Wanda Delamere - Call Of The Heart.pdf - Wanda Delamere - SilverWitch

SHE HARDLY DARED TO BREATHE AT THE SIGHT

The man towered above her. His familiar face was ruggedly strong, his eyes a

piercing electric blue. So overwhelming was his presence that she temporarily

forgot the immediate danger confronting her.

'You," she whispered, hardly able to grasp his reality. Too often she had seen

him in dreamlike situations. She couldn't credit that he was here now, near

enough to touch. For a moment his compelling magnetism almost forced her to

reach out to him. But something held her back.

'Yes, Camilla," he said in a quiet deep voice. 'We've found each other again."

Her heart leaped as his gaze held hers, for she knew that here was the one man

who had the power to unleash her darkest passions....

Published, July 1982

First printing May 1982

ISBN 0-373-70.024-5

reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by

any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,

including xerography photocopying and recording, or in any information storage

or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher.

Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of

the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or

names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown

to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention and do not concern

themselves with political developments in Afghanistan.

The Superromance trademark, consisting of the word SUPER*OMANCE. and the

Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word Worldwide in which the

letter "o " is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of

Worldwide Library.

Printed in USA

CHAPTER ONE

As THE PLANE CIRCLED SLOWLY for its landing, Camilla looked down into the open

spaces beneath her window and in her rising excitement gripped the arms of her

seat. Sprawled along a curving silver river below her was Kabul, the capital

city of this strange exotic land she had traveled so far to reach. Small mud

huts crept up the hills that embraced the city, clinging there like lizards

and blending with the color of the earth. She saw, too, the sparkling roofs of

the mosques and palaces - some smooth with azure tiles, others glittering and

metallic.

"There's the Blue Mosque," said her seat companion, and she followed the

line of his finger to a great dome-roofed building, made miniature by the

height of the plane and shining like a blue glass marble.

"It's so beautiful!" she exclaimed, turning to the man who sat beside her.

His name, she had learned at the beginning of the flight out from Rome, was

Johnny Hagan. He was an American, a doctor, and she was grateful for the

cheerful boyish enthusiasm he had shown and the friendly way he had helped

her, a nervous first-flighter, answering all her questions with his lopsided

grin. She was grateful, too, for the way he'd unconsciously made his position

clear right from the start.

"I can hardly wait to get back to Janet. She's expecting a baby - our first

- and it kills her when I go away, poor kid. Kills me, too. Still, I've

brought her letters from her folks."

"Don't you miss being at home - America, I mean? There must be such a

difference. Wouldn't your wife prefer to have the baby somewhere...well, more

civilized?"

He had laughed like a boy. "I guess not. At least, she hasn't mentioned it.

Our son's going to be a real little Afghan - will grow up speaking the

language, which is an opportunity I only wish I'd had. If we stay long enough

he'll be taught by Malcolm Armstrong - another one of my missed

opportunities."

Camilla had been slightly intrigued. "You've mentioned this Malcolm

Armstrong several times. Who is he?"

"A fixture of the country. English, like you, but to look at him, if he's

dressed properly, you can easily be fooled into thinking he's a real Afghan.

Grows more and more like them every day. We bet on the day he'll wake up with

his blond hair turned black." He chuckled. "You ought to meet him. You'd

admire him."

"Surely you mean like," said Camilla, puzzled.

"Not at all," answered Johnny, smiling. "Not a lot of people really like

him, I guess, but everyone admires him. It's too difficult to get close enough

to him to really know him and like him."

Camilla had understood. This Malcolm sounded like a standoffish expatriate

who tried to impress other people by going native and playing at the silent

Afghan, the man of mystery. Well, he could impress other people; he wouldn't

find it so easy to fool her. She had turned the discussion then to different

topics, feeling unwilling to linger on the subject of Malcolm Armstrong.

But her instant dislike of Johnny's strange acquaintance was offset by her

growing liking for the American himself, young and redheaded with a nose just

recovering from the peeling effects of sunburn, and a face liberally freckled.

