In her heart, she believed that her best chance of being brought out alive would lie with the men she flew for, men within the special forces community itself, men who would not easily stand for one of their own being left to languish for an indefinite period without a concerted effort to locate and bring her out before it was too late.
The door was suddenly kicked off its hinges and fell to the floor. In stalked a bearded man she had never seen before wearing a pakol, the ethnic headgear of the Afghan people. The man seemed violently angry as he stalked over to the bed and reached for the hem of her gown. She didn’t resist him at first, believing that he only wanted to check the gunshot wound to her thigh, but he jerked the garment clear up past her waist, and another man came from behind him, pinning her shoulders to the bed.
She screamed and kicked, clawing for the bearded man’s eyes, managing to gouge her thumb deep into the socket before the second man chopped her in the throat, temporarily collapsing her esophagus. The bearded man grabbed his eye, reeling away from the bed as more men came into the room shouting. They sat on her and tied her down. Then they ripped away her gown and left her naked, still gasping for air.
The men laughed while poking and prodding her. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to scream, knowing that would only excite them more.
The bearded man was not laughing. He shoved the others out of the way and stood over her glowering, his right eyeball bloody. He shouted into the other room, and a man with a video camera came in, ordering the others out. Then the bearded man dropped his trousers and climbed onto the bed with her, cursing her in a language she did not understand, and that’s when she began to scream.
Ten minutes later, the man with the beard, whose name was Naeem, sat on a table in the next room trying to keep his head still as a young woman missing most of her nose examined his eye.
“You are lucky,” she said quietly. “Any closer to the retina, and she might have blinded you.”
Naeem pushed her away. “Don’t tell me I’m lucky, Badira. Tell me what needs to be done for it.”
“There are medicines to put in the eye,” she explained, “but none that we have here. All you can do is wear a bandage over it while it heals.”
“Fine. Cover your face,” he ordered in disgust and got up from the table.
Badira backed away, obediently lifting the bottom of her hijab up over her mutilated nose so that only her eyes were showing. She was not forced to wear a chadri or a burqa around the village because she was a nurse and her husband was dead. Her husband was the one who had cut off her nose shortly after their marriage for refusing to wear a burqa. Mercifully, he had been killed by an airstrike near the Pakistani border a few years later. Their marriage had been an arranged affair, as were 75 percent of all Afghan marriages.
An older man stepped into the room from outside, and the other Taliban men began to bristle, but Naeem settled them. “Never mind, old man. It’s done.”
The old man’s name was Sabil Nuristani, and he was the titular head of the village. “Now you must take her far away from here.” he insisted. “Otherwise, they will send men here to kill us all.”
“No!” Naeem snapped. “We will show them the video, and then they will pay to get her back. They have paid before.”
“You had better use your head,” Sabil cautioned, stepping deeper into the room. “Kohistani hasn’t given his approval for a ransom demand. He only said we were to—”
“Aasif Kohistani does not command here!” Naeem shouted. “Hezb-e Islami does not command here! I command here! We Taliban command! We captured the woman, so we will do with her as we please.”
“You are a fool to risk crossing Kohistani. He is a powerful man.”
Naeem stomped pugnaciously up to the older man. “What does Hezb-e Islami do for this village? Nothing! Kohistani did not even have men enough to send to the ambush. Why do you think he sent us instead of his own people — eh?”
Sabil shook his head in dismay. “So sad. Even now, you’re too stupid to see that you were used. You Taliban mean nothing to the Hezbi.”
“Shut up, old man. Get out!”
Nuristani left, and Naeem slammed the door after him, turning to his men. “He’s lucky I don’t have him beaten. Jafar, you will make five copies of the video. Tomorrow, you will take two of them to our people in Kabul. I will write down the instructions for them to follow. Soon the Americans will pay for the infidel woman, and we will have good things again. We will have medicine and more guns. You will see. Now get to work, all of you.”
The room cleared, leaving Naeem alone with Badira.
“So will she live long enough?” Naeem wanted to know.
Badira shrugged. “Not if the leg becomes infected.”
“Will she live a week?”
“Not if the leg is infected.”
Naeem bridled with impatience. “Is the leg infected or not?”
“It must be,” she said. “She hasn’t been given any antibiotics.”
“Then I will send for some,” he said. “She is your responsibility. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He trudged out of the building, and Badira took her medical bag into the room, where Sandra was still lying tied to the bed, weeping with shame and revulsion.
Sandra had listened to all of the shouting, assuming they were fighting over whether or not to kill her. It was not until after she felt Badira sit gently down on the edge of the bed, pouring peroxide over the festering bullet wound, did she dare to open her eyes.
She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
“I’m going to give you something to make you sleep,” Badira said with a slight British accent. “You need your strength. Your leg is infected.”
“Please untie me,” Sandra managed to croak.
Badira shook her head. “I’m not allowed, but don’t worry. You will be asleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Sandra pleaded. “I need to get out of here!”
Badira grew cross with her. “Listen to me. Your government will pay them, and then they will release you. You must be patient.”
Sandra shook her head in desperation. “No, you don’t understand! My government doesn’t pay — especially not for soldiers! They’ll let me die here!”
“We are not going to argue,” Badira said peremptorily. “You are going to take some pills and go to sleep. I will try to keep you asleep as much as possible. He will leave you alone that way. In a week, your people will pay and you will leave.”
Seeing the distinct lack of compassion in Badira’s eyes, Sandra suddenly became angry (which was a much stronger emotion than terror), and she lost her willingness to beg. “What are you going to do about the infection?”
“Naeem has sent for antibiotics.”
Sandra watched her tend to the wound, preparing a new dressing. “Where did you learn to speak English?”
“In Pakistan,” Badira said. “I was enrolled in medical school in Islamabad until the Taliban took over the government here. After that, my father demanded that I return.” What Badira did not go on to share was that she had been called home to marry the son of a man to whom her father owed a financial debt, a local leader who had supported the Taliban’s rise to power. And those who found themselves owing money to Taliban officials were severely mistreated.