They were arguing and although her French wasn’t good enough to understand all the words, she had the strange impression that they were bidding for her. It was almost as if it was an auction and she was the prize, she thought and then shook her head, because that seemed more bizarre than anything else that had happened tonight. It just couldn’t be, she thought.

When she looked up, they had stopped talking and were all looking expectantly at her. One of the Arabs gave Gerard a thick roll of money and Gerard smiled crookedly at her. Then he was gone. A tall, thin Arab said something and the others laughed harshly. It sounded like dogs barking.

“Why not?” the ugly Arab with the bad breath said suddenly in English and she knew that he wanted her to understand. “Nobody expects a western woman to be virgin,” and the men laughed again. Kelly looked down at her naked breasts, watching drops of water trickle down, not even aware that she was crying. Kelly’s not here. Kelly’s gone away, the voice inside her kept saying.

She felt their hot breath as they gathered around her like a wolf pack closing in for the kill. The fat gray-haired Frenchman came closer and grunted something. Teardrops spattered on her breasts, weaving tiny streams on her skin. Then Kelly looked up defiantly, her eyes large and luminous. Once, a handsome young district attorney she had dated briefly had told her that her eyes should be registered as a lethal weapon. But they didn’t seem to have any effect on these men. The fat Frenchman harshly pushed her back on the bed.

One by one, the men in the room began to undress.

Pakistan

Pakistan

THE SAFE HOUSE was a small copper and brass shop in the Misgaran Bazaar. Over the doorway hung a corrugated metal awning which made it indistinguishable from the other shops and stalls crowded along the Street of the Storytellers. Near the front of the shop, a brass coffee pot with its lid open sat on the upside-down copper kettle. It was the signal that it was clear to approach, but still he held back. The Russians had put a price on his head and Peshawar was thick with men who would stick a knife in someone’s back for a dollar and give you back change.

The street shimmered in the afternoon heat, as throngs of Pakistanis and turbanned Pathan tribesmen and women veiled in white from head to foot haggled in the bazaar. The air was ripe with the smells of animals and herbs, meat roasting over charcoal braziers and sweetish scents of khat and hashish smoke, that unmistakable scent of the Orient which whispers of ancient sins. Motor scooters weaved through the crowd, buzzing like giant insects in the gas haze.