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Guess we found out.
The helo lands and pushes the smell of chemicals deep into my nostrils. Damn it. At least nineteen girls are injured. Many shuffle around like zombies as someone with a hose frantically tries to clean them off. I bend over the child, shielding her as best I can as we near her ride out of here.
Fuck mission parameters. We need to do something.
The girl in my arms stirs, and I look down. She says something, and I bend to catch her words.
“Please, Poppa,” she says in Arabic. “Don’t be angry.”
I look into her face, expecting to see confusion and delirium.
Her dark eyes stare directly at me.Intome. Trembling, her raw hand rises to my chest, rests upon my heart. “There is more.”
A ringing starts in my ears, my hearing coming back.
An awed gaspwhooshesfrom her mouth and her hand drops. I’ve seen people die, seen how the body suddenly looked less real, less full. But this is different. It’s as if I can feel the soul sink from the body, feel the tendrils of spirit wrap around my heart and whisper, “Poppa. Don’t be angry. There is more.”
The ringing gets worse, more persistent.
Hacking, sweating, I sit up and, in the dark of my unlit bedroom, grab blindly for my cell, accepting the call before I even have a chance to check caller ID. “Yeah?”
“Sandesh Julian Ross, head of the IPT?” This guy has gravel in his voice, like he had too much tequila last night. And every night of his life.
“That’s me.” What time is it? Wiping sweat from my brow, I check the clock on my nightstand. WTF. Five a.m.? “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Leland Day. I work for Parish Industries, specifically Mukta Parish. We’ve been told your charity, the IPT, works along the Jordan-Syrian border.”
A business call at five a.m.? I’m almost too pissed to speak, but the guy did save me from that dream, and a Parish Industries representative isn’t someone to hang up on. I blink the sleep from my eyes and mind. “No. I mean… sort of.”
I’ve given the speech so often to media and at luncheons the words come by rote. “The International Peace Team aligns with organizations around the world, but, yes, we’ve aligned with Salma’s Gems in the Middle East.”
“I know. I read about you online.WAPOcalled you a complex combination of righteous anger, surfer-boy looks, and gritty naïveté.”
That belittling article surely won’t help me secure the funding IPT so desperately needs.
Sitting up, feeling a bit more human, I flick on a lamp. My neat, orderly, and essentials-only room—bed, nightstand, and lamp—snap into focus. You can take the soldier out of the military… “Why are you calling?”
To harass me about my pretty-boy media image?
“I’m calling to set up an appointment between you and Mukta Parish. She’s starting an initiative to expand global philanthropy. You’ve no doubt heard of Parish Industries and the Mantua Academy for Girls?”
Of course, who hasn’t? Mukta Parish—hell, the entire Parish clan—is mega-wealthy. A global powerhouse, they also run an exclusive boarding school for wealthy families. The elite campus that’s home to Mukta Parish’s It’s a Small World clan. She’s adopted troubled girls from all over the world.
“This isn’t camp, Leland. We’re run and staffed by former soldiers for a reason.”
He clears his throat. Doesn’t help. “I understand. In truth, we’d mostly be a financial support system and completely at your disposal.”
It takes me a minute to process this. This guy calls me at five a.m. to offer me exactly what the IPT wants and needs: funding, a tie to a big name, and complete autonomy. Call me a cynic, but I’m not buying it. “What, exactly, would I have to do to warrant this kind of support?”
“We’d like to discuss that. Are you available to come to our Center City office?”
“Sure. When?”
“Is this morning at seven doable?”
I’d be there in thirty minutes if it meant what he’s offering, but I’m not ready to play the eager beaver. I stand, move toward the shower. “Make it nine.”
3
