Veiled Freedom (8 page)

Bruce jerked a thumb. “That the guy?”

At Amy's nod, Bruce announced, “Rasheed, I've just signed Ms. Mallory on as our new country manager. I've explained to her she can count on you for anything she needs.”

The caretaker nodded, a hooded glance sliding to Amy, then away.

Bruce went on. “Now, Ms. Mallory here tells me this man speaks English and is looking for work. Do you know anything about him? Is he available for hire?”

Rasheed inclined his upper body with a respect he hadn't shown Amy. “Yes. Jamil is a distant relative. I can assure you he is honest and hardworking and speaks much better English than my own.”

“Oh, really?” Bruce said skeptically. “If he's as good as you say, why's he unemployed?”

“Jamil has been living in Pakistan for many years, where everyone with education speaks English. Finding a good job there is difficult, especially for Afghans. So, like many others, he has returned here, where such skills are more in demand.”

“A sensible decision. Jamil, would you be interested in a job with New Hope Foundation? It would involve doing translation for Ms. Mallory here, guiding her around the city, anything else she requires.”

Amy noticed Jamil glance at Rasheed, saw the older man's slight incline of his head, before he nodded. “Yes, that would be acceptable.”

“That settles it, then. And I'm late.” Bruce headed toward the door, briefcase in one hand, cooler in the other. “You can work out the details with Ms. Mallory. Rasheed, the airport's calling. Amy, any questions that can't wait till I'm back in the DC office tomorrow?”

“Could you have Rasheed check for my luggage at the airport? They told me it would be on the next flight. Here are the two baggage claim tickets.”

“No problem.” Bruce took the tickets. “And speaking of the airport, you
did
think to get your MOI card when you came through?”

“MOI card?”

“Ministry of Interior. As in your new landlord. They also handle immigration. The latest red tape is an expat ID card. They should give you the form at the airport, but they never do unless you ask.”

“But I've got a visa,” Amy exclaimed. “None of my info mentioned an ID card.”

“Get used to red tape changing here every time you turn around. Keeping you updated on local bureaucracy will be part of Rasheed's duties.”

Except he hadn't bothered on this occasion. An oversight or deliberate punishment for those bare arms and head?

“In any case, you should be able to pick up a form at MOI. From arrival you've got forty-eight hours to register before your visa's revoked, leaving you in this country illegally. I don't think you'd get deported, but it could be expensive to sort out.” Bruce hesitated in the doorway. Then he dug into his briefcase, pulling out his sat phone. “Why don't I leave you this? You'll need it more than I will.” As he handed it to Amy, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “I just hope we're doing the right thing here.”

“I'll be fine,” Amy assured him as she took the phone. “And thank you. Please give my greetings to Mr. Korallis.”

Then they were gone, leaving Amy alone with her new assistant. Jamil stood rigidly just inside the door, eyes on his feet. Amy, who'd chosen jeans and T-shirt as both practical and amply modest for the long flight from Miami, felt conscious of her body, of bare arms below short sleeves and exposed face, in a way she hadn't since her teens.

Well, she'd always found directness the best approach. Amy didn't make the mistake of crossing the room to shake hands but said firmly, “Hi, Jamil. I'm Amy Mallory, country manager for New Hope Foundation here in Kabul. Are you going to have a problem working for me? Because I can promise you I won't be wearing a burqa.”

This time he glanced at her, and the somberness might have even lifted a little. Moving farther into the room, he said simply, “I need this job. I will do what I am asked for whoever pays me to eat and live, man or woman. As for the burqa, my mother was an educated woman. She did not cover her face to work.”

His English had a musical, somewhat stilted cadence Amy knew well from Pakistani and Indian colleagues in other relief projects. Its familiar lilt and his slight build, only two or three inches taller than hers, made him far less threatening than the tall, burly Rasheed. This had been a good idea. “In Pakistan or here in Afghanistan? Do you still have family here?”

A flash of emotion restored somberness to his dark eyes. “My family is the past. I am concerned only with the future.”

