Caught In The Crossfire: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery Read online

  Nothing about her life was normal. She’d been waiting to hear if Chris had been located for weeks. They were supposed to have met in Paris; she’d even picked out an amazing hotel with a claw foot tub in the Latin Quarter.

  All of that changed the moment she got the phone call that Chris was missing on his last security patrol in Afghanistan. She still had no answers. Countless phone calls to the Canadian Embassy and the security company he’d worked for in Kandahar turned up nothing. A series of dead ends led her to this plane flight.

  Bernadette Callahan was a detective in the Royal Canadian Police Force in Western Canada. Thirty-five, five-foot eight and medium build with green eyes and red hair and a bronzed skin tone that proclaimed her Irish and Native Cree Indian heritage. The anger that seethed inside of her could come from either of her lineages at this moment.

  She shouldn’t have let the relationship get to the point that Chris had to prove his worth by taking such a hazardous assignment in Afghanistan, but his leaving was a symptom of the holes that were appearing in the fabric of their relationship.

  They’d been together for over a year. He’d proposed to her one evening in December while they were on a trip to Banff National Park. Large snowflakes descended out of the darkness as he’d dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him. She’d said yes even as her heart had cried out in terror at her answer.

  She never wanted to leave the police force. Being a detective was her life. For their relationship to work, he had to leave his job as constable for the RCMP on an idyllic island on the west coast of British Columbia. She’d always felt like she’d captured a bear and tried to tame it.

  Chris was a Greek-Canadian with a wild nature. He loved the outdoors of Canada. The RCMP had become a way to spend his time at the office—outdoors.

  Now, as the plane descended into one of the most dangerous places in the world, she wondered if she should have said yes to that good-looking Greek god with the curly black hair, almond brown eyes and easy smile. If she’d said no, none of this would have happened. He’d still be catching salmon poachers and tracking stolen fishing boats.

  Getting to Afghanistan was her greatest challenge. She wanted to be here with every fiber in her body, but you needed a hard to obtain visa to get to Afghanistan. A business visa was the only option, there were no tourist visa’s being issued, as the country was deemed too dangerous.

  Bernadette had tried every angle with the Afghanistan Consulate. She needed to be working for or consulting for a legitimate agency in Afghanistan. After two weeks of calling in every favor she could think of, she called Agent Carla Winston with the FBI. They’d had some close calls together, and the end result was that neither of them, especially Winston, had suffered any harm, therefore she was willing to help.

  Winston was able to procure a special visa for Bernadette as consultant for a company called Apex 5 Security. The company was a front to move FBI, CIA and Homeland Security personnel into Afghanistan without any special attention.

  Bernadette was on her own as to her personnel protection and translator. She needed to hire both—the first was costly. A man named Bardulf Brandt, ex German military, would be her bodyguard; his fee was five hundred dollars a day in Kandahar and one thousand if they left the city limits. He had stressed repeatedly in emails that going out of Kandahar was too dangerous.

  Her interpreter was a man named Reza. His fee was much less, fifty dollars a day in Kandahar. He gave no fee for leaving Kandahar, which seemed to imply he did not want to leave the city limits.

  The plane landed on the tarmac with a thud. Bernadette watched out the window as they taxied past rows and rows of American Air Force planes and Black Hawk helicopters. It looked like a war zone.

  She followed the rest of the passengers off the plane. Soldiers were everywhere with AK47 Russian machine guns. They stared hard at the stream of passengers as they walked past. Bernadette pulled on her overcoat and her headscarf as she made her way down the peeling gray walls with the fluorescent lighting. She’d been in prisons with better lighting. The sunglasses she wore made the hallway worse. They were her way of being able to look around her without being noticed. Women in Afghanistan were not to look directly at men. Bernadette was damned if she’d comply with such a custom. The sunglasses would allow her to see men’s faces and eyes. Words could hide volumes; eyes could not, as far as she was concerned.

