Veiled Freedom (14 page)

From somewhere a whiff of hot oil and garlic and sizzling meat overpowered the diesel. The kitchens were working on the evening feast. Elsewhere servants were readying an upstairs suite for CS headquarters. No one had ever faulted an Afghan for hospitality, and once he'd capitulated, the minister had been effusive in his accommodation.

We can do this.

After all, despite Steve's frustration on basic principle, every statistic showed that Kabul was relatively safe. Sure, there was the occasional IED or suicide bomber like this morning. Random street crime and kidnappings were on the rise. But none of the constant insurgent attacks or rocket barrages they'd faced in Iraq.

Steve zoomed in on a scurrying movement below in the cul-de-sac. Animal or human? The cul-de-sac wasn't a solid one. The poppy palaces had gone up haphazardly on their parceled lots so that compound walls didn't actually adjoin, leaving a narrow access on either side of Khalid's property leading off into the mud-brick squalor beyond. Construction debris abandoned in that no-man's-land blocked Steve's scrutiny. Something else he was going to change.

The scurrying movement ducked behind a blast barrier. A moment later Steve spotted it farther down the row. His hand went to the M4, then dropped as a small, dark head poked cautiously above the concrete. Another flurry of movement, and now Steve had a clear view. A dirty, ragged child was crouched down outside the barriers, scooting to evade the Afghan sentries standing guard outside the perimeter wall.

The child had something in his hands, and again Steve tensed. A grenade? Insurgents had used children to carry out attacks. But as the child scribbled across the concrete with a black marker, he relaxed. Steve recognized the diagonal line. Then a curve with a dot underneath.
A
and
B
in Dari script. A dare from other kids?

The child glanced up to meet Steve's gaze, and a grin lit thin features to a flash of white. He cupped hands in the unmistakable gesture of baksheesh. Despite the grime, the kid was cute enough Steve was tempted to dig into his pocket. But he hardened his heart. Giving to a street kid was like tossing sugar to a single ant. If Steve dropped an afghani, the local currency, into those hands, there'd be a hundred such kids here tomorrow. So he shook his head firmly and stepped out of sight of that pleading gaze.

“You, get away from there, you thieving son of a dog!” The shout came from one of Khalid's militia doing sentry duty at the front gate.

The child's grin froze. Scrabbling away on all fours, he got to his feet and ran.

The sentry raised his AK-47. A terrified scream rose above the staccato of gunfire.

“Stop it!” Steve didn't waste time on the stairs but swung over the parapet, dropping lightly to the ground. His shouted command had stopped the shooting. Steve refrained from snatching the AK-47 and slapping it across the guard's face only because he'd glimpsed the child race sobbing but unhurt into the gap between compounds. “Are you crazy? You just fired on an unarmed child.”

“This area is prohibited to loiterers. There are signs.” Sure enough, the concrete barriers bore graceful Dari script the kid probably couldn't read any more than Steve. “I was not shooting to hit, only at the ground. Our orders come from the minister himself. If we do not do this, such delinquents will be everywhere like the thieving rats they are.”

“And if a bullet ricochets and hits the child? You do not shoot again unless you are being shot at.”

“But the minister—”

“I will deal with the minister.” Steve was so furious he waited a full five minutes before speaking to another human being. This was the side of Afghanistan he'd let himself forget, the side he'd come to hate. The casual cruelty despite all that surface hospitality that was almost a reflex, as though a generation or perhaps even centuries of incessant aggression had hardened these people against anything but their own survival and perhaps that of their closest family.

Steve banished a lingering image of those tearful, frightened childish features. You didn't have to like your principal or even approve of his lifestyle. You simply did the job you were paid for. And Kabul promised to be an easier gig than Basra.

Meanwhile, you didn't get personally involved. It wasn't just that saving these people from themselves was a hopeless job. As far as Steve was concerned, Afghanistan just plain didn't deserve to be saved.

The American was an easy shot, the sentries too apathetic to bother clearing out the rubble that allowed him to inch close. He'd recognized the American soldier and his companion among the infidel mercenaries. But then they all looked alike, these foreigners with the merciless brawn and stride of warriors even when they did not wear the clothing. Just like those in the prison camp. He didn't worry that he might be recognized in turn. In his gaunt frame and hollowed eyes remained no vestige of the soft-skinned, well-fed student he'd been.

Still, even if he'd had a weapon, he wouldn't have raised it. There'd been a time when he would have gladly. But he'd had too long to think, too long to determine who were the true infidels whose actions, if not words, were a blasphemy against Allah. And invaders though they were, these foreigners brought benefit to his people. As long as they were willing to pave roads and build schools and feed the hungry, let the infidels remain.

The child hadn't finished his task before being frightened off. For which he could also thank the guards, since he lacked the promised payment. He settled himself to wait. Evening darkened to full night, stars and moon dimmed by the haze of smog, the only lights twinkling above high walls where diesel generators labored, so at street level the guards across the cul-de-sac were shifting shadows against darkness.

Patience had given way to restiveness, then apprehension, before the pedestrian gate creaked open. An entire party, black silhouettes against light spilling through the open gate, moved down the cul-de-sac toward parked vehicles. One detached itself to saunter toward no-man's-land, a moving red glow marking its progress. A man out for an evening stroll, lit cigarette in hand.

