Veiled Freedom (9 page)

Still gasping for breath, Amy managed to speak at the same instant her rescuer chose to do so. “You!”

Stepping back into the cover of a toppled stall so that none could note his interest, he surveyed the disaster scene with disapproving satisfaction. The
shaheed
, the holy martyr, had challenged the invincibility of the infidel leviathan. But the damage inflicted was insignificant, and though a cheering mob already swarmed over the disabled vehicle, not one of the foreign occupiers had joined the shaheed in death.

Allah's judgment because martyrdom had come in the unheroic form of a woman? And those screams of anguish, the bloodied garments and smashed merchandise. Did they not belong to fellow Muslim brothers? Did Allah truly reward with paradise such senseless incompetence? Besides, however unwelcome, the foreigners were not the true enemy of his people.

Or his own mission.

He swayed on his feet, exhaustion warring with his urgency. Nearby a toppled food stand had spilled the bright saffron yellow of
pilau
across the ground, the redolence of garlic and spice and fried bits of meat twisting at his stomach. He hadn't slept since he'd been released to his task, and his few afghanis had evaporated on transport, so he hadn't eaten since the day before.

When and where he'd next eat or sleep, he did not yet know. Nor how he would achieve the commission to which his life was now committed.

But he thrust away hunger and weariness and apprehension with the discipline of long practice as he straightened up and moved away. The hell of these last years had taught him to be patient.

To endure.

To hate.

“Are you okay? Can you get up?”

At the young woman's nod, Steve flipped the veil down again, concealing that exasperatingly bright hair and expat clothing. His Glock remained raised in his right hand, but his left reached down to take hers. She gasped as she scrambled stiffly to her feet. As Steve tugged her close enough to feel her quick breathing under the blue polyester, the corner of his eye caught Cougar's approach, unslung weapon melting away a path.

Tucking his Glock into the small of his back, Steve spread his hands palms outward, his Dari fluent and regretful. “Please accept my apologies. There has been a misunderstanding. The woman was frightened and confused by the noise.”

Turbans and flat wool
pakul
caps bobbed in comprehending nods. Who, after all, did not understand the hysterics of which a woman was capable?

“She is your woman? You accept responsibility for her behavior?”

Any need to respond was disrupted by a loud drone approaching fast and low. Heads shot up as the drone modified to the throp-throp of rotor blades. Steve expected an ISAF aircraft dispatched to assess the damage. But this was no Black Hawk. Russian-built Mi-8 Hips were Soviet leftovers the mujahedeen and Taliban and now the new Afghan government had snapped up for transport. This one hovered over the roof Steve and Cougar had vacated, scattering men in blue gray uniforms leaning over the parapet. Khalid had returned earlier than expected.

Steve had no doubt who was in that chopper. He'd ridden in it himself with the current minister of interior. That it still flew paid tribute to Soviet engineering. A discreet commute it was not. A single RPG would blow the chopper through the ministry roof.

As the Mi-8 hovered above the flat roof for passengers to disembark, Steve debated turning back. But only fleetingly. Dragging along a stray expat female was hardly a propitious introduction to this contract. The necessity of that decision roughened his tone as muffled noises beneath the burqa could now be heard above the departing chopper.

“Be quiet! Haven't you caused enough trouble? Follow me and don't say another word. Cougar, you've got the rear.”

If they didn't understand his English, the gathered crowd approved of his harshness.

“Beat her well for causing so much trouble!”

The suggestion was followed by laughter, expressions no longer hostile but interested.

Steve didn't bother to disillusion them but strode off, making sure only that the pale blue shape was obeying his orders.

Cougar plucked at his sleeve. “We can't take an Afghan woman with us. You trying to get her killed—and us?”

“She's expat,” Steve tossed curtly over his shoulder.

Cougar made no further protest. Nor did the woman in the burqa, both staying close on his heels, though the woman stumbled repeatedly until Steve slowed his pace. As traffic began to inch forward again, Steve scanned the crowd. Where was the Afghan man he'd thought to be accompanying his new charge? Their retreat was hardly inconspicuous, so if the man had made himself scarce, it was by choice.

As they entered the alley where the black Suburban had pulled over, Ahmed jumped out, a raised arm halting traffic. Or maybe it was the unslung M4s in the two contractors' hands. Steve gestured for Cougar to take the front passenger seat. The woman needed no urging to scramble into the backseat. Steve got in after her, Ahmed easing forward into traffic as Steve slammed the door shut.

Beside him, the burqa was already coming off. From the front passenger seat, Cougar twisted around, recognition dawning on his broad face. No, Steve hadn't been mistaken. The disheveled flaxen hair definitely belonged to the woman from the plane.

She wiped whatever was left of makeup from her face with the blue polyester before giving both contractors a smile bright with gratitude. “Boy, it feels good to be out of this. I can't thank you enough for getting me out of there. I'd hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't come along.”