  The line of passengers came to a halt at the customs hall. They inched slowly forward as a group of uniformed customs officers, all with beards, scrutinized passports and passengers as if a Taliban infiltrator or drug smuggler was present.

  Bernadette’s turn came. She marched forward to the officer.

  “Sunglasses, off!” the bearded officer commanded.

  “Oh, sorry,” Bernadette said. She’d been so engrossed in watching all the passengers’ interactions she had forgotten.

  The officer stared at her Canadian passport and her American consultants’ documents. “You are Canadian, yes?”

  “Yes, I am Canadian.”

  “You are working for the Americans?”

  “Yes, I am working for the Americans.” She decided not to elaborate. She could have told the officer how she was a Canadian detective with the Serious Crimes Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but all of that was too much.

  The officer took her passport and her document and a piece of paper. He wrote as much of her details as he could on the paper. His paper would be sent to the police chief of Kandahar and to the security forces. They would know she was here.

  He stamped her passport loudly and handed it back to her, waving her away and summoning the next person.

  She felt relieved to have made it through customs. There was a moment when she thought they might refuse her entry, send her back. She pulled on her sunglasses and proceeded to baggage claim. After picking up her bag, she was checked three more times. Every five meters another bearded, officious looking officer stared at her passport, her visa, and ruffled through her bag.

  She finally got through and found herself in a sea of Afghans on the other side. An anxious-looking smallish man, with a long black beard, held a sign that read B. Callahan.

  He was dressed in the traditional Afghan style, which included a pakol hat, reminiscent of an oversized floppy beret. He wore the traditional perahan tunban, a baggy, loose fitting trouser that came high above his boots and an oversized shirt with short sleeves. Over the shirt with its long tail that came three quarters to the ground, he wore a quilted down vest.

  The résumé that Bernadette read online for Reza, one name only, was that he had studied philosophy and linguistics at university. He’d been a teacher but moved into interpreting when the Taliban had overrun his school in rural Afghanistan.

  “Hi, you must be Reza,” Bernadette said as she strode towards him. She almost reached out her hand, and then quickly put it by her side. Reza saw the movement but made as if he did not notice it. Males and females were forbidden to touch one another in public. Bernadette’s gesture would have infuriated the men in the airport.

  “Yes, I am Reza. I trust you had a satisfactory flight?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Bernadette said. She really wanted to say she’d wanted a beer on the plane but knew there was none to be had. Not only was Afghanistan a non-joy for womankind, it was mostly without alcohol. A double buzz kill, as far as she was concerned.

  “I will take you to your car and you’ll be taken to your guesthouse. All of this has been arranged,” Reza said. He took her duffle bag and began leading her out of the airport.

  Bernadette caught up to him. “Thanks, but I want to be taken straight to Kandahar Police Headquarters. I need to speak with the chief of police. I want to start the search for my missing fiancé.”

  Reza stopped. “This is impossible.”

  “Why, is he not there today?”

  “No, he will not meet with you. You are a woman he does not know; he cannot meet with you unless I am there. I c
annot be with you today. I’m only here to greet you and see you to your escort.”

  “I see. Can we set up a meeting for tomorrow then? I want to see the American and Canadian Consulates after that.”

  “All will be done in the morning. I promise.” Reza nodded his head and picked up her bag. “Now, please follow me to your transport.”

  Bernadette adjusted the headscarf, the hijab she’d been warned she would need, and followed Reza. They walked out to the curbside area of the airport. There was not the usual comings and goings of traffic. Cars were summoned when their passengers arrived and security was tight.

  Reza called Bernadette’s driver on his cell phone; a black SUV with dark tinted windows pull up almost immediately. Reza opened the back door, Bernadette slid in. The door slammed behind her and the SUV took off.

  Reza watched the truck drive away. He hurried away from the airport hoping no Talban had seen him with the foreign lady. He’d told his wife he wouldn’t take any more interpreter jobs. His need for money had finally surpassed his fear, for now.