If his wife was as... as - she cast about her for a description and settled

for that overworked one, "nice" - if his wife was as purely nice as he was,

she could count on two friends at least in this unknown land the plane was

fast approaching. And heaven knew she needed friendship and help - without any

demanding ties.

Now Johnny leaned over her again, and with the excitement of a proud

householder showing off his possessions to impressed guests, he pointed out

the four points of the compass and what lay there.

"South," he began. "That's the desert. Ghazni and Kandahar are the two

biggest cities. Kandahar is dominated by the strict mullahs - "

"Mullahs? What are they?" queried Camilla.

"Muslim priests. Kandahar is the black Islam area of the country. Nearly

every month we get rumors of some stoning authorized by the mullahs - "

"Stoning!" Camilla exclaimed, her face blanched. "How horrific! It sounds

positively B.C. - biblical."

Johnny laughed again. "As long as I've been here I've never found a stoning

rumor to be true. But it shows what kind of a place Kandahar can be if even

those ridiculous rumors can be believed and passed around. I've been to

Kandahar, and the worst thing about it was the flies that settle on everything

like a black blanket."

"Sounds just as bad," said Camilla. "I hate insects."

"Well, it was worth it to see Kandahar. But I'll admit it's no place for a

woman."

Camilla's lips curled. They were all the same, these men. Tall, short, fat,

thin, sandy, blond, dark, handsome or ugly, clever or charming or selfish

or... mysterious - in the end they all believed that the primary need of a

woman was protection. And she, Camilla Simpson, had had enough of that in any

form. Freedom was a new drink to her, a strange and heady draft, and she was

prepared to drain its joys to the fullest. Who was to say what was and what

was not the place for her to go? No one would restrict her activities. She

knew now she was not the kind of woman to act merely on the sufferance of some

dominating male.

"I wouldn't be put off by a few rumors," she stated, holding her head

proudly. "I shall see Kandahar if I want to. After all, I've come this far

alone."

Johnny looked sheepish. "I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't handle

anything in the normal run of things. It's just that...oh, you don't know the

Afghans. Their way of life and their basic philosophies are so totally

different. It's very difficult to explain. Freedom for women is growing a bit

in Kabul with the Western influences that touch the capital city, but in most

of the country women still dress in their chadaris - head-to-foot veils - and

I wouldn't like to say what you'd be risking if you went to Kandahar dressed

as you are now."

Camilla looked down at her outfit. On the advice of a well-traveled friend

she had worn a creaseless apple-green cotton, leaving her arms and legs bare,

with her feet shod in white espadrilles. The cool appearance of the dress was

a foil to the flame of her auburn hair, and its color was reflected in the

depths of her sea-emerald eyes. Such an outfit would be perfectly acceptable

in England, but customs were very different here. She'd just have to be

careful, that was all, she told herself.

"To the east," Johnny went on, "is the city of Jalalabad, near the Northwest

Frontier Province of Pakistan. You probably know more than I about the

political battles that have been fought at the borders, since you're from

England, and the British have been involved in so many Afghan wars, so I won't

display my ignorance. To the northeast is Nuristan - that is, Land of Light,

so-called because the natives at the end of the last century were all

converted to Islam; you know, 'seen the light.' Before that the place was

called Kafiristan - "

"Land of the Kafirs?" smiled Camilla.

"Good guess. They were pagans before their conversion, and many Afghans

still fear them and the whole of Nuristan. It's a restricted area; you need a

special visa to go there. They have little compunction about murdering

foreigners."

"What a place!" Camilla exclaimed.

"Armstrong visited it once, several years ago - only foreigner I know who's

been and come back to tell the tale. And even he had to get out in one heck of

a hurry. Apparently one of the chiefs took quite a shine to his looks and

tried to sell Malcolm his daughter. He only went to collect some Mongol relics

and nearly came back with a wife!"

"I'll bet the chief's daughter was relieved that the bargain fell through,"

Camilla commented dryly. "Imagine being sold off to the highest bidder! Like

some farm animal."

