Veiled Freedom (20 page)

“It is better conversation than your ex-wives.” Elsa snagged the margarita from Peter's hand before turning back to Amy. “I will certainly mention progress. Still, my report will not be completely positive. Those women who work for a Western organization are most fortunate because they bring valuable income to their families. But then they are of the educated class, so their families are more enlightened. For the rest—”

She shrugged. “What good does it do to build girls' schools when a majority of fathers still do not permit them to attend? to remove the burqa from some small part of the population when women as young as seven or eight are still forced into marriage? when the abuse within their own homes is not addressed?”

“Yes, I wanted to ask about that,” Amy said. “I visited the women's prison this afternoon with Debby Martini. It was a bit of a shock. I understand you can't change cultural attitudes overnight. But it's been years since the Taliban were tossed out. With democratic elections and a new constitution, one would think at minimum the current justice system could refuse to arrest women on such ridiculous charges.”

“Unfortunately there is little that can be done,” Elsa said. “As long as
sharia
law makes women the property of their male relatives, these prisoners are legally criminals. At least these days they are only sent to jail, not whipped or executed.”

“Sharia law?” Amy's brows knit together.

“The Islamic legal code,” Elsa explained. “Sharia is the basis of law in all Muslim countries.”

“No, I know what sharia law is.” Amy's hands clenched in her lap, indication of a shock and bewilderment she hoped didn't show on her face. “Forgive my ignorance, but I wasn't aware Afghanistan was under sharia law. Wasn't the whole point of a new Afghan constitution to guarantee basic human rights?”

“It's not so bad.” Peter took a long swallow of beer. “From what I've read, the new Afghan constitution includes the International Bill of Rights.”

“Yes, where those rights do not contradict sharia,” Elsa retorted. “The two are not always compatible.”

“Now wait a minute.” Peter looked bored. “If Afghanistan chooses sharia law, that's what we call democracy, isn't it? I mean, they did have elections.”

“And now you see why we do not permit office talk on Thursday nights.” Draining the margarita, Elsa pushed back her chair. “I am off to the UN open house. Are you still offering me an escort, Peter?”

Peter raised his remaining beer. “No, I've got a little more business here.”

“I can see that,” Elsa replied. “Then I will look for a companion who will not fall flat on his face in the street.”

As Elsa headed through the French doors, Amy turned to scan the garden. Had Debby Martini arrived while she'd been distracted? No, still no sign of the New Yorker.

Nor was she among a new influx of people spilling out onto the veranda. But one tall figure in khaki shirt and pants striding across the garden caught Amy's eye. She couldn't place his vague familiarity until she realized that the difference was an absence of body armor and weapons.

Was it business or play that brought private security contractor Steve Wilson to Amy's lodging?

The guesthouse was more crowded than Steve had expected. Well, there was one quick way to locate his contact. Flipping open his cell phone, Steve hit Redial.

Under a thatched shelter, a Hawaiian shirt at an outdoor bar raised a hand to his ear.

Flipping the phone shut, Steve headed through the celebrating mass. He spotted a flaxen head at a table on the veranda, his lips twitching as he took in the long sleeves and dress. But he approved of the proud lift of that small, determined chin, the straight-backed poise that announced she wasn't out of place.

Amy Mallory's got backbone. Maybe she'll make it after all.

The Hawaiian shirt, cell phone still in hand as Steve reached the open-air bar, was big and blond with the packed muscle of a regular workout regimen. Definitely PSC.

“Jason Hamilton? Steve Wilson.”

“Ah yes, Condor Security,” the DynCorp country manager said. “So you've got the new Khalid detail. You wanted to discuss joint ops.”

“That's right. Khalid is hosting a delegation of provincial police chiefs over at MOI as we speak. I'm sure you're aware the place is as leaky as a sieve. You've got expat training personnel and police recruits in and out of the place. I'm guessing they can use field experience, and we could sure stand to tighten security over there. And anywhere else Khalid goes. He
is
their ultimate boss.”

“I'm sure we can work something out.” Jason raised his voice over the music blasting from two waist-high speakers at either end of the bar. “I'll put you in contact with our security people.”

“And I'm told you have K-9s.” Steve raised his own voice higher. “I'd like to turn a couple loose on the ministry building. If you've got extras, I'd give a lot to kennel a team up at Khalid's residence.”

“That's another contract. I'd have to talk to the trainers. If I'm not mistaken, they're running a demonstration over there tonight for your police chiefs—” Jason broke off as his phone vibrated on the bar counter. Snapping it open, he listened, then shook his head. “I can't hear a thing in here. If you'll excuse me, I'll be back as soon as I take this.”

As the DynCorp manager stepped away from the thatched shelter, Steve commandeered an empty barstool. His gaze found Amy across the garden. What was it about that flaxen head, the particular tilt of that determined chin? Something was nagging at him, had nagged since the first time he'd seen her on the plane. And not just because she was an attractive young woman.

The older woman he'd noted at the table had left, leaving Amy alone with her final companion. A man, chair pulled close, head bent intimately above hers. Then she wasn't as friendless here as Steve had thought.

“So,
mi amor
, what is it you do here in Kabul?”

