Filled with the vivid images of the shocking incident that
took place in Geneva, Abby's nightmare disturbs her. Did
it
really happen or not? Yet, the woman's body falling and
crashing into the sidewalk and the brilliant jewels
covering the bracelet on her arm are so real.
On a stopover in Dubai on her way to new job as a nurse
with the United Nations in Peshawar in Pakistan, Abby
Monroe calls her friend Emily to talk about it. A bit
turned off by the dramatic and surreal story, Emily
attempts to calm her friend by reminding Abby that she had
already been through a lot with Abby having been laid off
her job in the States, breaking up with her boyfriend Eric
and now taking Lariam, an anti-malaria drug with known side
effects.
Despite the nightmares, Abby quickly settles into her role
and enjoys the company and friendship of Najeela, the
beautiful administrative assistant for the UN staff house
where Abby stays. Soon after arriving, Abby is asked to do
an interview with Nick Sinclair, a journalist with the New
York Times. While initially put off by his style as he
baits her about her naivety to life in Pakistan, Abby
eventually begins to appreciate his company and how they
can work together in getting more of the background
stories from the women in the refugee camp; but the more
they learn, then more they come under scrutiny. Who is
tracking them? Is Najeela really as innocent as she
seems? What are her nightmares telling her? Are they in
danger, too?
From her own background as a nurse and humanitarian aid
worker, Roberta Gately brings a compelling look, through
the lens of a new UN staffer, at the impact of human
trafficking, especially on women and young girls, and the
people who profit from them. Set in the unstable and
dangerous city of Peshawar, Gately brings a strong and
authentic sense of place and human interest as the two
Americans, Abby and Nick, learn to trust each other and
join forces to investigate the harrowing stories of the
women they met at the UN camp that they want to bring to
light.
Gately is very effective at covering the complexity of
human trafficking in a straightforward and easy to read
style that just keeps you turning the pages to find out
what happens next. Abby's nightmares are integrated into
the story highlighting the post- traumatic stress people
experience after seeing and being involved in horrific
incidents as well as being an effective device for moving
the story forward. In addition to the great human interest
stories within the story, there are enough surprising
twists and revelations to make for a captivating and
suspenseful read! Enjoy!
A moving and timely novel about human trafficking—from the
author of the acclaimed debut Lipstick in Afganistan.
Boston nurse Abby Monroe and New York Times reporter Nick
Sinclair find themselves entrenched in the middle of a
human trafficking ring overseas.When Abby realizes she may
have witnessed the murder of a Pakistani woman by a high-
ranking official, she and Nick must break the story before
she becomes the next casualty.
A highly emotional and powerful story, The Bracelet
expertly navigates readers through the rich and complex
Middle Eastern cultural landscape and is an absorbing and
satisfying read.
Excerpt
Prologue
A silvery haze shrouded the streets of Geneva when Abby
set out on her early–morning run. The sky was still
dark, the air still crisp with the night's last breeze, as
she stepped from her hotel into the quiet of the street.
The doorman tipped his hat in greeting.
"Bonjour, Miss Monroe. Another run?"
"Morning, Claude. My last one here in Geneva. Tomorrow,
I'm off to Pakistan."
"Ah, good luck, miss. Enjoy your run."
Abby waved as she glanced at her watch and eased into
her morning routine. Since this would be her last run, she
wanted it to be her best. Tomorrow, she'd board a flight to
Dubai and, from there, head to a UN program in northern
Pakistan.
"No running there," she'd been warned. "Too dangerous.
Probably no time for it anyway."
Abby would be evaluating an immunization program for
UNICEF. It would be her first overseas assignment, and she
wanted to make a great impression, show that she could do
this kind of work, that she was capable and professional.
Geneva was deadly quiet this Sunday morning, and she ran
in solitude, no cars or noise or people about just yet. The
sun was just creeping over the horizon, the city still
struggling to shake off the night's long sleep. The streets
and the scenery faded from her view as she focused all her
energies on pushing forward, step after step. With every
footfall, her legs throbbed, and her heart pounded. She
wanted to stop, but in a day or a week or a month, she'd
ache for the misery she felt now, so she picked up her
pace, willing her muscles to remember this final sprint.
Abby's legs ached with the exertion but she pushed
harder, thrusting her arms out grabbing the air. She felt
her breathing ease as she crested a small hill and coasted
on a level surface. Here the street narrowed as she passed
the graceful old UN buildings. The government buildings
that had loomed large in the shadowy morning light soon
gave way to quiet residential streets bordered by trees,
hedges, and privacy gates.
She turned her attention back to the road, wishing she'd
brought her iPod. Running to the sounds of her own panting
was a distraction. She turned back toward the hotel and
found herself running along a wider street lined with
high–rise office buildings. The street, framed by the
buildings, was deserted and utterly quiet this Sunday
morning. Steam seeped from the buildings' grates and rose
lazily before evaporating in the morning air. Abby inhaled
deeply. This indefinable time, the hour between night and
day, was her favorite time to run at home. Everything was
so peaceful, and that was especially true here in Geneva.
Lost in the steady cadence of her footfalls, Abby savored
the way her body moved and felt.
Suddenly, voices raised in anger broke through the
morning hush. Abby, her senses alert, came to a full stop.
She looked around, but caught here in a street of soaring
office towers, she saw only blank walls of granite and
steel. She hesitated, the voices rising again, an urgency
spiking the sounds, and she realized they were coming from
somewhere above her. She looked up, and there, framed at
the edge of a fourth–floor balcony, a man had a woman
pinned, her back bent over the railing.
