“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 was the plan, anyway. Until Farid and Sohrab arrived tha morning. “Your friends, this John and Betty Caldwell, they aren’ in Peshawar,” Farid 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 d 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 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 ing 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. “你幾乎寸步難行。” “我能走到走廊那邊，再走回來。”我說， “我會沒事的。”計劃是這樣的：離開醫院，從保險箱裏面把錢取出來，付清醫藥費，開車到那家恤孤院，把索拉博交給約翰和貝蒂?卡爾德威。然後前往伊斯蘭堡，調整旅行計劃，給我自己幾天時間，等身子好一些就飛回家。無論如何，計劃就是這樣，直到那天早晨法裏德和索拉博來臨。“你的朋友，約翰和貝蒂?卡爾德威，他們不在白沙瓦。”法裏德說。我花了十分鐘纔將棉袍穿上。他們在我胸膛開過插胸管的口子，我擡手的時候那兒痛得厲害；而且每次傾斜身體，總是臟腑翻動。我將一些隨身物品收進一個棕色的紙袋，累得氣喘吁吁。但法裏德帶着那個消息到來之前，我已經設法準備妥當，坐在牀沿。索拉博挨着我，坐在牀上。 “他們去哪了？”我問。法裏德搖搖頭：“你還不明白……” “因爲拉辛汗說……” “我去過美國領事館，”法裏德提起我的袋子說，“白沙瓦從來沒有叫約翰和貝蒂?卡爾德威的人。領事館的人說，沒有這兩個人。無論如何，自沙瓦這裏沒有。”索拉博在我身旁翻閱着那本舊《國家地理》。我們到銀行取錢。經理是個大腹便便的男人，腋窩下有汗漬；他不斷露出笑臉，告訴我銀行的人從未碰過那筆錢。“絕對沒有。”他鄭重地說，搖着他的食指。阿曼德也那樣做過。帶着這麼一大袋錢開車駛過白沙瓦，真有點膽戰心驚。另外，我懷疑每個看着我的大鬍子都是阿塞夫派來的塔利班殺手。而令我恐懼的是：白沙瓦有很多大鬍子，他們都盯着我。“我們該怎麼安置他？”法裏德說，陪着我慢慢從醫院的付賬辦公室走回汽車。索拉博在陸地巡洋艦的後座上，搖下車窗，掌心託着下巴，望着街上過往車輛。 “他不能留在白沙瓦。”我喘着氣說。