Steve turned his head to meet a coy smile. An attractive brunette in a bikini slid a shapely body onto the next stool. Steve glanced around for his contact. The DynCorp manager had finished his phone conversation, but instead of heading back toward Steve, he was moving swiftly through the crowd toward the French doors. Something somewhere was going down.
And whatever it is, it's not my gig!

A long nail ran gently up Steve's forearm, the invitation unmistakable.

But Steve didn't even turn his head, his survey caught on its return swing by that cameo duo beyond the pool. “Sorry, lady, I don't speak Spanish.” He got to his feet, jaw clenched and mouth compressed to a hard line. Ignoring a disappointed pout, he pushed with furious strides through the crowd.

Amy had noticed the bikini snuggling up to Steve Wilson.
Typical,
she'd dismissed in the fury of her own thoughts. In the short time since her arrival, twilight had set in. The dust that so plagued Kabul residents had in recompense caught the failing light to create one of the most spectacular sunsets Amy had ever seen. Though Amy's gaze had shifted to flaming pinks and oranges laced with pale green and mauve streaks, her hands didn't ease in her lap.

“So it's down to you and me.”

Amy hadn't heard Peter's chair scraping closer. The arm sliding around her shoulders was an unpleasant surprise. She couldn't turn her head because that would put her in contact with that slurred voice. A hand squeezing her shoulder was damp and hot even through the silk material.

She spoke impersonally. “If you don't mind, Peter, I'd appreciate it if you'd move back a bit.”

“Why so unneighborly? We Yankees should be sticking together. Believe me, I can be
very
good company.”

As his hand slid down to her arm, Amy took in with disgust the gold of a wedding band. “I'm going to do you a favor and assume this is too much beer talking. But if you don't remove your hand and move away, I'm going to scream.”

“Now we wouldn't want to make a scene, would we?”

If that hot, rank breath didn't remove itself from her ear, Amy wasn't sure she was going to be able to resist that scream. “I don't know about ‘we,' but
I
have no problem making a scene.”

“And neither do I.”

The grim declaration punctuated the abrupt removal of Peter's unwelcome bulk. Amy looked up to see Steve Wilson. He not only had removed Peter from contact with Amy but had him on his feet, and if the mineralogist was heavier, the security contractor was taller and strong enough that Peter's attempts to twist away were not proving successful.

“Your party's over—” Steve grabbed the man's wallet and flipped through it with his free hand—“Peter Dunsmore. When I let you go, you're going to head for the door, find your driver, get yourself home, and sleep it off.”

“For your information, I live here.” Peter stopped struggling, but his glare was belligerent. “The lady and I are just having a little—”

“The lady isn't interested.” Steve's interjection had the sharpness of a whip. “And may I suggest you pack up and find other lodging? If you don't head out, I'll let site security take over, and then it'll be official, not this friendly little conversation. Somehow I doubt your company hands out awards for getting drunk and tossed out on your ear for making a pass at a lady.”

The image obviously penetrated Peter's sodden imagination because when Steve released him, he snatched back his wallet and with a final glare lurched across the veranda.

“That wasn't necessary.” Amy was on her feet. “I didn't need to be rescued. I could have handled him.”

Steve studied Amy. Then the jawline eased and the firm mouth relaxed into the amused quirk Amy had come to recognize as the security contractor's version of a smile. “I know,” he said unexpectedly. “But you shouldn't have to. I just figured taking the guy out quietly might suit you better than having to scream your head off. But do forgive me if I've deprived you of that pleasure. You want an apology, you've got one. Or I can go invite him back, if you prefer.”

He had a point, Amy admitted unwillingly. “Of course you don't need to apologize. I appreciate your discretion. I just don't want you to get the idea I run around needing to be rescued on a regular basis.”

His laugh transformed the stern features, making them much younger than Amy had first thought him, not so many years older than herself, and for the first time Amy understood the attraction that had drawn the bikini like a bee to a dessert cart.

“The thought hadn't even crossed my mind,” Steve said dryly. “Actually, I was thinking I'd have hardly recognized you.” His gaze left Amy's face to rest on embroidered silk and amethyst sandals. “You look—”

“Out of place?” Amy's nose wrinkled ruefully. “You don't have to tell me. I just can't seem to get the dress code right.”

“Not at all. You look—well, certainly more appropriate to local weather conditions than—” Steve glanced toward the bar area. “You know, I've been wanting to ask, have we ever crossed paths before?”

He's floundering.
The incongruity of it humanized the tall, formidable contractor, and Amy laughed. “I'm going to assume you weren't referring to the plane or dragging me out of downtown Kabul, or that's got to be the worst pickup line I've ever heard. And no, I think I'd remember if we'd met elsewhere. I've got one of those faces, I guess. Blondes do all look alike and all that.”

“That didn't come out so well, did it? I'm afraid I'm a little rusty at the social thing. Here, let me start over. Hi, Amy. I'm Steve. Glad you could make it this evening. You and that silk whatever-it's-called look absolutely stunning tonight.” He grinned.

At least he could poke fun at himself. “And it's a pleasure to see you again, Steve,” Amy said, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I just love what you've done with your own look. I hardly recognized you without body armor and a gun.”