Shadow of Betrayal

She heard the man take a step closer to her. “Are you American?” he asked, his English slow and deliberate.

“Canadian,” she said.

“Turn. Slow.”

She did what he asked.

When she saw him, she realized he was older than she’d thought. His hair was gray, his body thin and stooped. He held a pistol, and was pointing it at her, though the tremor in his hands moved the barrel a half an inch in either direction every few seconds.

He wasn’t alone, either. Behind him, peeking around his hip, was a young girl. She looked more curious than scared.

“Why do you hide behind my shop?” The man seemed to think hard before saying each word, as if he was reaching back to knowledge he hadn’t used in decades.

“The soldiers,” she said. “I didn’t want them to find me out after curfew.”

“Not safe. You should not be out here.”

The little girl smiled at Marion. It was doubtful she could understand a word that was being said.

“I told you. I’m just trying to go home,” Marion said.

“No car? Alone?”

Marion looked at him for a moment, then shook her head.

“You will be killed,” the man said, but he lowered his own gun, indicating the bullet would not come from him. “Wait until morning.” He nodded at the spot she had been hiding in when the convoy passed. “There. You will be safe. I will not… give you trouble.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to go.”

The man’s eyes grew distant, then he said, “Wait.” Only this time she knew he didn’t mean for her to hide out in the alley all night.

He turned and walked quickly away, disappearing behind the back of the shop. The little girl followed him, though more reluctantly, stealing glances back at Marion, until she, too, was gone.

Though Marion felt the need to continue her journey, she did as the old man asked. Less than a minute later he was back, this time alone. The pistol he’d held in his hand had been replaced by a rectangular box that tapered at one end and fit snug in his palm.

He hesitated a moment, then held it out to her. She took it, unsure what to do with it. Without taking it from her hand, the old man turned the device so that the tapered end lay across her palm. In this direction, her thumb fell naturally across the top of the box and rested on top of a square button.

“Touch someone with this end,” the man said, pointing at the wide edge of the box. “Push button. Electric.”

“You mean shock?” she asked. “Like a Taser?”

He looked at her like he hadn’t understood what she was asking.

“Electric. Electric,” he said, then he shook his body, imitating the results.

“I can’t take this from you,” she told him, holding it back out.

“Bring it back,” he said. “After the sun comes up.”

She took a breath, then nodded and said, “Thank you.”

Without another word, he walked back the way he’d come. Marion then turned and retraced her steps to the street.

For thirty minutes Marion worked her way through half-paved side streets and dirt paths, avoiding the main roads altogether. Any time there was even the slightest sound, she would stop and wait until she was sure there was no threat. In her right hand she held on tight to the Taser as if it were a talisman guaranteeing her passage through the city.

It seemed to work, too. She had seen no one else on her trip. And while she had heard a few more military vehicles, they had been distant and of no concern.

That was until she turned onto the street where the orphanage was located.

There were two vehicles double-parked in front of the three-story building that housed the orphanage—a jeep and a sedan, both with headlights on, and drivers sitting at the ready. Two other soldiers stood near the open door of the building.

She was three blocks away, so they hadn’t noticed her. But if she continued on, she wouldn’t even make it to the next block without being spotted. There weren’t enough cars to hide behind, and, in the curfew-induced stillness, any movement would draw attention.

She doubled back, then went two blocks farther away before cutting over to the dirt alley that ran behind the orphanage. Water ran down the center of the road, the last remnants of the storm that had passed through earlier that evening. Other than that, the road was quiet. There were no soldiers anywhere in sight.

Marion made her way past run-down and bullet-strewn buildings that had survived coup after coup and would undoubtedly survive at least one more. The orphanage building was as old as the others, but better cared for, someone having taken the time to slap concrete patches over the worst damage. From her previous visits, Marion knew the ground floor was taken up by a small office, a kitchen, and a combination dining room/meeting place. On the second and third floors were rooms for the staff, dorms for the children, and a few makeshift classrooms.

Roslyn’s Place, that’s what everyone called it. But it had no official name. Nor was it sponsored like places in other parts of the city. Those orphanages had the backing of large religious agencies or other NGOs—non-governmental organizations.