Chapter Nine

"What?'

"No, I'm done trying to find him."

"Yes, I appreciate all you've done to help me. Don't you appreciate all the great stories you've gotten out of me while I've been here?"

"Yes, yes, I know you've paid me well, but not well enough to stay here."

"Arnie, no. No. No."

In the international lounge of United at the Islamabad airport, no one was gauche enough to act like they were listening to her conversation with her editor back in New York, but she assumed they all were. Never mind, even if a Taliban informant was in this room, he wouldn't be able to get the gist of this argument from one side.

"You don't owe me anything, I don't owe you anything. So what do you want next, or are we just done?"

"Of course I want to write for you. I just don't want to sleep on mats in dusty high altitude compounds any more, wondering if my ride the next day is going to get hit with a drone."

"No, but good isn't perfect. Plus I don't always know who the heck is driving, and if their name is on a CIA list [now that's going to make people listen in, Abigail thought] then I can't really complain if the van I'm riding in gets hit, can I?"

"Right, I'm gonna write that story. Maybe someday, but not this month. Not next month."

"THANK you. Seriously, Arnie, thank you. I'll see you in New York. I'm stopping in London first."

"Why? Because the plane goes there first anyhow, and I don't want to bust my tailbone flying straight through. And I have friends in England. Maybe a story."

"Sure. Thanks. Hey, I'm not mad. Take care. Bye."

She tucked her phone into her purse, and leaned back into the seat. It was too early for a glass of white wine, and she couldn't recall if the departures lounge here would do that, anyhow. On the plane.

It had been her longest trip up into the North West Province, and too many overnight lodging changes to count. Camping would have been more comfortable than all the various "women's quarters" she'd stayed in, few of which offered enough camaraderie to be worth the time spent in the evening being civil. Some women were willing to struggle along with her Urdu, which usually was a second language for them, as well; once she shared a room with a woman who knew British-accented English, but who never volunteered a hint of how she'd come by it.

Now, in a long dress with a modest neckline and sleeves, she was unveiled, definitely un-burqa-ed, and trying to relax. Her passport was in the outer pocket of her purse, her credit card and sat phone both worked, and she had a window seat with one possible neighbor. If that neighbor was a chatty sort, this was twelve hours of awful ahead, but if they had earphones and a tablet, it would be time for a hallelujah right out of her childhood.

Home was, right now, not much of anywhere. But it wasn't here. It was time to leave.