Sands of Redemption

25

Georgia scooped up a spoonful of her lunch, a large serving of thick, fluffy rice with soft, watery vegetables. A noisy eater, she could hear Mohammed hoeing into his own meal just outside her door. Though it tasted nice enough, Georgia had become so used to eating very little over the past several days that she was unable to finish it. Leaving the remainder near the door for Mohammed to collect, Georgia dropped back down onto her mattress.

Soon, he came inside. He was a small man, barely reaching her shoulder—and painfully thin. He was darker than most and although he was still fairly young his face was heavily weathered, making him appear older and harsher than he actually was. Always polite and happy, he never forgot to greet Georgia with a nod and a smile, just like he did now as he crouched down to collect her plates. Georgia watched him, curious as ever about the injury to his eye which he concealed beneath a faded red eye patch. Noticing her watching him, Mohammed broadened his grin, revealing chipped yellow teeth within a scruffy beard.

He asked her something incomprehensible before giving her the thumbs up.

'I'm good,' Georgia smiled, returning the sign.

He carried away her dishes.

Georgia's smile dropped into a frown. Not everything about her new situation was good. Though her conditions were significantly better, it was very lonely and quiet. As she watched the daylight travel with bone-aching lethargy from one side of her room to the other, she dwelled on dark thoughts.

She often thought about Bianca and John and Natalie and the other people she had come to know well at the Hamrachi Hotel, speculating on how they were all fairing since the attack. She wondered if they were thinking about her or if they were already back living their lives.

She hoped Natalie got safely back to Jordan and wondered how the Jalalis were supporting themselves since the explosion. Were they still hopeful that Rana was alive? For a black moment, Georgia wondered where Rabi had buried her.

Grimacing, Georgia turned her mind towards her family, always so close to the surface, always so painful.

She cried.

That afternoon Khalid came to visit.

Georgia was sitting on her mattress. She hadn't expected to see him so soon—or ever again. Georgia's heart sank as she looked up at him. He was not looking well, pale and drawn, bloodshot eyes sunk deep into his face; his clothes and beard were dishevelled.

He didn't sit down this time. 'I have received a response to your letter to Qasim Yousef.'

Georgia raised her eyebrows. She felt a desperate surge of hope. 'He responded? What did he say?'

'It is very bad for you.'

Georgia twisted her mouth. 'So, what does that mean?'

'You must find some money another way—and soon. The Mujahideen's patience is running out.'

'But I don't have any money.'

'Then you must ask your family, your friends, your country, your church, everyone you know. If you don't ...'

'H-how much are they asking for?'

'Five hundred thousand American dollars.'

Georgia stared. 'Can't they drop the price?'

He shook his head.

'But why not?' She wrapped her arms around her knees, holding herself. 'Any money is better than no money, isn't it? Do they think I have more millionaire friends stashed up my sleeve?'

'I have not told them about Yousef's answer. If I had you would be dead already.'

They gazed at each other. Georgia's heart was thundering.