Ordinary Obsessions

By Tom Corbett

Ordinary Obsessions: This sequel to the authors well received Palpable Passions is a compelling, multi-layered narrative that weaves together various threads of history, culture, politics, and personal relationships in a moving story of conflict and hope. Relational twists within and between two families, one American and one Afghani, along with societal challenges are played out against a background of a struggle against a religious regime in Afghanistan and against the rise of a conservative insurgency in America. This is a story that taps into the most fundamental questions we all must face…who are we, what kind of world do we want, and what are we meant to do in life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781948000451

Tom Corbett

Tom Corbett is the co-author of The Dreamer's Dictionary.

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PREFACE

Ordinary Obsessions is the sequel to Palpable Passions, which introduces the reader to the Masoud and the Crawford families. The patriarch of the Masoud family, Pamir, is a physician who trained in England. Pamir returns to Afghanistan to aid his homeland and raise his children. Pamir’s wife, Madeena, is a mathematician who taught at university level in the pre-Taliban era. We tend to forget that this beleaguered country once had a substantial secular population.

The Masouds have three children: a son, Majeed, and two daughters, Deena and Azita. The youngest, Azita, is passionate about following in her father’s footsteps despite the obstacles imposed by a totalitarian religious regime. In the first volume, we picked up the Masoud’s story during the height of Taliban rule, but prior to Osama Bin Laden’s 9-11 attack on the United States. The Masouds were determined to escape Kabul and the oppressive rule under which they felt captive. The family’s goal was to flee to the area still held by the Northern Alliance, a group of tribal clans who bravely fought the Soviet invaders in the 1980s, and who are now fiercely opposed to Taliban rule. This northern area in Afghanistan is where Pamir was born and raised. It is home to him, a place where he hopes to find comfort and safety in troubled times, and where his children might pursue their dreams.

The Crawford clan is headed by Charles Crawford, Sr., who was born in Poland just as World War II erupted. He was spirited to the United States by his father who was a leader in the anticommunist, exiled Polish government. Charles Crawford grew up determined to accrue personal power and great wealth, part of which he obtained through a calculated marriage to Mary Kelly, a rich Catholic socialite from Philadelphia. Charles and Mary have four children: Charles Junior (Chuck), the oldest (and married to Beverly), followed by twins, Christopher (Chris) and Kristen (Kay), and their youngest daughter, Katerina (Kat). The Crawford family members know extraordinary comfort and privilege in Chicago but are gripped by serious internal divisions that eventually mushroomed into outright rebellion.

Other prominent characters include Abdul Zubair, an old family friend who helps the Masouds escape from the control of the Taliban, and Abdul’s son, Ahmad. Richard (Ricky) and his sister Juliana (Jules) Jackson are unlikely childhood friends of Chris. Ricky and Jules are black and from very modest means, growing up in a tough Chicago neighborhood. Chris and Ricky bonded at a high school summer basketball camp and remained the best of friends throughout adulthood. Chris and Jules enjoyed a long on and off romantic relationship over the years. Karen Fisher is Chris’s lesbian assistant in his international service organization. From a working-class British family, Karen is a tough, yet perceptive, professional partner. Amar Singh is an Indian-born doctor whose struggle to become a physician was made more difficult by her conservative family who wished little more than a good marriage for her.

Chris’s twin sister, Kay, is a talented trauma surgeon who earned her medical expertise by attaching herself to the emergency room of a Chicago public hospital, partly out of dedication and partly to spite her father by working for the public good, something she knew her father would never understand. Kay married James (Jamie) Whitehead, a British Military doctor whom she met in Afghanistan.

The narrative of Palpable Passions traces challenges and struggles in both the Masoud and Crawford families. With the help of her parents, Azita continues to violate the strict rules governing the proper behavior of Muslim girls. She stubbornly insists on being educated at home by her mother and on helping her father with his medical work, sins that will no longer be tolerated by the Taliban as she approaches puberty. Azita will then be expected to become a servile and obedient woman as Taliban orthodoxy dictates. After Azita is almost killed by the religious police while she is under Majeed’s protection, Majeed is determined to fight these oppressors. The Masouds decide to escape Kabul and the Taliban when Majeeb is about to be forced into military service for a system he abhors. Under false pretenses, the Masoud family makes a very dangerous escape to the Northern Alliance.