Amy kicked herself mentally. After all the horror stories she'd heard and read of the war years, she should know better than to ask a personal question. Hastily she pulled the lease information from the manila envelope Bruce had given her. This had been typed up in neat English, but the official-looking heading at the top and signatures at the bottom were all in the curlicue Arabic script. “Can you tell me where this address is? How hard would it be to get there?”

Jamil drifted over to the card table. “The Ministry of Interior? It is not far from here. See?” He pointed to a piece of meaningless calligraphy. “It is near Shahr-e Nau Park on the other side of the King's Palace. Perhaps two kilometers walking.”

Amy considered. It could be hours before Rasheed was back with the jeep. What better way to spend those hours than attending to Bruce's final directive? Maybe even touch base with her new landlord if he was in his offices? Walking would stretch her legs and let Amy get a feel for her new habitat at the same time.

“Good, then if you can show me the way, I'd like to walk to this address. I'll probably need you to translate as well. I don't know how much English your government offices usually have.”

But not as she was currently dressed. Digging into her shoulder bag, Amy pulled out an oversize cardigan she'd tucked in for warmth on the plane. It was uncomfortably hot, but at least it covered her arms and any pretence of shape. Reshouldering her bag, Amy started for the door.

Jamil made no move to follow. “I am sorry, but you cannot walk the streets uncovered.”

Amy spun around, annoyed. “Look, I'm sorry if it offends you, but I am not an Afghan woman. I want to respect your culture, but if you're going to work for me, I need you to respect mine as well, and I hope I've made it clear I will not be pushed into a burqa!”

Jamil spread his hands wide, but there was no yielding in his expression. “It is not for me. In Pakistan I have seen many women not of my family with uncovered face. But I know the men of this city, these streets. You will not be able to walk in peace if you appear so.”

Oddly, his intransigence gained Amy's respect. With exasperation, she snatched up the burqa. If nothing else, it would be an opportunity to better understand the culture—the women—with which she'd come here to work. “Fine, just this once. But if I trip and fall, it'll be your responsibility.”

It wasn't quite as bad as she remembered. The shoulder bag held the burqa tentlike away from her body, allowing for reasonable air circulation. As Amy followed Jamil out onto the street, she quickly learned to use her hands underneath to keep the grille positioned over her eyes. In some bizarre fashion, it reminded Amy of her favorite umbrella as a small girl. Also blue, it had curved below her shoulders with a small plastic window through which to see.
Like walking around in my own little castle.

The burqa offered some of the same sense of privacy, along with protection from wind and dust and prying eyes.

On the negative, the burqa's mesh grille proved a far inferior window than the umbrella's plastic. Within blocks, Amy was developing a headache, a dizzying pattern of lines dancing in front of her eyes even when she closed them. She couldn't see the ground, her peripheral vision only a few feet on either side, so she was constantly tripping. Without Jamil's thin shoulders to focus on just ahead, she'd have soon been hopelessly lost.

Or run over. Amy stumbled back as a bus barely missed her. How did countless Afghan women do this every day?

There were plenty of burqas drifting through market stalls, begging at car windows, as well as the black chadors Amy had glimpsed at the New Hope compound. But other women were less constricted in enveloping headscarves but bare faces, long-sleeved tunics over pants, and ankle-length
chapans
, embroidered, button-up overcoats.
As soon as I get my luggage.

Amy swerved to avoid two burqas squatting on a street corner, skeletal hands outthrust, several small children huddled close. Bruce's snide comment sprang to her mind.
“This country's crawling with starving widows and children.”
Had she just stumbled over the first candidates to revive New Hope's mission?

“Jamil?”

Amy almost collided with her escort as he spun around. Jamil had remained a stride ahead with only the occasional gesture to indicate when there was a street to cross. It seemed women were expected to be mute as well as anonymous. Now his tone was taut with irritation as he snapped, “What is it?”

“How much farther?”

Jamil was suddenly too close. “Be silent!” he hissed near a cloaked ear. “Do you wish the entire world to know you are a foreigner on foot?”

Only that Jamil was right, the note of fear in his voice, excused his harshness. Though Amy's English had hardly been loud, it had attracted unwanted attention, the narrowed stares turned her way ranging from interest to hostility. From somewhere a globule of spittle landed on the mesh grille.