"Women do a fair bit of the heavy labor in this country, so somebody's got

to make up to poor dad for the loss of an extra pair of hands."

Camilla knew this was the custom in most Islamic countries, and so she said

no more. But the story had repulsed her, and the fact that it had happened to

a compatriot brought it strangely close.

Johnny continued, "Beyond Nuristan, which is mostly woods and mountains, is

the Vakhan corridor, which leads into China."

"I didn't know we were that near to China," said Camilla, startled.

Johnny nodded and continued. "To the north of Kabul are the high mountains,

then the steppes and fertile foothills, and beyond that, Russia. The mountains

are called the Hindu Kush, which means Killer of the Hindus. They're known by

such a gory name because every time the Hindus tried to invade Afghanistan

they were driven back by the harsh mountains. High plateaus and sandy deserts

lie southward. And to the west is Bamian, where two giant ancient Buddhas are

built into the cliffs; Bandi Amir, the lakes of the king, is near there, too.

These five small lakes are famous for their rare hues, which vary from white

to dark green and are apparently caused by underlying bedrock. They're the

first place you must visit if you've got the time."

"Safe, I suppose," muttered Camilla, but her thoughts were scarcely on her

words. Through the window she could see nothing of these places he had

mentioned, except for the outline of the dark purple mountains he had called

Killer of the Hindus. But in her mind's eye she could see beyond them, to

east, west, north and south, and the picture he had given her was a vast

expanse of loneliness - desert or steppes or mountains, a hostile landscape

with violent men. The strangeness of the place assailed her, and with it a

painful sense of her own isolation and ignorance. Her hands twisted, and

beneath her tightened seat belt her stomach lurched in fear. She was gripped

by the thought, my sister, the only family I have left, is lost in that place.

Her hand felt in her pocket for the two scraps of paper, little lightweight

things that had brought her halfway around the world. They were her only

reassurance that she had a purpose in that alien landscape.

The first was a postcard. She had no need to look at it - its gaudy

retouched colors were engraved on her memory. It was of a street whose dirt

surface was the same color as the mud-and-timber houses that lined it. The

road was shaded by thickly foliaged bright green trees. Beneath them sat men

dressed in what resembled dirty pajamas, behind stalls loaded with the most

delicious-looking fruit she had ever seen: melons, grapes, mulberries,

pomegranates. It was the fruit that had first struck her when the postcard

arrived in her London flat three months ago. On the reverse was a scrawl in

her sister's handwriting:

We have been a week in Kabul, and it is the most wonderful place you can

imagine. I know it's unoriginal, but I really wish you were here. It's worth

suffering the dens of the other countries just to get here; it's cleanl The

Kuchis - they're nomads - are just passing through the city. They're

fascinating people, incredibly rich, and the women are the only ones in

Afghanistan who don't wear veils. They look like they're from some movie epic

with their camels and donkeys and dogs. I long for such a life. By the way,

it's not a bit like the picture, but cold with a bit of snow still. A relief

after India! Going to Kandahar tomorrow. I'll write soon.

Meghan

Meghan and her husband, Thomas, had been traveling through Asia by car on

their way back to England from Singapore, where Tom had been stationed with

his company for several years. When Camilla had received the postcard she had

thought little of it; having scanned it, she'd merely pinned it up alongside

the other cards from Thailand, Bhutan, India and Pakistan on the wall of the

little kitchenette in her flat. She little thought that it would be the last

communication she would receive from her sister, and that its battered

well-fingered edges would contain within their borders one-half of the clues

with which she must begin her search.

The second piece of paper was a letter, typed on thin official airmail paper

with all the impersonal coldness of black ink and white paper. It, too, was

grimy with nervous handling, as she had turned it over and over while trying

to reach a decision. It read:

British Embassy

Kabul

April 30

Dear Miss Simpson:

It is with deep regret that we inform you that Thomas Cowley, who we

understand was your brother-in-law, was found dead on the morning of March 28

at 9:35 A.M. ten miles off the road to Kandahar, southwest of the town of

Ghazni. The local police report shows that the cause of death was a blow to

the base of the skull. Mr. Cowley was found under his car, a Singapore

N-registration Land Rover, from which every removable object had been taken.