Following the sudden and tragic suicide of Chuck Crawford, who had been the forced heir-apparent to the Crawford dynasty, much reflection takes place among the remaining Crawford offspring who come to reject their father’s obsession with right-wing causes. Christopher, a Rhodes scholar with a doctorate from Oxford, uses his wealth and connections to develop an international service organization. Chris is devoted to helping the world’s most vulnerable people and is most gratified that his father dismisses these ambitions as soft and ridiculous. Chris makes his home in London and Oxford, England. Kay has also rejected her father’s ideals by her choice of medical specialties. She decides to escape the family in Chicago by joining Chris’s international organization and manipulates her initial assignment in Pakistan to relocate to Afghanistan, a very dangerous site at that time. There, she becomes friends with Dr. Amar Singh and the two risk all to help those desperately holding out against the Taliban. Chris is outraged when he discovers that his sister defied him and joined Amar Singh in the conflict torn and dangerous country. Frantic, he travels to Afghanistan to remove Kay from harm’s way.

The Masoud and Crawford families connect in this desperate and conflicted part of the world. Representing radically different backgrounds, they find much in common. However, fate, as it so often does, intrudes in the most disturbing ways. Majeeb Masoud dies fighting for the Northern Alliance. Pamir and Madeena Masoud are murdered by the Taliban in the tumultuous days following 9-11. Kay stays in Afghanistan with Jamie Whitehead, and Chris finally loses his heart to Amar Singh.

Moved by the intelligence and drive of young Azita, Chris and Amar bring her to England where she can receive the education about which she has always dreamed but did not think possible. After some time, Deena and Karen, now in a relationship, join Azita, Chris and Amar in London. Palpable Passions ends with Azita Masoud finishing her pre-medicine studies at Oxford University and giving a University-wide talk about the obstacles she overcame to pursue her passion. That, however, is not the end of the journey. Rather, it is just a beginning.

PART I CHOICES

CHAPTER 1

OXFORD UNIVERSITY-2015 : THE CALL

Chris Crawford settled into his university office. He looked about him with much satisfaction. The walls were lined with books while his desk and a couple of tables were piled to overflowing with academic papers and government reports. Yet, he had a rather amazing ability to retrieve what he needed. The detritus of his fecund intellectual life was not unlike an archeological site where layers of invaluable treasures were accessible only to the expert who knew where and how to look. His gaze briefly settled on the world beyond his personal academic cocoon. Outside of his dome-like windows, which were reminiscent of cathedral portals, lay the college green that served as the epicenter of academic life in the insular world of his Oxford college. He loved everything about this place, even the smells of ancient thoughts embedded on printed pages.

He found it remarkable that he had been so easily accepted into this world-class university. That made him smile since he had been such an undisciplined student early on, the very opposite of his twin sister who had always applied herself diligently to her academic studies. He had always rationalized his desultory performance as a student on the examples of Einstein and Hawking, the two physics geniuses of their respective eras. Einstein had been an indifferent student. Albert’s original dissertation was turned down by his doctoral committee and he was the only member of his small physics class not to secure an academic appointment upon graduation. He made his significant early intellectual breakthroughs while sitting in a patent office, a position arranged for him by concerned friends. Similarly, Hawking always admitted to hardly studying during his undergraduate days at Oxford and with not much greater diligence early in his doctoral studies at Cambridge. He fully embraced his intellect only when his body started to give out on him. Both geniuses proved most creative when they permitted their imaginations to run free and when, for different reasons, they functioned outside of the normal expectations of the academic culture. Chris fancied that he did as well though absent, he concluded, the clear advantage of their native genius.

His private reflections were cut short by the ringing of his cell phone. He should have turned it off. Glancing at it, he saw a very familiar name, one that took him a bit by surprise. For such a public man, Christopher Crawford had the instincts of a hermit. He would prefer to unplug his phone and stay within his own thoughts. After all, there were many great thinkers who argued that reality was little more than an extension of our own consciousness. Perhaps he could shape what was out there into something that better met his expectations. But alas, he could never quite make the break, not when his younger sibling was calling.

Kat? Chris uttered with a slightly concerned tone.

Yes, you got it right. It is your second favorite sister calling. Did I catch you at a bad time?

Chris glanced at his watch and did a quick calculation. Why was the new titular head of the sprawling Crawford financial empire calling at this hour? It must have been the middle of the night in Chicago, or maybe terribly early in the morning. Still, nothing surprised him any longer about this sibling. As they grew up, she was the quiet one, almost invisible. He would tease her but very carefully for a guy whose wit rarely failed to take prisoners. In her case, though, he always feared that he might wound her vulnerable psyche. Yes, that was it, she seemed fragile as a young girl, with the most tenuous grasp on her own identity.