“Kafir!”

Infidel.

Amy hastened to follow as Jamil started forward again.

“The place you seek is over there.” The jerk of his head indicated a long army green wall topped with concertina wire across a wide, busy avenue. “We can cross here, but you must be careful. No, wait!”

An armored convoy was coming down the boulevard fast, soldiers in body armor at gun turrets, others braced in open hatches, lethal-looking weapons cradled in their hands.
ISAF
was lettered across door panels. Then Amy spotted a pale blue form sprinting toward the convoy instead of away. She had time to wonder how a woman in a burqa could run before the explosion knocked her from her feet.

Amy was blind, the burqa twisting in her fall so that she was choking too. Around her, angry shouts had become panicked shrieks, the thud of running footsteps. Short bursts of gunfire spattered the screams. Amy scrambled backward until she felt a wall behind her. Not caring anymore who should see her, she pushed the burqa up until her face was free.

The street was pandemonium, traffic jammed to a stop, the armored Humvee leading the convoy now twisted metal. Despite a bloodied face here and there, its contingent didn't seem seriously injured. The shooting Amy had heard must have been in the air because the only still shape was the pale blue and scarlet heap that had been the suicide bomber. But there were plenty of gashes and abrasions, blood-splattered clothing and cries of pain. A yellow Toyota Corolla was in flames.

“Go, go, go!”

The damaged Humvee's contingent had clambered to safety among the other vehicles. And now, Amy realized incredulously, they were leaving. The stalled traffic made maneuvering easier, but more than one vehicle was simply pushed aside by the weight of an armored personnel carrier before the convoy disappeared around a corner.

I don't believe it.

Hers was not the only furious response. Raised arms and voices chased the departing convoy.

Amy looked for her guide. She couldn't spot Jamil anywhere, but across the street was the gated entrance to her original destination, and without traffic she could cross freely. With tensions calming, Afghans were shooting glances at her exposed face, so Amy dropped the blue polyester back into place.

A high-pitched and very young cry altered Amy's route. Down the block, a toddler no more than two years old was huddled alone on the curb, wailing fear and abandonment at the top of his lungs. Amy couldn't have even said what motivated her swift weaving through stalled traffic and crowds. Certainly the terrified anguish of those screams. Perhaps too some subconscious image of the empty rooms and dusty courtyard that were now hers to fill. Was one of those begging women in burqas the mother?
Maybe even the suicide bomber?

The child came into Amy's arms willingly until he realized she was a stranger. His shrieks redoubled, and if Amy couldn't understand the words, others could because she was now drawing more than hostile glares. Turbaned, bearded, and very angry faces closed in on her. Hands snatched at the burqa, tugged at the child in her arms.

“The child! Put the child down!”

It was Jamil's voice. So he hadn't abandoned her. Amy would have happily put the toddler down now. But his small, wiry body was struggling so hard, she didn't dare loose her grip for fear he'd fall.

Then she didn't have to worry anymore. Amy felt the boy yanked from her arms, saw through the burqa's mesh grille a tall, burly man scooping the toddler close. She made no protest. From the child's clinging embrace, the man was no stranger.

But it wasn't over. Amy glimpsed only an upraised fist before a blow to the side of her head knocked her to the ground. She didn't even try to get up as sandaled feet made contact with her ribs, drove the air from her lungs. Burying her face against her shoulder bag, she tried to curl her body into a protective ball.

A single gunshot released her. The masculine voice calling out a curt order into sudden silence was deep and authoritative. Rolling over painfully, Amy struggled to a sitting position, her breath rasping in her ears. Her hands clawed at the polyester entangling her. Before she could pull it away, the burqa was yanked from her face.

Amy blinked her surroundings into focus. Her attackers had moved back out of arm's reach. A man bent over her, the metallic gleam of a pistol still in his right hand. The face only inches above her looked as furious as her assailants', but it was clean shaven. Wraparound sunglasses were pushed up onto ruthlessly trimmed dark curls to reveal a furious gray gaze above a grimly compressed mouth, a jawline taut with anger.