“You can hardly walk.”
“I can walk to the end of the hall and back,” I said.
“I’ll b fine.” The plan was this: Leave the hospital. Get the money fror the safe-deposit box and pay my medical bills. Drive to the orphanage and drop Sohrab off with John and Betty Caldwell Then get a ride to Islamabad and change travel plans. Give mysel a few more days to get better. Fly home.That was the plan, anyway. Until Farid and Sohrab arrived tha morning. “Your friends, this John and Betty Caldwell, they aren’ in Peshawar,” Farid said.It had taken me ten minutes Just to slip into my pirhan tumban. My chest, where they’d cut me to insert the chest tube hurt when I raised my arm, and my stomach throbbed every time I leaned over. I was drawing ragged breaths just from the effort of packing a few of my belongings into a brown paper bag. But I’d managed to get ready and was sitting on the edge of the bed when Farid came in with the news. Sohrab sat on the bed next to me.
“Where did they go?” I asked.Farid shook his head. “You don’t understand--”
“Because Rahim Khan said--”
“I went to the U.S. consulate,” Farid said, picking up my bag. “There never was a John and Betty Caldwell in Peshawar. According to the people at the consulate, they never existed. Not here in Peshawar, anyhow.”Next to me, Sohrab was flipping through the pages of the old National Geographic.WE GOT THE MONEY from the bank. The manager, a paunchy man with sweat patches under his arms, kept flashing smiles and telling me that no one in the bank had touched the money.“Absolutely nobody,” he said gravely, swinging his index finger the same way Armand had.Driving through Peshawar with so much money in a paper bag was a slightly frightening experience. Plus, I suspected every bearded man who stared at me to be a Talib killer, sent by Assef. Two things compounded my fears: There are a lot of bearded men in Peshawar, and everybody stares.“What do we do with him?” Farid said, walking me slowly from the hospital accounting office back to the car. Sohrab was in the backseat of the Land Cruiser, looking at trafficthrough the rolled-down window, chin resting on his palms.
“He can’t stay in Peshawar,” I said, panting.
“你几乎寸步难行。”
“我能走到走廊那边，再走回来。”我说，
“我会没事的。”计划是这样的：离开医院，从保险箱里面把钱取出来，付清医药费，开车到那家恤孤院，把索拉博交给约翰和贝蒂?卡尔德威。然后前往伊斯兰堡，调整旅行计划，给我自己几天时间，等身子好一些就飞回家。无论如何，计划就是这样，直到那天早晨法里德和索拉博来临。“你的朋友，约翰和贝蒂?卡尔德威，他们不在白沙瓦。”法里德说。我花了十分钟才将棉袍穿上。他们在我胸膛开过插胸管的口子，我抬手的时候那儿痛得厉害；而且每次倾斜身体，总是脏腑翻动。我将一些随身物品收进一个棕色的纸袋，累得气喘吁吁。但法里德带着那个消息到来之前，我已经设法准备妥当，坐在床沿。索拉博挨着我，坐在床上。
“他们去哪了？”我问。法里德摇摇头：“你还不明白……”
“因为拉辛汗说……”
“我去过美国领事馆，”法里德提起我的袋子说，“白沙瓦从来没有叫约翰和贝蒂?卡尔德威的人。领事馆的人说，没有这两个人。无论如何，自沙瓦这里没有。”索拉博在我身旁翻阅着那本旧《国家地理》。我们到银行取钱。经理是个大腹便便的男人，腋窝下有汗渍；他不断露出笑脸，告诉我银行的人从未碰过那笔钱。“绝对没有。”他郑重地说，摇着他的食指。阿曼德也那样做过。带着这么一大袋钱开车驶过白沙瓦，真有点胆战心惊。另外，我怀疑每个看着我的大胡子都是阿塞夫派来的塔利班杀手。而令我恐惧的是：白沙瓦有很多大胡子，他们都盯着我。“我们该怎么安置他？”法里德说，陪着我慢慢从医院的付账办公室走回汽车。索拉博在陆地巡洋舰的后座上，摇下车窗，掌心托着下巴，望着街上过往车辆。
“他不能留在白沙瓦。”我喘着气说。