Time would prove that they all had miscalculated her. Unknown to him, and the others, she had been watching, absorbing, learning as the patriarch of the Crawford family, Charles Senior, appointed the eldest son as heir apparent to the family throne. She agonized as this ill-considered decision ended in tragedy and the rather predictable suicide of her eldest brother. All knew that Charles Junior, or Chuck, would break under the weight of this familial obligation. He was a poet, not a ruthless businessman. Kat remained closest to the eldest sibling while the twins in the middle had fled the family tensions in one way or the other, Chris to England and Kristen (or Kay) to a brutal medical career as an ER doctor in Chicago’s busiest public hospital. Kat remained physically close to the family and thus could see the Greek tragedy play out to its inevitable denouement. Inside, she seethed at the man she felt bore the true responsibility of Chuck’s suicide. Even the normal aspect of her father’s demeanor, his easy arrogance, grated her sensibilities, often repelling her outright. To her mind, it was as if Charles Senior had put a gun to her sweet brother’s head and blown his own son’s brains against the wall. The shock of Chuck’s passing did something to what had early on been a shy, retiring girl…the one whom seldom left a footprint in the family drama. After her eldest brother’s demise, Katerina ‘Kat’ Crawford emerged from her cocoon, rallied the remainder of her family around her and then seized control of the family enterprise. Chris had watched in amazement. He knew his younger sister much better these days. Her accomplishments no longer surprised him. One thing was certain: he knew that this would not be a casual call. Of that, Chris was sure.

No, Chris responded, not a bad time at all. Just pursuing truth as usual, you know, unraveling the secrets of the universe to expose the face of God. He chuckled inside at his clever turn of words which, he admitted to himself, he had stolen from his favorite television show: The Big Bang Theory. There never is a bad time for you, I can always wait until this afternoon to solve the world’s most perplexing conundrums. Chris’s weak witticism evoked a laugh on the other end of the line, which relaxed him. Still, he wanted to confirm his quick assessment. So, I take it that nothing is wrong.

Her tone remained light. If it were something awful, I would have an underling call. I delegate all crap to my lackeys these days.

Bullshit, he chuckled, knowing she would get serious in her own time. I just find it fascinating that you are still up at this hour. I thought you were an early-to-bed gal?

Not so much when Ricky is gone, nothing to go to bed for. By the way, fair warning: I got a text from him that he is headed your way, might already be there.

Too much information. Chris joked, no need to fill me in on your sex life or to ruin my day with news that I may soon have to endure my brother-in-law’s attempts at humor, always at my expense I might add.

On the topic of sex, her tone remained playful, has Amar dumped you yet?

Hah, my devoted spouse worships the very ground I walk on. Her fawning adoration sometimes embarrasses me.

Kat laughed aloud. Dear brother, if you are embarrassed, it is because you finally understand that she settled for a loser with delusional thoughts about himself.

What? He feigned shock. She’s fallen for someone else?

Oh, sweet Chris, you’ve always made me laugh. I miss that. You’re not much good for anything, but you do make me laugh.

That is me, all the gals say I am one big joke. By the way, where exactly is my favorite brother-in-law? Is he really coming to merry old England?

That is what he told me. He has been traveling abroad for a bit to make the Crawford empire even more money. Heading back now but has time for a short visit with you. She paused. Maybe that was supposed to be a surprise. In any case, you do know that he’s very talented, and not just in bed. Why in heaven’s name did he befriend a loser like you, a mystery for sure? Kat decided to switch topics before they descended into another round of good-natured insults. And Azita, how is my favorite niece?

All I can say, he now sounded rather serious, is that if anyone told me being a parent could be so rewarding, I would have tried it earlier.

Hmm, and all I can say is that if a loser like you can do it so well, maybe I should give it a try. Kat then cut off what she knew would come, his encouragement in that direction. However, there are things to do before we go there, things to do.

Chris sensed the change in her voice. Ah, to the question, finally.

Soon. First, tell me where Azita is thinking of continuing her medical studies?

I assume here, in Oxford or London. She loves it, we all love it. You don’t have to worry about being gunned down in the streets by some whacko, you know like what happens all the time in Kabul or Chicago.

Kat paused, Chris braced himself just a bit. And speaking about Chicago, or America at least, has she considered coming here for her future studies? It would be an internship next, right?

Why in God’s good name would she go over there? Chris waited for a response but heard none. He could not quite believe his sister was struggling. Shit Kat, you have an agenda, don’t you? Come on, spit it out.