Abby's hands flew to her mouth. She was frozen to the
spot, unable to move.
Suddenly the man leaned in to the woman. Was he kissing
her? Abby couldn't tell. No, she thought, they're
struggling. The woman pulled the man's eyeglasses from his
face, and the man exploded in anger, reaching for the
woman's neck. Just then the woman let out a piercing
scream, and even from the street Abby could feel her
terror. She looked around, desperate for help, for someone
to stop whatever was happening. But this was a business
district and the streets were empty, no buses or delivery
trucks, not even a dog walker in sight. The woman screamed
again, her arms flailing at the man. Was she pushing him
away? With a twist, the woman seemed to free herself from
his grasp.
A gout of steam a sidewalk grate stung Abby's eyes, and
she blinked away tears. When she opened her eyes, she
gasped in horror—the woman was plunging through the
air.
Everything seemed to happen then in slow motion, and
Abby's heart pounded as she watched helplessly. The woman
would fall directly onto concrete—there was no
padding, no soft ground, nothing to break her fall.
Panicked and helpless, Abby heard her own scream, but it
was lost in the sudden whoosh of air as the woman hurtled
past and landed just in front of her with a sickening thud.
Abby was paralyzed. She closed her eyes and tried to rub
away the image, but when she opened them, the woman's body
was lying at an impossible angle, her neck twisted and
broken. Abby edged closer and bent to the shattered form.
She leaned over the body, and though her hands trembled
wildly, she felt the woman's neck, checking instinctively
for a pulse. Of course there was none. The woman's olive
skin was laced with cuts and bruises, and blood seeped out
from beneath her head. Abby reached her hand gently under
the woman's head and felt a large depression—her
skull was shattered. Bits of gray matter leaked onto the
street. The woman had landed on her back, her arms thrown
out, her legs broken and bent, her face still contorted in
fear, blood oozing from her ears and nose. One bloody wrist
was adorned by thin, brightly colored bangles, and the
other bore an ornate and intricately jeweled cuff bracelet.
In her hand, she clutched a pair of splintered and
shattered eyeglasses, the wire cutting into her skin. The
woman's long black hair, splattered now with blood, spilled
around her, framing her face. Her clothes, loose and
colorful like so many of the exotic dresses Abby had seen
at the UN, were stippled with blood. Abby leaned over the
woman's chest and listened for any breath sounds. But there
was nothing. She was dead, already beyond CPR.
Abby sat back on her heels and tried to think of what to
do. She was a pediatric nurse, but she knew traumatic death
when she saw it. The woman's bracelet sparkled in the
streetlight's glow, and though Abby wanted to look away,
she found herself riveted by the flashing gems.
"You!" A menacing voice cut through the quiet, and Abby
looked up to see the man who'd thrown the woman. He was
leaning far over the balcony, his hands planted firmly on
the ledge. He teetered there for only an instant. "Don't
move!" he shouted, and Abby rose and stepped away from the
body.
"You!" he called again. "Stay there—I'm coming
down!"
Abby's heart thumped wildly, and her eyes scanned the
street. Surely, someone had heard the commotion, but the
street remained empty, making the quiet seem all the more
sinister.
Where was everyone? She had to get help. She stepped
back and looked warily around. Should she run? Should she
hide? She couldn't think. There wasn't time. She wouldn't
get far out in the open. She hurriedly looked for a place
to hide. A row of full, unclipped hedges bordered the
building just to her left, and she pushed her way through
them to a spot low against the wall. She crouched low,
pressed against the granite, willing herself to be
invisible.
She huddled and waited, and then he appeared in the
doorway, looking around, his head twitching as his eyes
scanned the street. Abby watched as he bent over the body,
pulling at something on the woman. Suddenly he stood and
turned. Abby pushed herself against the old building and
watched through the tiny gaps in the lush shrubbery. She
tried to memorize the details of him—his slight
build, the soft woolen sweater in a charcoal hue, the
thinning gray hair. The man hesitated, then walked right
toward the hedges where Abby hid. She held her breath and
her thoughts raced. Did he see her? Surely he could hear
the pounding of her heart. The street was still empty,
Geneva was not yet awake. Even if she screamed, no one
would hear her cries for help.
His footsteps drew closer. She held her breath and
prayed for the pounding in her heart to stop. . . .
Abby crouched lower and watched as, inexplicably, he
walked right past the shrub where she cowered. He hadn't
seen her after all. She listened as his footsteps faded and
moved away. Abby squinted and kept him in her line of sight
as he peered up and down the street, searching, she was
certain, for her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out
a cell phone, furiously punching in numbers. He turned
then, and almost facing her, he spoke into the phone, his
tone urgent and forceful.
"Allez, allez!" he barked. "Tu comprends?" He scratched
at his head, his eyes locking then on the body in the
street, and almost in response his voice rose, a swelling
anger evident in his tone. "Immédiatement!" he shouted,
turning abruptly. Abby watched as he headed back to the
building, his footsteps fading, his silhouette lost in a
sudden surge of steam from the grates. He disappeared into
the building from which he'd just emerged.
Abby didn't hesitate. This might be her only chance to
escape, and she sprang to her feet, pushing through the
hedges before taking flight, running madly through the
streets and back to her hotel. After what seemed an
eternity, she spied the smiling Claude at the door.
Panting, she almost fell into him.
"Oh, miss, slow down. You've had a good run?"
"Oh, Claude, call the police!" Abby gasped for
air. "Something terrible's happened."
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