Veiled Freedom (32 page)

Steve preceded Khalid cautiously down the steps. Though he'd no real interest in this operation beyond his own principal's safety, he blinked in stunned appreciation. There had to be a thousand kilo bricks of opium down here, while burlap bags of hashish extended down the tunnel from floor to man-high ceiling as far as Steve could see.

“There's way too much to consider removing into evidence,” DEA chief Placido said. “The value alone would draw Tallies like flies if we tried to convoy all this overland. My suggestion is that it be destroyed on the spot.”

“Yes, yes,” Khalid agreed. He turned to the CNN reporter. “And you will film it so that all the world will know it has indeed been destroyed and not removed to sell elsewhere.”

It took some time for additional C-4 and explosives to be requisitioned from the PRT base. Back on the safe retreat of the rise, the cameraman made satisfied noises beside Steve as the blast ripped a trench in the ground at least a hundred feet long.

Before the dust settled, Khalid addressed the cameraman's mike. “The largest seizure Afghanistan has ever seen. . . . The MOI will set the example in ending the hold corruption and drug dealing has taken on this beautiful country. . . . The rich and powerful will not be spared. . . . The burning stench of this poison has reached the portals of Allah himself to cry out for justice.”

Behind Khalid, the camera angle offered potential TV audiences a spectacular view of black billows from smoldering opium and hashish as well as the orange, green, and purple monstrosity of Dilshod's poppy palace.

The CNN reporter was nodding respectful approval of the minister's extravagant statements.

And why not?
Steve demanded of himself. Despite Dilshod's escape, these last three weeks had been every bit the triumph Khalid had promised. In nine raids, a dozen major opium kingpins had been rounded up along with scores of minor arrests. Even without this last haul, opium seizures had stacked up to over two thousand kilos by Steve's running count.

Maybe Khalid really is the guy who can turn the MOI and this whole big mess around. In fact, with a few more like him, there just might be hope for this country.

All in all, Steve felt more approving of his former ally and client than he had in years.

“Did you give out any information?” Amy demanded anxiously.

Hitching his dusty AK-47 higher on his shoulder, Wajid scratched at his beard, expression baffled.

Amy realized she'd spoken in English and switched to simple Dari. “The man who spoke to you, did you tell him about the women who live here?”

The elderly guard shook his head. “I told the man what I know. Women live here as in any dwelling. They are respectable women who keep their faces covered in my presence. So I do not know their faces. Nor their names. Only the foreign woman Ameera.”

Amy now had an idea of what had spooked Aryana. A man had knocked on the gate after Amy and the others left for the neighborhood outreach yesterday, Wajid was just now bothering to inform Amy. He'd asked for a woman he claimed to be a runaway female relative. Had Aryana spotted a face she knew loitering along the street while she'd been helping load the truck?

“And you don't remember a name? Or what the man said she looked like?”

Unlike Farah and some of the others, Aryana had kept her burqa firmly over her face when she'd stepped outside with a load, so Amy wasn't concerned the man could have actually identified the young woman. But the fact that anyone was making inquiries was worrisome. The Welayat bureaucracy wasn't supposed to release where their former prisoners had taken shelter, but Amy was under no illusions the information couldn't be bought at the right price.

“He gave no description, and I did not listen to names since I told him I knew nothing.” Wajid looked agitated, so Amy desisted from further questions.

“Thank you. You did right. But next time please do not give them my name either.” Ameera was not the name by which officialdom knew the New Hope country manager, so hopefully the guard's slip wouldn't be a problem. “And tell me right away if anyone asks about our people.”

Turning to Rasheed, who'd brought her Wajid's report, Amy switched with relief from laborious Dari to English. “Unless he comes back, I guess we won't really know if this man was after Aryana or anyone else here. Either way I'm concerned about our security, especially if there's the slightest chance info is being leaked to family members. How long would it take to get some concertina wire on top of the perimeter wall? Maybe a second guard? Or even a guard dog?”

“A dog is an unclean animal,” Rasheed said. “And marking the property with such defenses as the foreigners use announces to all who pass by that inside are rewards worth pursuing. It would draw thieves like flies. Would it not be simpler to talk with such men as came yesterday and find out what they seek? If there is a father or brother willing to take custody of this Aryana or any woman receiving shelter here, is it not their right and duty to do so?”

Amy had started walking back with Rasheed from the gate to the main house. Now she stopped to stare at him. “I couldn't allow that. The whole idea of New Hope is to give these women a sanctuary so they won't have to go back to family situations where they're mistreated. Certainly not against their will. Besides, Aryana is a widow, and it's her brothers-in-law she's afraid of, not blood relatives.”

Rasheed looked down at Amy as though she'd materialized from another planet. “It is not for a woman to raise her will against the men of her family. Nor is it for outsiders to interfere with proper discipline within a family. If Aryana is a widow, the law is clear. She belongs to her husband's family, and one of her husband's brothers must take her as wife. Islam does not permit that zakat, charity, be wasted on those not truly in need.”

Amy breathed deeply to quell the anxiety beginning to squeeze at her stomach. As evenly as she could muster, she answered, “I certainly don't want to disrespect your country's law. But your MOI gave New Hope permission to run this shelter, and I've given my word to these women that they'll be safe here. So I hope you understand I must insist we get some security procedures into place. Not just to protect their physical well-being but their identities and whereabouts. If even one of these women comes under threat, none of them are going to feel safe living here. If I have to, I'll move our entire operation elsewhere before I let that happen.” It wasn't a challenge Amy had any wish to carry through.

