Her expression convulsed and contrition once more slid into her features. “Forgive me. I … we must protect each other—women. You understand, yes?”
He did. But it seemed … more.
Like the eruption of relief in the madam’s eyes when she saw Malala.
* * *
Fatina was wearing down, and in turn, it was wearing down Kasra, mostly her patience. Not even twenty-four hours had passed and already her decoy seemed willing to surrender. They could not let their ruse fall so soon. Just a little more time. They had endured longer the time Taweel sought to rout who had been an accomplice in injuring one of the clients who had come. The man had beaten a girl unconscious, so Razam had repaid the favor. And every girl held the secret, but ultimately, Kasra had paid the price, since she had been in charge.
It was so very hard to keep up the pretense while sitting across from her sweet decoy. To not speak out, urge Fatina to be stronger. Her weakness would betray them. That or Razam’s impatience and impudence—first he attacked Rage, then last night she had to force him into the corner to hide from the camera. He was so angry that they were still here, that she was not getting them out of there. It had taken her last ounce of civility to point out things he should have seen, but his distress over his sister’s unknown location—she had been in the second group who escaped—and their predicament at being in American hands had strangled common sense.
“How long have you been at the compound?”
The change in the direction of the questioning caught her off-guard. But Kasra scrambled and presented the question to Fatina.
“Thamani sanawat.”
Kasra faltered at the wrong answer. Not eight years—it had been nine. Silently she debated: should she provide the incorrect number Fatina had spoken, or correct it and pray no one noticed? The latter was too risky—most elite soldiers like these men knew the language. Which would beg the question of their use of an interpreter. Was it possible none here knew Pashto?
No. She would not believe it. Nothing would she put past Rage. Every little thing she had spoken to him in the hall he seemed to absorb. Ready to pounce, like a panther stalking his prey.
“Malala?” the chief prompted.
She smiled. “Sorry.” A smile. Did it seem nervous? “Eight years,” she finally repeated, praying no one would know the real answer. They had not caught on that the real Kasra Jazani spoke five languages, so it was possible they would miss it.
“And have you always been the one forcing the girls to have sex with men?”
Guilt harangued Kasra as she stared across the table at Fatina. One of the girls she had forced … Had she not, they could have both been killed. Their families killed.
She then saw the uncertainty in Fatina’s eyes, which looked bloodshot.
“Something is wrong—they burn, Kasra.”
“They are fine. The more you wear the contacts, the more your eyes will adjust.”
Apparently not.
Fatina rubbed her eyes.
“Tears are too little too late,” Rage barked from behind the boss. “Answer the question.”
His terse words made Fatina jump and earned a reproving look from his boss, but Kasra again wondered what made him so very angry. What wound?
Her decoy rallied and answered.
And Kasra translated. “She was brought to Roud like most of the girls, but she earned the favor of the boss. Other madams through the years either died or were relocated, and she became madam.” This simplest of answers was devoid of the horrors endured to step into a position where she could do good. Oneserof good for akhawarof evil? It was a terrible imbalance that shamed her.
The questions went on and on. How could she betray her own people?
Give them names of those involved and they would help her get a light sentence. Who was the man who attacked Rage? On and on.
“Who does Taweel answer to?” Rage spoke again.
The question slammed against her ribs, but Kasra braced herself. Could not say the same for Fatina.
The girl sucked in a breath. Shot wide, red eyes to Kasra. “Qult lahum?”
Kasra felt her insides quake, the girl not realizing in that one moment how many mistakes she had made.