Damn, can’t fool you. Guess that is why you are the Rhodes scholar.

And you can forget the flattery. I already know I am perfect. What is it, Kat?

He heard a heavy breath. Jules was here, she just left in fact. Before you ask, just let me get this out. First the bad news and then, depending on your view, the worse news. The bad news is that she and her husband are splitting, taking time off as she says. It is supposed to be temporary but my instinct as a woman…

Chris cut her off. Why the fuck didn’t she call me if there were problems? I knew nothing. Fuck, I would…

Sensing a small tirade coming, Kat broke in to stop him. Rule number one, stop with the fucks. Your talking to a lady here. Okay, forget that lady thing. Listen, she just didn’t want to bother you, she feels you have your own life now, blah, blah, blah.

Oh fu…fiddlesticks. She’s been my best friend, like since forever.

Time to pull the ego in, kiddo, she hasn’t even told Ricky yet and he’s her goddamn brother. And don’t you go blabbing to him when he gets there, she wants to break it to him when he returns from across the pond. These things happen, there is no great drama as far as I can see. Frankly, I doubt the spark was ever there, not like you and her. Kat stopped, realizing her error. Erase that. It has been a long day.

It’s okay. After all, she is the one that turned me down, more than once. Goddamn it to hell. And don’t say a goddamn word about my expletive, it made me feel better. Okay, there is worse news you say? Mother is still okay, isn’t she? Chris momentarily panicked.

Mother is fine, never been happier. This is a big picture issue. Remember when we fought the proxy fight and wrested control from Father?

How could I forget? Your finest hour.

Perhaps. Anyways, we thought he would fight like mad to get control back. And he did, for a while. There were law suits and we knew he was contacting major stock holders. But then he seemed to back off. That bothered me for a long time. Why? Why would this man who always went for the jugular seem to give up, apparently just walk away?

And the answer is…?

Simple really. He was still making tons of money after I took over, maybe even more because I took over. Then he realized something, I think. Why waste time fighting us when he could spend his time doing what he really wants to do?

Like abuse his children - has he tried to rape you again?

I suppose but in a different way, a way he can hurt us all, and by that I really mean all of us…everyone. He is all in on his right-wing crap, not just as an old man’s hobby but in a very, very dangerous way. And that is where Jules comes in again. You probably know that she continued to climb the ladder in the fascinating world of communications and what passes as journalism these days, from just being a smart and pretty thing reading the news to someone doing hard-hitting investigatory stories. I suppose I am somewhat at fault here, but I put a bug in her ear about Father, his causes and some leads into his money and connections to all these right-wing nut cases. She started running with it from there. Tonight, she came back with some feedback…and the separation thing.

I am almost afraid to ask.

It is still early, but she’s focusing on this Trump phenomenon. I know what you are going to say, that clown doesn’t have a chance. Sure, I know where all the smart money is but let me tell you, never underestimate just how moronic the typical American voter is. You know this better than anyone, the angst among the working class, stagnating wages and fewer opportunities, fears about rising competition from minorities and immigrants, automation and globalization demons everywhere. Bits and pieces are drifting in that some big money is going to his cause, or at least in support of his case. Not surprisingly, they are dropping big bucks on the usual Hillary is a serial killer crap. But they are also throwing money to 3rd party candidates like Jill and the insurgency of Bernie. If he sneaks in as the Dems’ candidate, they will bury his ass so deep that the average voter will think he is Lenin’s grandson. They see final victory here. And there is a lot of cyberspace chatter, misinformation and trolls working to sow discontent among the center and left. We think they are beginning to try out cyber-tactics for the upcoming general election.

"Wait, who is they?" he asked.

Not sure yet but there is a lot of foreign traffic, much from Russia. Jules mentioned the FSB and GRU.

Shit, Chris whispered aloud, FSB is the new KGB and GRU is their military intelligence.

See, you know this stuff. Kat responded, This is very serious, very professional hackers, but why and for whom? This is all very sketchy now, but I sent you an email with an attachment. It has some more details. Money, vicious attack tactics, control of voting protocols like voter suppression and gerrymandering. They have been at this for several decades now and they can taste it. This is bigger than Father, but I never would have paid as much attention if it were not from him.

All this from Jules?

Well, I don’t want to say much now but Beverly is snooping around.

Chuck’s widow? What?

Yup, do you know any others? Hmm, with your past, you might, but hookers are never named Beverly I bet.

Hah, hah! he managed.

She cut him off. More on all the details about the snooping later. For now, I think your native land, and you must admit that America is still your native land, is facing a huge crisis. The right is poised to take over.