  “I am Bardulf Brandt,” a Germanic sounding voice said from the driver’s seat. “I see you met Reza. That man is a real pussy. I think maybe he’s a fag.”

  “Thanks for your update. I have no problem with gay men, but if you do, you can keep it yourself,” Bernadette said.

  She looked out the window as they left the airport. Two Afghans were staring at the SUV and dialing into their phones.

  “I understand you are here to find your missing fiancé,” Bardulf said as he maneuvered the car away from the airport. “You have wasted your time. The Taliban will send word of him in a week or two. You should have stayed in your country arranging his ransom. I hear he is Canadian. That is bad; Canada does not pay ransom, you’ll need to do a lot of fundraising.”

  Bernadette stared into the rearview mirror. She could see only part of Bardulf. He was older, maybe 45, a blond with some streaking of gray in his short-cropped hair. He had blue eyes set in a wide face. He looked well built, someone who spent hours in the gym in his off hours. Thick arms with big hands guided the steering wheel.

  “I thought maybe I’d come here, make some inquiries, and then do some recon in the countryside,” Bernadette said.

  “Ha, you are joking. To do that I need to get four more men and two more trucks. Your cost will be five thousand U.S. per day to venture outside of Kandahar. You have no idea how dangerous it is in the countryside of Afghanistan.”

  Bernadette could feel her anger growing as her cheeks grew red and her lips set into a tight line. “Really, are all the extra men and trucks for my protection…or yours?”

  “Again, you are funny. The Taliban would get special joy in taking a North American woman hostage. I will not tell you all the many things they do to her, but you can guess.”

  “The joke’s on them. I’m Canadian, we don’t pay hostage takers like you said…and we have ice cold hearts.”

  Bardulf laughed. “You’d better have some ice between your legs if you want to fend off the Taliban, lady.” He looked into the rearview mirror. His smiling eyes turned to a leer as if he was trying to judge Bernadette’s assets beneath all her clothing.

  “Giant asshole,” were the words she muttered as she turned to look out the window. This conversation with the large Germanic moron was getting boring. She’d dealt with many men just like him in the police force. It was best to stand up to them.

  Bernadette turned towards the front and leaned forward. “Listen up, Bardulf, I’m not here in Afghanistan to listen to what you like or don’t like about gays or to discuss the temperature of my vagina. In your own language, I believe the term is Das geht mir am arsch vorbie.”

  Bardulf’s eyes went wide. He started to laugh so hard he almost went off the road. “Who told you how to say kiss my ass in German?”

  “I have German girlfriends back in Canada. Now that we understand each other, maybe you can help me get some intel on how to find my fiancé.”

  “You have a good sense of humor, maybe you’ll keep that if you’re caught by the Taliban.” Bardulf winked into the rearview mirror.

  Bernadette saw his wink—then saw a flash of something alongside the road. She had only seconds to process what it was.

  “Take cover!” she screamed.

  Bernadette dove down onto the floorboards of the SUV as the rocket hit the right side of the vehicle. She covered her ears and tried to make her body as small as possible. The blast sucked all the air out of the passenger compartment.

  She reached up and pushed on the SUV’s back door, the blast had destroyed the locks—it was open. She pushed herself out the door as another explosion ripped through the vehicle. Stumbling to a ditch, she fell in. Then, there was darkness as she passed out.

  4

  Bernadette dreamed that Chris was beside her. He was stroking her hair with one hand. His other big hand was on her stomach. He was rubbing her tummy. It was something he did when they lay in bed together after sex. She moaned softly with pleasure.

  “Are you okay, Madame?” a voice asked.

  Bernadette opened her eyes. She looked up to see a doctor and nurse standing over her. The nurse was adjusting the covers on her bed. She tried to sit up.

  The doctor forced her back down with both his hands. “I am Doctor Ahmed, this is Nurse Sharbat. You’ve had a concussion from the explosion. You must lie back now.”