The official investigation has recorded a verdict of death by misadventure.

Since Mr. Cowley did not make himself known to us on his arrival in

Afghanistan, and in the absence of any personal documents with the deceased,

it has taken us considerable time to establish Mr. Cowley's identity. With the

help of the border authorities we learned that he had entered the country from

Pakistan through the Khyber Pass, accompanied by his wife, your sister. It is

thus with deep regret that we must now also inform you that no trace has been

found of Mrs. Cowley, and she has been declared by the authorities as missing,

presumed dead. Naturally, we shall continue to make every effort to trace your

sister, but must inform you that the difficulties we encounter in such endeav-

' ors are enormous....

Here Camilla's thoughts trailed off. She could feel the aching loneliness of

a death in those great and empty expanses beyond the city. She herself had

never cared for Thomas, she admitted with a slightly guilty feeling, but his

was not an end she would have wished upon anyone. She had always thought him a

bit of a layabout and, although she disliked saying it, a snob, the sort who

always walked about as though he had a bad smell under his nose. But she was

willing to concede that there might be good points in him that she had never

seen; there must have been if Meghan had chosen to marry him. At any rate, his

death was not the sort she would have wished on her most bitter enemy.

Thomas was dead. She had to find Meghan. These two thoughts ran rings around

each other as she stepped out of the plane. Descending from its

air-conditioned fuselage, she felt the heat from the tarmac rise up and hit

her like a great fist. She gave a gasp and staggered, but Johnny behind her

quickly caught her elbow and prevented her from falling.

"It's hot," he smiled, "but you'll soon get used to it. It's not muggy or

humid like your London summers. You'll be glad of the climate here when you

have a deep golden tan."

"With my hair?" Camilla laughed. "I peel - like bananas." However, she knew

the heat was affecting her, for the laughing made her dizzy. "Would you mind

helping me get a taxi? I've got a room at the Kabul Hotel." She supposed the

taxi drivers did not speak much English.

"I certainly would mind," replied Johnny, laughingly stern. "1*11 take it as

a personal insult if you don't allow me to escort you straight to your hotel.

That way the drivers won't be able to rip you off for twice the proper fare,

and I'll be sure you get there safely."

Still trying to protect me, thought Camilla as they went though customs.

Perhaps he missed having his wife to shelter. But her jet lag made her too

tired to refuse such an energy-saving offer, and the presence of Johnny would

be far more cheering than the face of some turbaned stranger.

"Where is your car?" she asked, looking around her as they came out of the

small stone-and-glass airport terminal. The parking lot was almost totally

empty, which seemed odd for an airport.

"You're thinking how different it is from Heathrow, aren't you?" Johnny

said, reading her thoughts. "Come along. I'll try to break you in gently."

She understood what he meant by that as he steered her toward a light blue

Volkswagen van. New and fascinating sights were all around her: a string of

camels silhouetted against the gleaming metal of the plane; little dark men

sidesaddle on donkeys weaving in and out among the traffic; honking and

rushing foreign-looking taxis and buses; and a billowing figure in a pleated

robe who glided past on silent feet and regarded her through the lattice of a

lacy veil.

Beside the blue van stood a smiling man in the ubiquitous white pajamas,

with a cap of curly black karakul - the fur from a newborn lamb, she happened

to know - upon his head.

"Camilla," said Johnny by way of introduction, "this is my driver, Rajab.

Rajab, this is Miss Simpson. She's come to visit Afghanistan."

The driver's face broke into a broad grin, displaying a showcase of wide and

irregular teeth. He held out a gnarled hand. "Salaam aleikom."

Camilla took the proffered hand and shook it. "Hello," she smiled back.

"How is the memsahib, Rajab?" asked Johnny as they climbed into the back

seat.

"Khubnes," said the driver, shaking his head.

"Bessiar?" urged Johnny anxiously. "He says Janet is not too well," he

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