“Exactly!” The uncompromising bite of Steve's response offered no encouragement to her eager friendliness. “You want to tell me what possessed you to go out into the middle of a suicide bombing dressed like that?”

Warmth immediately drained from her expression, and Steve found himself under a cool survey. He could have counted to five as she shook her shining curtain of hair back into order and unloaded the polyester bundle and shoulder bag onto the seat beside her. A hazel gaze rising to clash with Steve's was a little too composed and impenitent for his taste.

“I saw you at the airport this morning, didn't I? Let's start over. I'm Amy Mallory, country manager for New Hope Foundation, a nonprofit working with women and children at risk here in Afghanistan. I really do appreciate your intervening back there. I know it wasn't the smartest move, but there was this little boy who looked like he might be in trouble—”

“Hey, no harm done. Perfectly understandable. Glad we could help,” Cougar said, trying to mollify her.

But Steve wasn't so easily conciliated. “Next time you're looking to add to your client base, you might check to see if the kid's already got parents. Even in Afghanistan people get antsy about strangers snatching their children off the street. And that hardly explains what you were doing there to start with, an expat woman alone and on foot. Or didn't you bother reading the current security alert before getting off that plane? Oh yes, I noticed you, too. As to masquerading in a burqa, even the greenest newbie might have guessed that's asking for trouble.”

The SUV's air-conditioning wasn't enough to keep Amy's annoyance from burning at her cheeks. She was still feeling shaken, her ribs sore enough for nasty bruises. And where was Jamil? His urgent shout when she'd picked up the child reassured Amy he wasn't seriously hurt. Why hadn't he caught up with her?

As for her rescuer, Amy met his uncompromising stare with raised chin, her initial glow of gratitude fading fast. In the vehicle's confined interior, her seatmate seemed much larger than he had at the airport. The terse drawl of his English answered the question of nationality, while apologetic glances from his companion made it clear who was in charge.

The polished metal in his hands didn't intimidate Amy. In the places she'd spent the last three years, armed guards were the norm, and by his casual handling, he knew what he was doing. But the palpable warmth of his long, muscled frame and a musk that was both perspiration and cologne were claustrophobically close. When Amy shifted her shoulder bag so that it was between them, the twitch of his mouth held malicious understanding. But he didn't speak, and it was clear he was still awaiting an answer.

“You think I wanted to wear this stupid thing?” Amy burst out. “I only put it on because people keep yelling at me for not being covered up enough. You'd think I was strolling through Miami in a bikini. No, I wouldn't get half this attention if I were. And I didn't go down there alone. I don't know where my translator went. I just hired him. I hope he didn't think I dumped him when you dragged me off.”

“Rescued you,” her seatmate corrected, but this time the twitch of his mouth relaxed almost to a smile. “And you're probably right. About the bikini in Miami, I mean.”

“Whatever! As to why I was there, I was trying to get to the Ministry of Interior. My new landlord's the minister in charge of the place, and I was told I had to fill out some form down there right away.”

“That's right, the new MOI card. A reminder we'll need to run those down for your team, Steve.” The shorter, older man in the front seat swiveled around. “Wait a minute. Are you saying Khalid Sayef is your landlord?”

“The minister of interior is,” Amy answered cautiously. “You know him?”

“Well, that would be Khalid. As a matter of fact, he's our current principal. Client, that is.” The front seat passenger shuffled his weapon to offer a handshake over the seat back. “I guess it's time we introduced ourselves. I'm Craig Laube, logistics manager for Condor Security. My friends call me Cougar, and I hope that'll include you. My colleague here is Steve Wilson, detail leader for Khalid's private security.”

Ignoring her seatmate, Amy turned a brilliant smile on the older contractor. “Then I'm so glad it was you I ran into. If you know this Khalid, maybe you could advise me how best to get in touch with him.”

“Actually, that was his chopper you just saw coming in. We'll be meeting with him later today—”

“He should be in his office tomorrow,” Steve interrupted. “If not, I think you'll find that the main office can make any arrangements you need. And may I suggest that you consider taking along a reliable Afghan employee? This country holds a lot of pitfalls for newbies. Now, is there somewhere we could offer you a ride?”

Steve's statements were courteous enough, but Amy caught his glance at his watch. Outside the tinted windows, traffic flowed with as carefree lawlessness as though death hadn't just exploded a few blocks away. The driver spoke up in rapid Dari, his gesture inquiring which direction to turn.

Amy bit her lip, realizing she had absolutely no idea what answer to give. “I only arrived this morning, and, well, due to a mix-up, I don't yet have a place to stay. I guess the best thing would be to go back to New Hope.”

Except that without Jamil, Amy had no clue how to get back there. With a pointed glance in Amy's direction, the driver began another turn around the block. Amy wrinkled her nose ruefully as she admitted, “I'm so sorry to have put you to all this trouble. But I'm totally lost. Maybe you can take me to the embassy if it's anywhere on your way?”