Hard Beat(24)

“Cover your face up,” I instruct since her head scarf has fallen some and the last thing we need is to draw more attention to two Westerners in this part of town. She complies as my eyes dart over her shoulder to make sure that everything is still okay. Things change here at the drop of a hat, so I know to never let my guard down.

“Remember what I said?” I have to ask her again, have to make sure that she’s not going to pose any risk right now because I’ve got enough shit to worry about and I can’t have her be an added concern. She nods, eyes intense, and what I can see of her shrouded expression is serious.

“How do you know him? Have you met before? Is his information reliable? Can you —”

“You sure are full of questions for someone who is supposed to be keeping her mouth shut.”

“I just like to know what I’m walking into, that’s all.”

I sigh, knowing I’d be demanding answers to the same damn questions. So I can’t fault her for asking them. Just this once, I decide to break my own rules and tell her a bit of his background. “His name is Omid and —”

A familiar and unique-sounding whistle from across the common area interrupts what I’m saying. I whip my head up to see my source in the shadows across the way. I have sunglasses on, but he knows I see him because he motions for me to come across the space and toward him.

My stomach somersaults.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, rookie,” I mutter under my breath, and notice her double take in my peripheral vision as I take the first step. I’m hyperaware of the sights and sounds surrounding us, including the unsteady pattern of Beaux’s breathing behind me. If I’m unsettled even though I’ve done this hundreds of times, her nervousness must be off the charts.

As we expose ourselves in the common area and close the distance, I’m conscious of everything around us, instinct giving way to education, and the weight of the gun tucked in my waistband offers a false sense of security that I know doesn’t mean shit.

The moment we step into the shadows where Omid stands, he comes forward to meet me halfway. His eyes dart over to where Beaux stands behind me; his hand extends to shake mine despite the leery look he directs at me. And I know he hates that I’ve brought her because anyone new is a potential risk to his identity being uncovered, but I just nod my head to him and use hand gestures to tell him she’s okay.

He stares at me and waits, and after a minute I realize that I forgot to remove my sunglasses, which has always been an unspoken rule between us so that we can read each other’s eyes.

Once I’ve removed the sunglasses, we greet each other in mumbled phrases and wild gesticulations – his English is broken at best and my Dari is archaic – to tell each other we’re glad to see each other again. We begin our awkward dance of communication, his eyes darting over my shoulder frequently to Beaux and then back to mine in an anxious cycle as we fall silent.

I wait out the quietness until he motions me to come closer, and I realize he doesn’t want Beaux to hear. I step into him.

“Meeting organizing. Soon… like weeks. Village elders help.” He interlaces Dari with his English, and it takes me a few seconds to catch up. “Your men… watching. Top secret. When happens, I get you close.”

His words cause my blood to pump and adrenaline to surge. To be the only one on this story when everyone else is chasing their tails would be a major I’m back to the other reporters and a huge In your face, I’ve still got it to my bosses.

“Who else knows?” I murmur, hoping he says no one.

He shakes his head and puts one finger up and then points it at me. Sweet. “When?” I ask, pointing to my watch. “Who?”

He begins to speak at the same time I start to hear the click of the shutter. I’m so in my element, pumped with the promise of a killer story – one I know any military liaison would never let me embed on – that I don’t question it because Stella used to click away at the world behind me when I was on a meet, and I never had to worry. It’s almost as if for a moment in time, I forgot.

Concern washes across Omid’s face, and I can see his struggle over telling me anything additional. “It’s me, Omid. I’m not going to tell anyone else or get you in trouble.” In my primitive sign language, I make the lock-and-key motion over my lips.

His heavy sigh fills the silence, and I hate that since we’ve started this conversation, his eyes have mostly been on his fidgeting hands. It unnerves me, makes me wonder if I’m being set up now with his lack of contact. But if that’s the case, Omid deserves a damn Oscar because he looks just as nervous to be passing along this information as I am being here.

He finally begins to speak, stumbling over words that I can’t make sense of, when over my shoulder, clear as day, I hear a feminine voice speak in perfect Dari. Omid’s head whips up at the same time I turn around to see Beaux standing there, camera to her face, taking a picture of two little kids playing in another offshoot of the alley.

She lowers the camera, her head scarf falling off some, and looks straight at Omid, as if the fact that she speaks fluent Dari were nothing unusual. I swear I have to pick my jaw up off the ground, both surprise and disbelief fueling my unfounded anger.

Beaux is fluent in the native language and didn’t tell me? What the f*ck? I’m partially thrilled because it means so many things will be easier with her here, and at the same time she didn’t tell me. I can’t give it much more thought, though, because of the riskiness of the situation. Things could go south at any moment.