  “The explosion?” Bernadette asked. She wondered what they were talking about.

  “A rocket propelled grenade struck your vehicle two days ago when you arrived. You have been asleep since then. The driver was not so fortunate. He was flown back to Germany with serious burns,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, now I remember…his name…was Arsh…”

  “No, no, that is the German word for a person’s backside. Your mind must be addled. His name was Brandt.”

  Bernadette closed and opened her eyes, “Yes, his name was Bardulf Brandt.”

  “Do you know your name?”

  “Yes, it’s Bernadette Callahan. I’m a detective from Canada.”

  “Excellent.” The doctor checked her eyes and took her pulse. “You are coming along nicely. Someone from your consulate will be here to make preparations for your return home.”

  “My return home?”

  “Yes, of course, with such a concussion you must return to your country as soon as possible. We have x-ray equipment here, but you’ll need assessment from an MRI and possibly the attention of a neurosurgeon.”

  Bernadette tried to raise her head again. Her forehead exploded in pain as a sharp red light flashed before her eyes. She lowered her head back to the pillow.

  “I’ll have the nurse give you something for the pain,” the doctor said. He gave instructions to the nurse and left the room.

  As the nurse left the room, another person entered. It took Bernadette a minute to let her eyes focus on the female visitor. She looked East Indian and was dressed in a long blue coat with baggy pants. The traditional hijab surrounded her face; she wore a bright pink lipstick that set off her soft brown skin.

  “Hi, I’m Chandra Gupta from the Canadian Embassy,” she said.

  Bernadette tried to raise her head, failed, and made a welcome smile. “Hi,” is all she could manage.

  “I know this is hard for you, Ms. Callahan. I read your file in the consulate before I came here.” Chandra dropped her eyes, trying to hide the disappointment she felt for Bernadette. “I know you’ve come here to try to find your fiancé. You must believe that we’ve done everything we can to locate him.”

  Chandra’s words made Bernadette rise up. “You mean to say, you are doing everything, not you have done everything. The last term means the past, it means you’ve finished looking.”

  “I’m sorry, yes, we are still looking, but you have to realize how vast this country is and there are so many tribal conflicts here—the military can hardly manage what they have to deal with now.”

  “So, my C
hris is just another statistic in the scheme of things? Just another foreigner gone missing into the desert?”

  “No, of course not. We have pictures of him and his men. Every NATO soldier who leaves Kandahar has the information. They’ve checked numerous villages on every patrol, they’ve enquired to all the tribal chiefs, there’s been nothing so far.”

  “But have your people made enquiries in Kandahar?” Bernadette asked.

  “Why would we do that? They went missing in the country,” Chandra said.

  “Someone here knows where they were going, what they were up to. Has anyone in the consulate thought of that?”

  “Yes, yes of course. All of this has been done.”

  Bernadette narrowed her eyes to look hard at Chandra, to see if she was giving her the whole story. “I’ll want to see the complete report. Once I’ve seen that I’ll have a basis for my own investigation.”

  Chandra shook her head. “You don’t understand, Ms. Callahan, I have orders to get you on a plane back to Canada as soon as you’re fit to travel. The Canadian Consulate asked the Afghan Police to post a guard outside your room for your own safety. Once the doctor has deemed you fit to travel, you’ll be flown back to Toronto. I’m sorry you came all this way and I’m so sorry for your injuries, but this is the situation.”

  “You speak any German?” Bernadette asked.

  “No, I speak Punjabi, Urdu, Pashtun, and Tajik,” she said with an arch of her eyebrow, clearly implying this job of dealing with Canadian travelers was beneath her.

  “Well, find someone in your consulate who does, and tell them to translate kiss my ass in German.”

  “But I don’t understand, you just said it,” Chandra said.

  “Oh, yes, I guess I did. Never mind. Now run along back to your lovely consulate. Tell them thanks for the offer of the flight home, but I’ll be getting back on the hunt for my fiancé as soon as I can walk out of here.”