He waited until the red glow moved close to announce softly, “I am here.”

The scent of cigarette smoke grew stronger. The red glow disappeared as the man cupped a hand to draw on his cigarette. Then a voice spoke quietly. “You were to have drawn the sign on this wall. Children playing—”

“I did not think you could see it. The opportunity arose—”

“Obedience is as essential as success.” A rustle marked a folded piece of paper dropping beside his prone body. “Your instructions are there. You will find what you need waiting at the marked location. I will contact you when preparations are ready. And do not ever return to this place.”

The man took another drag on his cigarette, then pivoted around to saunter back out into the cul-de-sac. He paused to commend the sentries as they sprang to open the gate. “You are performing your duties of protection most impressively. Continue on.”

Now to fill the ark—if I can ever get myself legally in this country.

Two more days had passed since Amy's arrival in Kabul before Rasheed informed Amy that the Ministry of Interior was again processing paperwork. Not that the intervening time had been wasted. From a second-story window overlooking the roofed entrance, Amy surveyed her new kingdom with a glow of accomplishment. Cantankerous misogynist Rasheed might be, but the man got things done.

If Amy's suggestion of women workers had never materialized, a wave of the chowkidar's hand had produced an army of laborers to clean, paint, and carry out debris. The front courtyard was now free of construction materials, the tiles and fountain patched. Grass would take until spring. But along the perimeter wall, workers were replacing stumps with a row of apple and cherry seedlings.

Others were up on scaffolding replacing windows. Glass was on a waiting list in the city's reconstruction boom, but Rasheed had scrounged a reasonable substitute. Amy rapped on the transparent plastic sheeting in front of her. She had insisted on one other modification that left Rasheed shaking his head. A double panel of plastic sheeting now rose above the inner courtyard's rear wall, allowing sunlight to pass through but not prying eyes. No woman inhabiting that inner sanctum was going to be asked to cover up ever.

Best of all, Rasheed had approached Amy with keys to the left half of the main wing. “No, no, the minister is not asking for greater rent. He is pleased to have tenants dedicated to helping the people of Afghanistan. It is
zakat
, charity, the third pillar of Islam.”

Her new holdings on the main wing's second floor included two living suites with functioning bathrooms and several smaller rooms. The one where Amy stood was now an office, Rasheed conjuring up desks and a filing cabinet. Below her off the entry hall were two more salons divided by a wooden partition that could be folded to create one large room. French doors at the far end revealed what lay beyond that cinder-block partition Jamil had hopped—a vegetable garden, an outdoor bread oven, and a row of rooms that were Rasheed's housing.

Amy's new keys didn't encompass the French doors, though she wouldn't in any case intrude on the chowkidar's privacy. Hamida moved back and forth to clean and serve meals through a door under the stairs in the inner courtyard.

Nor since that first day had Rasheed shown Amy less than respect.
Maybe I didn't need to hire Jamil after all.
Though if the younger Afghan hadn't proved necessary as a buffer between Amy and the chowkidar, he'd shown himself amply useful, following silently on Amy's heels to translate for Hamida or a workman, shouldering debris, or grabbing a paintbrush without prompting when Amy didn't need him.

Amy answered the shrill of a phone from her bag. “Jamil?”

“Rasheed says that it is time to go to the Ministry. Your vehicle is ready.”

“I'll be right down.” The small cell phone Amy tucked back into her bag wasn't Bruce's sat phone but a more economical local phone Rasheed had obtained. She'd planned to purchase phones as well for Jamil and Rasheed to simplify communication. But Rasheed had his own, and if Jamil had arrived with few other possessions, he'd produced a phone from the baggy folds of his tunic.

Amy checked that passport and MOI card were in her bag, then adjusted her headscarf in a decorative mirror. Dressing one's best to deal with local bureaucracy signaled respect, not ostentation, and she'd chosen the nicest of her India outfits, a soft green-blue silk embroidered with stylized flower patterns in emerald, lilac, sapphire, and ruby red glass beads and sequins. Long amethyst earrings and matching sandals completed the outfit.

Like an Arabian Nights princess.
Amy approved her reflection, then spoiled the effect by wrinkling her nose as the scarf slipped from her hair. Tightening it ruthlessly, she scooped up her bag and hurried downstairs.

“Salaam aleykum, Wajid,” Amy greeted the elderly guard as he emerged from his shack. Stepping through the gate, she stopped in surprise. Rasheed wasn't waiting at the curb with his ancient Russian jeep. Instead Jamil stood next to a yellow and white Toyota Corolla.

Amy had last glimpsed her assistant painting balcony railings, a streak of black down one cheek and two more splotching the tattered “pajamas” in which he'd arrived. But Jamil had found time to visit the bazaar with his salary advance, because he was now resplendent in sky blue shalwar kameez topped with a vest and matching cap stiff with rich embroidery. He'd bathed, too, his hair and beard still damp from washing.

Wow!
Amy tamped down the appreciative word that rose to her mind. Commenting on male appearance was undoubtedly some major cultural faux pas. Instead she asked, “Where's Rasheed? And whose car is this?”

“Rasheed ordered me to drive you to the Ministry of Interior. This vehicle belongs to his cousin who runs a taxi service in the city. But it is for sale.”