I have never been a conspiracy-theory type but even I can see that. Still, why go with a buffoon like Trump? Why not someone with a brain?

You nailed it without realizing it, in part at least. Many of the true believers behind the scenes, not the ignorant base, but the big players, want him precisely because he is dumber than a bag of rocks. It will be just like Cheney with Bush the younger, that kid wasn’t smart enough to see where he was being led. The movers behind the scenes think they can lead Trump wherever they want and some of these characters are frightening. Check out Miller and Bannon, their pedigree will curl your pubic hair. And Putin would love Trump to advance his agenda. If the rumors are true, they own his family jewels. There are backroom loans, money laundering, sex tapes, and God knows what that they can use to get leverage over his silly ass.

My God, you’re right. Trump is the perfect unwitting Russian asset, too stupid to know that he is being played. Still, that is a dangerous game, Chris insisted. I mean, sometimes an asshole you think you have in your pocket gets to the top and suddenly starts thinking about what is best for the country or, in this case, himself. Damn, if this guy is as deranged as he seems, why worry? I mean, why worry just because he is a stone-cold sociopath who only adores money and his own penis? Want to know my greatest fear? He doesn’t know how dumb he is, which is very dangerous. That shit-for-brains could do crazy shit thinking he knows more than anyone else. I have heard business people I respect talk about him, not pretty at all. I am positive you have heard the same stories.

Kat emitted a very tiny chuckle. Of course. You would think that would be a problem with most, but many on the right believe they will have his balls totally in a vice. He will have no wiggle room. That asshole has more skeletons in his closet than an anatomy professor in a medical school. The real danger, as I see it, is that you are spot-on right.

Really, and you are admitting it?

Yes, about him being an idiot. He is so dumb and yet he doesn’t realize it. My God, he believes himself to be a genius; how could anyone be so blind? Like you, I have chatted with quite a few business peers who know him well. Besides being your basic conman, he endorses some economic ideas that would get him flunked out of econ 101.

Oooh, cleverly put but never forget that Von Papen and Hindenburg underestimated Hitler. They thought he was a clown that could be controlled. Chris wasn’t sure he wanted to get deep into this but sensed there was no escape. Still, he tried a weak deflection. And when did you start talking like a longshoreman?

My vocabulary improved when I started butting heads with sharks in the business world. Remember how you always said they were a sorry-ass bunch? Well, you were right, more correct than even you knew. Just listen now, okay? Forget his women and his bankruptcies and his stiffing of creditors and workers, he probably will lie and bully his way past that stuff. However, there’s another concern festering just out of sight. This guy is toxic to American banks. He now shops overseas for capital, like Deutsche Bank, but really is keeping afloat with help from the Russians in particular. These Red oligarchs know he is a terrible business risk, so why back such a loser? Again, not a great mystery. They are making a big bet that he can win the brass ring. Think how great for Putin to have his man in the White House. And don’t say no way. If Americans could figure out their self-interest, we would not see today’s Republican party in charge of Congress or running most states. Look at the worst states economically, they are all deep red. Kansas went big for right-wing orthodoxy and have wrecked their economy. They need to close schools early and eviscerate the most basic of services. It is a total mess. But people don’t get it. They will probably reelect the same assholes.

Chris interjected as if struck by a thought. I am beginning to get one thing. As you were talking, I struggled with the notion of Father working in concert with Russia. How would that be possible? He so hated the Reds. But, of course, they are no longer communists but an oligarchy of the uber-wealthy. They don’t have democracy but that is not what he wants either. He is in love with control. And that is what Putin is about most of all: an authoritarian with the state and corporate interests intertwined…the very definition of a fascist state.

Kat chuckled again. You do realize you answered your own question?

Of course, who better? Anyways, I always teach that the far right and left have much more in common than the extremes have with the center. The extremes are different sides of the same coin. It is a little like magnetic poles flipping left and right - or is it up and down? Okay, I’m now convinced of my own brilliance.

Kat responded drily. And I always said you were slow, I apologize. The thing is that we cannot, or Jules cannot, quite get at the money flow behind all this. International finance is a swamp, more a cesspool, as you can imagine but she is working hard on it and I assigned some of my finance people to help her.

There was a pause. Then Chris asked in a more subdued voice: Is this dangerous for Jules, for you?

You think Father could lash out?

Well?

I did worry for myself after we ousted him. Kept looking over my shoulder. He is a son-of-a-bitch but…

Just a concern. I still love both of you, though you can be trying at times.

