departure lounge and trundle down a gangway to a waiting plane. The flight is packed. The burly soldier deposits Charlie in an empty seat in economy while another shoves his duffle bag into the overhead bin. Soon after the plane rolls away from the gate.

Charlie feels something poking out of his right pocket, and with the tips of his left hand he extracts Noor’s passport. He turns to the back page and stares at her smiling face. The old man next to him gives him a curious look. Tears are rolling down Charlie’s cheeks.

“I’m going to find you,” Charlie says. “I’m going to find you, I’m going to find you, I’m going to find you.”

SIXTY

NOOR STARES OUT
the window. Through the slit of her niqab she sees a Pakistani International Airlines jet pulling away from its gate.

“You know, you can take off your niqab now,” Badia says.

Badia lounges in the leather chair across from her. She has a childish grin on her face. A Filipina flight attendant approaches carrying two crystal glasses on a gold tray.

“Some orange juice?” the attendant says.

“Thank you,” Badia says.

“Your Highness?”

Noor doesn’t respond. The attendant places Badia’s glass down on a mahogany side table and retreats to the galley.

“It’s going to be fine, Noor,” Badia says, “I promise you.”

The engines whine, and the plane trundles down the runway.

Noor closes her eyes and finds herself back in the graveyard, running between the graves. A full moon shines above and perched on top of a mound is the rabbit, its glinting eyes following her as she rounds the bend. Up ahead she sees a warm orange glow. She runs faster, faster than she imagined was even possible. She realizes the glow is coming from the open door of her hut. Charlie, Baba, Mamaan, Wali and Bushra are standing there. She shouts out to them, and they smile. She runs even faster, desperate to embrace them.

Then just before she gets to them she soars into the sky.

No.

She flies up over the flat, thatched roofs of the camp and looks over her shoulder. They wave at her with both hands.

“We love you,” they shout.

“I love you too,” she shouts back.

The higher she gets the smaller they become until the lights of Peshawar swallow them up.

She turns and looks towards the horizon. She braces herself for the journey ahead.

END OF BOOK ONE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, incalculable thanks to Clarke, Harry and Frankie for allowing me to spend so many late nights writing
Refuge
, and to Clarke for being my first reader and constant and earliest supporter. I love you all utterly.

Thanks to all those who were my friends and co-workers in Pakistan twenty years ago. Dan Coulcher, my brother-in-arms, Paul Tzimas and Duncan Rourke, our fellow volunteers and intrepid explorers; all the staff and pupils at the Frontier Academy in Peshawar; Mocam, Shakoor, Wali, Syed and all the teachers and students of mine at International Rescue Committee; Pete and Jane Roffey and Annie who were such gracious hosts in Islamabad, and Nicholas Maclean-Bristol and all the staff at Project Trust, a truly wonderful organization that betters the lives of both its volunteers and the people they help.

Special thanks to Abid Halim, our best friend and guide in Peshawar, who graciously proofed the manuscript for any cultural, geographical and historical discrepancies.

Thanks to the early believers and readers of the book. Trevor Engelson, my former business partner and now manager, his wife Meghan Markle, and everyone at Underground; Charlotte Boundy whose enthusiasm, feedback and perseverance on my behalf has, dare I say it, been boundless; Laura DiSanto, Brandon Dermer, Jason Ruscio, Jon Cassir, Katherine Cowles, Arthur Spector, Maria Kourtis for your early reads and peerless thoughts; George Lewis for allowing the use of his wonderful photo for the cover; Margo Murphy for the cover design; Dave Feldman, my lawyer, for being my tireless advocate; and to Jon Elek and everyone at A.P. Watt for their efforts on my behalf.

And, finally, enormous thanks to James and Georgie Osborne, my mother and father, who allowed me, at the age of eighteen, to go on such a crazy adventure and who have unfailingly encouraged my dreams throughout my life. I love you and feel so blessed to have you as my parents.

N.G.O

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

PART I

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

PART II

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

PART III

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

PART IV

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS