Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020), стр. 18
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
Steve closed the album and stood up.
“Hey, you’d better send Mansur our location too. Much easier for him to find us.”
“Will do.” John shared the location, then leaned back in the chair and stared at his reflection in the darkened panes of the French windows. It was all beginning to come together, and despite the danger of the task ahead, he was feeling a buzz of excitement, something he hadn’t felt in a while. He saw Adriana appear in the reflection and felt her hand on his shoulder. She leaned down and kissed him on the top of the head and with her other hand, passed him a gin and tonic.
“It’s not Botanist, I’m sorry. Steve obviously isn’t a gin guy.”
“No.” John turned and smiled up at her. Her hair was pulled back in an untidy bun, emphasizing her cheekbones. His heart did a little jump as not for the first time, he marveled at how beautiful she was. The excitement he felt a moment before ebbed away, replaced with a kernel of fear. If things went wrong, he might never get to see her again.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” John shook off the thought and smiled. “I was just thinking about how much I love you.”
Adriana smiled back. “I love you too. Now come, dinner is ready. It smells delicious. Marisel’s a superb cook.”
“She is. Maybe we should ask her if she wants to come to Lisbon?” John winked and took a sip of his drink.
“I wouldn’t do that to Maadhavi.” Adriana held out her hand, and John stood, leaning forward to kiss Adriana below her ear. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” he smiled and allowed himself to be led into the dining room.
29
Mia stirred, changing her position to ease the pain where her hip bone pressed against the concrete floor. She opened her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was. The room looked familiar, but everywhere she had stayed in the last few months looked the same—a concrete floor strewn with rubble, windows devoid of glass, and no furniture or anything else to suggest who the previous occupants had been. She lifted her head and looked around. There were bodies sleeping on the floor with her, huddled together for warmth, and the memory of the previous night came flooding back.
It had taken them over three hours to walk the ten kilometers from Sarmin to the once-bustling market town of Idlib, although there was little left now to recommend it. They had stopped often, taking shelter when the sound of fighting appeared to be close. There were rumors of a ceasefire, but it didn’t seem to be in effect yet. They couldn’t afford to use light, for fear of being spotted by enemy aircraft or artillery. They stumbled and staggered along, some women weak and taking support from the others, but they got little sympathy from the fighters who herded them along, getting more and more impatient as the night wore on. Once in Idlib, they roamed the streets for another hour until they chose a building to sleep in.
The women collapsed, exhausted on the second floor of an abandoned building, and went to sleep as the fighters melted away into the night.
Mia looked down at Malak, who was still sleeping, her breath short and shallow. She felt her forehead, still hot, then with the corner of the blanket, wiped away the congealed mucus from under her nostrils. She sat up and noticed one woman watching her, an older lady, her hair covered in a headscarf.
Mia nodded, not sure what language to use. Despite her five years in Syria, she still wasn’t fluent in Arabic, but from the little she had heard them speaking the previous night, they appeared to be speaking another language.
The woman said something, but Mia didn’t understand. The woman tried again, then realizing Mia didn’t comprehend, she pointed at Malak and mimed putting food in her mouth.
Mia shook her head.
The lady rummaged in a bag and reached over, her hand open, three green olives nestling in her palm.
“Shukraan.” Mia took them from her.
The woman motioned putting them in her mouth, chewing, then moving them from her mouth to the baby’s.
Mia nodded her understanding. She stroked Malak’s face, whispering, “Wake up little darling, wake up. Mummy has some food for you.”
Malak’s eyes blinked open, and she pulled her arm out from under the blanket and rubbed her nose. Mia placed an olive in her mouth, separated the flesh from the seed, and spat the seed into her spare hand. She continued chewing the flesh, ignoring the growling of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, only a piece of old bread. It was all she could do not to swallow the olive. She spat the olive paste into her hand, then laid Malak on her lap. With the fingers of her right hand, she took the paste from her left and held it close to the little girl’s mouth.
“Eat now, my baby, yummy yummy.” Malak’s mouth opened slowly, and Mia pushed the food inside. “Good girl. I’ll give you some more.” Mia glanced up at the woman and nodded her thanks before chewing on another olive. A younger woman sat up, and the older woman leaned toward her and murmured something in her ear.
Mia began to feed Malak the second olive when the younger lady spoke.
“English?”
Mia looked up in surprise. The only person she spoke English with was Naeem. “No,” She shook her head. “I’m Australian.”
The younger woman translated. The conversation woke the others, and they stirred and sat up, rubbing their faces, and stretching.
“Why are you here?” the young lady asked.
Mia frowned, “Here?”
“In Syria.”
Mia looked down at Malak and pushed a little more olive paste into her mouth.
“My husband.”
The young woman narrowed her eyes, “Husband? Your real husband?”
Mia nodded. She heard the women talking amongst themselves.
“He is... one of them?” the woman gestured toward the window. “Al Qaeda?”
“Yes.”
Her answer seemed to displease the women, whose conversation became