I know you do, she said in a serious tone. And you are right that I am…quite trying at times that is. By the way, I have come to love her as well…Jules that is. You, not so much. But she is amazing…now that I know her. In the old days, she struck me as just another pretty face with a great body. Now I can see what lies underneath - amazing. Guess I am repeating myself.

Same with her brother, Ricky?

No, he is just a gorgeous hunk with a great body. When Kat paused, Chris thought to himself that she had arrived at a conclusion. Okay, here it is. What is the chance you can come back home?

For a visit, no problem.

Yes and no, Kat said slowly. I do want you back this summer, so we can talk more at length. But I am thinking of getting you back here on a more permanent basis, with the whole family. Maybe not forever but what we are talking about could be a long struggle. Chris, it is the future of the country, the world. The right today controls the Republican party and they are, how should I put it…?

Bat-shit crazy? As Chris finished her thought, he wondered for a moment if he had heard her correctly. When her bottom line had come, it had still surprised him even as he realized that was exactly where her narrative had been heading from the start. Kat, I have been here in England forever, I am becoming a British citizen. I have set down roots, finally.

I know all that, Chris. I stared at the phone for half an hour before calling. Hell, I started and stopped more than once. I damn well know what I’m asking. I wouldn’t have if I did not think it was so important. I need you, Jules needs you. For Christ’s sake, the damn country needs you. Whatever you are doing for the world will be negated if these people get total control. Just think of the damage the far right could do to the economy, the international order, the environment, global warming, the safety net, inequality and opportunity - the list of potential disasters is endless. Have you ever heard Trump on protectionism? He could plunge the world into another depression that would make the Great Depression look like a mild dip into economic insanity.

I know, Chris breathed weakly.

Do you? Kate barked. Make no mistake, the nativists see where we are going if they don’t seize total control: white America will lose control in a generation or so and they just cannot permit that to happen. They are going all in. Their venality knows no bounds. Their paranoia is palpable. This is not politics as usual, this could be a fascist takeover and an end to the world as we know it. If you think I exaggerate, listen to some of Trump’s speeches, straight out of the early 1930s Nazi playbook.

Kat, you are beginning to sound like me back in college, even the foul language.

Goddamn it, don’t patronize me. I am fucking serious here. Then, as if she had heard herself. Maybe you’re right on the language thing.

Chris toyed just for a moment about another comment on her use of colorful language before deciding that would not be wise. Kat, I am not going to say no out of hand. I have worried about these very things myself. But it will take some time for me to think things through. Things are getting so settled for me. This…this will require time. Besides, it involves more than just me. No promises but I am listening, I am hearing you.

Thank you. That is all I can ask for now. Chris, I know what I’m asking. You once told me that the best thing about doing what you did, or your people did, is that they provided helpless people with everything. There is no better feeling than that, you told me. I am not sure I can take them, Father and his allies that is, on by myself. There are other business types who share this apocalyptic vision, but we need someone to keep the oppositional glue together, not a known political operative but someone like…you. I hate to say this, but you have credibility. Many of them know you, have given you money. Best of all, you make them laugh as well. You are just so…disarming. I hate admitting this, but I need you, we need you. I suppose I am asking for at least as much as you provide to others, I am begging you for everything.

Chris winced at her subtle cut. I get it, Kat. I do. Let me noodle all this, whatever can be worked out, if anything, will take a while.

That I understand. And Chris?

Yeah?

Keep this close for a while, alright, just family? Well, I better get some sleep. I reenter the corporate war in the morning.

Kat, before you go…I do love when you beg.

You are such a shit. But he could hear a small chuckle.

Goodbye.

Wait! he cried out.

Yeah?

Chris took a big breath. You never cease to amaze me.

Ah. Now he clearly heard a tiny chuckle from his sister. Be still my beating heart, my life is now complete.

He smiled momentarily as the connection was lost but that did not last long. He flipped on his email, and there indeed was a message from Kat with an attachment, likely written by Jules but unsigned. He glanced through the material just to get a general feel for it before settling back in his chair. He would read it more carefully later but the sense of it had already moved him.

Shit! he said to no one in particular.

Standing, he looked out over the quadrangle below. He was just high enough to glimpse the far countryside. He loved this place, the university and the town and even the country. From his mother, he had learned that he was not supposed to like the British. Since the days of Cromwell, if not before, they had done unspeakable things to his Irish ancestors. The English overlords had done everything they could to root out and destroy Catholicism and what they saw as the evil residue of the Celtic culture. Even amid the Great Famine of the late 1840s, the absentee landlords shipped off food stuffs to foreign markets for profit as three to four million natives died or emigrated. They offered soup and bread to those that would convert to the Church of England. Few did, the faithful embraced their religion and their culture with ever greater fervor. The Irish were driven even deeper into their cultural obsession.