Rasheed was still staring at Amy, but she could no longer read his expression. Then he shrugged. “You concern yourself without reason. A runaway wife is a matter of honor, but these women have already received judgment and been punished for their crimes. What respectable family would wish for their return?”

A majority opinion in Afghanistan, no doubt. But Amy hadn't forgotten Debby's earlier warning about Aryana. It might not be the woman's return or a second marriage her in-laws were after.

“I am chowkidar, not owner,” Rasheed continued. “I cannot make changes to the property without proper authorization.”

An issue he'd never raised on any of Amy's past requests. “So I should contact the owner about the security?”

“Khalid is not in Kabul at this time,” the chowkidar answered indifferently. “In any case, the minister is an important man and busy. He does not deal with such matters as properties and rent. It is his deputy Ismail through whom all arrangements have been made.”

“Where can I find Ismail?”

Another shrug. “You do not need to concern yourself. If you insist on this, I will speak to Ismail myself as soon as there is opportunity.”

And with that Amy had to content herself. But the tension didn't leave her stomach as she returned to the upstairs office. Soraya was at her computer, still looking exhausted and unhappy but clearly intent on making up for lost time.

When Fatima arrived this morning, she had hurried to find Amy. “Please forgive me. I forgot to inform you that a cousin died on Friday and my—yes, my cousin Soraya was needed to help with the funeral.” Fatima had avoided Amy's eyes, and Amy chose not to press the matter.

At Amy's desk, Jamil was bent over her laptop, where the two of them had been picking through digital video clips. Always withdrawn, today he added agitated and restless.

What a gloom fest.
In the wall mirror Amy caught her own tired face and puffed eyes.
Yeah, and I'm such a ray of sunshine.

Picking up the week's chore list, Soraya headed downstairs.

Amy tapped the laptop screen with approval as a neighborhood project boy announced with the widest of gap-toothed grins, “I am learning to read so I can be a pilot someday and fly a plane.”

“That's good. We'll need to put subtitles in English on the screen. Can you do that?”

Jamil nodded. His vest hung open as he bent over the keyboard. Tucked into an inside pocket, Amy spotted an olive cover. “I see you've been reading the book I gave you. So what do you think?”

Jamil's face darkened immediately. Snatching the slim volume from his pocket, he pushed it away from him along the desk. “Yes, I have been reading it, and you may have it back. It is not, as you say, the Christian holy book. It is lies!”

Amy was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Jumping to his feet, Jamil paced around the office. “I have now read many teachings of your book. They are good teachings. Many the Quran teaches as well. But they are not what Christians follow. The Quran teaches Muslims the five pillars of Islam, and every Muslim obeys. But your teachings? Your book says to be holy and pure, to commit no adultery or fornication. But Christians have no respect for marriage. They do evil things, men with women, men with men, too. When I saw such things on your television and movies, I thought them only stories for men's imaginings. But now I have seen with my own eyes, and I know they are not imaginings but true.”

Amy stared in astonishment as Jamil reached the window and spun around, clenching his fists. She wouldn't have believed the silent young man capable of such fervor. “You've seen with your own eyes? What are you talking about?”

“The foreigners next door. I saw them bring food from the Chinese restaurant. And more than food.” Jamil flushed. “Please, I cannot even discuss such things. And there is the alcohol and opium. The Christians condemn my countrymen for growing poppy to keep their families from starving. But is it not Christians who buy and consume the opium? As it is Christians who make alcohol, which the Quran forbids above all other drugs. They use the power of their armies to bring it into my country against our laws even as they use their armies to destroy the poppy. Is that not hypocritical?

“Your book says to obey parents. But your children on your television and movies show no respect to parents or teachers, and no one dares rebuke them or discipline them to do right. No, if this book is true, then it is not the Christian holy book. If it is indeed your holy book, then it is a lie because Christians do not live according to its words.”

Jamil's agitation was now making sense. Amy too had heard the Scandinavian firm partying last night, and even the expat guidebooks listed Kabul's growing network of Chinese restaurants as the latest front for brothels that serviced the foreign presence in the city.

“All the things you're saying, the things you've seen on TV—that's not Christianity,” Amy said. How could she explain that the very freedoms Christianity's influence had originated could become the freedom to be very
un
christian? “Being American or European isn't the same as being Christian. Far from it. America is simply a country where Christians and others are free to practice their faith. Including Muslims. And free to live any way they choose.”

“And this freedom is better than behaving in a way that respects Allah and religion and family? I have read that most people in your country claim to be Christian. Is this not true? And now that I have read your holy teachings, I see they are not so different from being a good Muslim. So why do your people not obey these teachings? Why does your law not require it?” Jamil stopped his pacing to add, “Though, please, I do not say these things of you. In truth, you live as a Muslim. A very good Muslim.”

Amy was silent. She couldn't even imagine how much of what Hollywood represented as the American way of life must look to these people. It offended her, and she'd grown up in Miami. Could Amy honestly even make a case that the rampant sexuality, immorality, and materialism of the West were more pleasing to God than the puritanical and often brutal tyranny of the East? In reality, there were things she was finding admirable about Jamil's people. Not the warlords and corrupt officials but the ordinary people who worked hard to survive and took their faith as seriously as Amy did.

In fact, they could teach the Western churchgoer much in that regard. Their dedication to prayer. The way they lived consumed with pleasing the implacable, unknowable God the mullahs presented to them, while people back home obsessed over the latest clothing style, electronic gadget, or luxury vehicle. The warmth and hospitality that would give their last piece of bread to a stranger as a matter of course.