Apparently, he had forgiven the English for all their ancient sins. He loved the life that he had discovered here, his family, his eclectic but rewarding career that included academic, literary, and consulting components. He was comfortable yet stimulated. It was a perfect world. Then a scene from a movie crowded in on him, from the Godfather trilogy. Was it Pacino or De Niro? Why couldn’t he keep those two actors straight? In any case, by the third film the protagonist thought he had finally escaped his gangster legacy and gone legit when he was dragged back into the family business of murder and mayhem. Chris had escaped Chicago, his culture, his family, all the hate and now…they would drag him back in.

Then it hit him: that was why Kat started with where Azita might do her internship and residency. His sister was no fool. She knew that Chris would resist coming back if his adopted daughter were staying in England. She knew how attached he had become, how much of a protector of her he remained. That was true. Memories flooded back to him, landing for the first time in the Panjshir Valley medical and refugee site where Kay had, without permission, moved to join Amar Singh, who then was only a fine doctor who worked in his program but whom he had never met in person. He did not think that his sister could put herself in a more dangerous spot than a Chicago public hospital ER. But she somehow managed it. Was she trying to find a way out of the pain, like their older sibling had? He could still recall how furious and frightened he had been as he and Karen Fisher, his assistant, had travelled to the site. You just never knew when your life was about to take a different trajectory.

Chris leaned back in his chair and forgot about the writing he intended to do that morning. Rather, he saw and smelled that day in 2001 when the helicopter landed, blowing up dust from the desolate and scorched land. Normally agreeable, he was bright with anger when no one greeted him, when he and Karen were pointed to a non-descript building. Upon entering, all that greeted him was a fetching young Afghan girl whose wide, expressive eyes melted his hostility a bit and whose excellent English, though accented, rendered him momentarily mute. The girl told him that his sister was off treating wounded children from a shelling in a nearby village with this very girl’s father. Amar, likewise, was busy dealing with victims of the same shelling at their facility. So, the girl took him on a tour. Her innocent charm and enthusiasm reached him. He could feel his resolve ebbing away. The need was so great here, the people so brave and thankful. For the first time, in truth, he knew with intimate understanding what his work was all about.

A while later, he was directed to Amar Singh, the woman he put in charge of directing the medical team but whom had, to this moment, merely been an image on his computer screen. Walking out the back of a temporary medical facility, there she stood holding a dying baby, providing comfort in the last moments of its life. He froze in place, first not wanting to trammel upon such a personal scene, then immobilized by his own feelings. He could not take his eyes off her, the one tear that coursed slowly down her cheek. What was that hollow ache suddenly inside him? He had never felt anything so intense before. Now, with time and distance, it all made so much sense. He had experienced two fundamental epiphanies in one day. He first had fallen in love with his work and then, inexplicably, he had fallen in love with a woman.

He was still sitting back in his chair, smiling, when his phone rang. He didn’t answer. He did not want to give up his reverie. After some time, he did not know how long, he finally checked the number and recognized it immediately. It was his adopted daughter, the very same wide-eyed Afghan girl who greeted him that day during the height of the last frontier holding out against the Taliban. He kicked himself for his selfishness. He always answered for her, no matter what. After all, she had led him to a deeper love of his work and to the woman who would become his wife. He listened to her voice mail and quickly exited his office.

CHAPTER 2

RADCLIFFE SQUARE

Azita Masoud was troubled. It was odd that she should feel so discomforted, one might say out of sorts. She had just finished another successful semester of medical school, once again ranking among the very best students in her class at Oxford University. It was now spring in the smallish, quaint city she had come to adore, a lovely time of year in a place that typically offered such a dreary winter climate. Moreover, she lived with her adopted family, Christopher Crawford and Amar Singh, whom she had fully embraced with great affection. More than affection, she concluded, but with as much love as she had for Pamir and Madeena, her biological parents who had been murdered by the Taliban. Even the nightmares that had visited her since her remarkable escape from war-ravaged Afghanistan had become less frequent, diminishing from nightly intrusions to periodic harassments.

Her traditional nocturnal visitations had been largely the same. She would rush through the narrow streets of a prototypical Afghan village searching for something unnamed and unnamable. The identity of the terror she simultaneously sought and yet feared could not be denied for long.

It was her parents, Pamir and Madeena, whom she had adored with a kind of unreasoned desperation. Still, her connection to her father was endless and unique. A physician, he was her role model, her deity in human form, the source of her obsession to follow in his footsteps. Like him, she would be a healer. Nothing would stop her.

But dear Pamir now was lost to her forever. She drifted back to the ancestral village in the Panjshir Valley, mourning the death of her older brother Majeeb, who had been lost in a battle with the Taliban while fighting for the Northern Alliance. As she and Deena, her sister, were out before daybreak collecting eggs for breakfast, her known world had ended abruptly. The family had escaped the Taliban and were working with total devotion against all the oppression these fanatics labored so hard to impose. Thus, the family members were targets of their rage in the days after Osama bin Laden had struck America on September 11, 2001. Being a target of these fanatics was never a good thing but became particularly dangerous after the Western powers were stirred to drive them from power for harboring bin Laden. As the Taliban’s control was threatened, the religious extremists came after the family for revenge one day. They harbored a special animosity against the Pamir clan after they had escaped their control. Important people had been humiliated.

Those moments crowded into Azita’s mind as she walked down High Street toward Radcliffe Square. She was no longer the Muslim girl who had entered Britain, an emigre from Afghanistan, at the end of 2001. Then, every sound and sight were both a delight to, and an assault on, her senses. She desperately sought the blessings of a world-class education, which was possible through Chris and Amar, and which her biological father Pamir had desperately, if wistfully, hoped to somehow provide. Yet she feared the sudden changes and wondered if she could succeed in this strange land. For a moment, her mind’s eye returned to the room at Heathrow where the immigration bureaucracy had challenged her right to enter the country. How could they think of her as a threat? But, of course, she looked exactly like any one of so many girls who had dressed as innocent children before blowing themselves up, and others, in the name of Allah. Besides, she had not possessed the proper papers.

She no longer looked like that young girl. She was a woman now, stylishly dressed in form-revealing jeans and a loose blouse that hung down below her waist and yet still managed to suggest a desirable female form underneath. Her only sartorial concession to her roots was a head covering, usually draped around her neck when in private and often, but not always, covering her head in public. Funny, she never could decide what to do. For years she would loop it over her head in public, even after she had converted mostly to Western dress to fit in. At some point, almost unconsciously, she would fail to cover herself if it were especially warm, which did not occur all that often in Britain. Now, she felt a decided tug to return to traditional costume as an expression of Islamic modesty. She thought hard, but she could not recall the rules she had used for determining which culture to embrace: the old or the new. She thought harder but could not understand this tug toward the old ways. Today, that confusion bothered her greatly. She emphatically draped the cloth over her head in the traditional manner.

Passing by St. Mary the Virgin’s chapel, she entered one of the many enclosed green areas that marked the university landscape. She particularly loved this one. It was like many others. However, in the middle of this green space was a circular structure of ancient origin, though not so old by British standards. She loved staring at this building, thinking back to the people who, so long ago, had erected such monuments in the pursuit of knowledge, or perhaps to honor long-forgotten institutional affinities. This structure embodied that encrusted ambiance of solidity and tradition. She could never forget that great minds had wandered over these grounds for centuries and now she was one of them. Then, she silently chided herself for such arrogance. She belonged, but did she? Doubt yet nipped at the corners of her confidence even after years of academic success.

Where was the man she needed most, her adored biological father Pamir? He had raised her during her years as a young girl. He had planted in her the dream of being a healer. He had nourished her desire for learning and her curiosity about the wider world. He had broadened her perspective beyond the narrow strictures that surrounded her, gently nurturing an appreciation of all people and the wisdom in most philosophies. He had even introduced her to Shakespeare and planted the possibility of studying at the same university where he had been trained as a physician. And now she was here. And he was not. How cruel is God! Immediately, she recoiled at her blasphemous thought, but her regret did not stay long. Larger doubts about her world view, the foundations of her culture, were more common these days

Her world as a young girl was in that house at the end of her frantic nightmare, the abode from where the screams emerged as she approached. She knew it but hated confirming that knowledge. She would never quite make it to the inside of that humble home in her fantastical journey. Fear and guilt kept her away in those tortured dreams. Still, she had to accept what awaited inside the structure. The Taliban had, in truth, crept toward the house that early morning when Deena, her sister, went about her normal morning chores. The family had prayed over the loss of Majeed the day before with members of Pamir’s extended family. This morning, Azita could not sleep from grief