Veiled Freedom (36 page)

On a top shelf, Jamil spotted the flashlight he wanted, olive green and sturdy in a package that read
Tactical Flashlight
and
Operation Enduring Freedom
. He hesitated over matching palm-size field binoculars before settling for a second pack of lithium batteries. By the time he returned to the compound, the burqa had disappeared. But as Jamil neared the mechanics yard, his steps slowed.

The man loitering behind a parked SUV across the street held Jamil's attention because he himself had just been skulking in precisely such an attitude. And if that full-bearded face had been blurred and dark in the screen of Ameera's camera, Jamil had seen it before in daylight when he'd requested the man to back out of his way. The jinga truck driver.

When the truck hadn't returned to the mechanics yard the next day, Jamil had thought little of it. Either he'd been mistaken in its reason for being there, or the driver had found another mechanic. Now the admonition Ameera had given her staff sprang sharply to mind. Could the jinga truck driver have been the man accused of frightening one of the Welayat women?

The Corolla had returned to its parking space, and Jamil spotted the chowkidar in conversation with one of the mechanics. Rasheed walked over as Jamil hovered near.

“It is perhaps nothing,” Jamil explained in a hurried low voice, “but this is not the first time I have seen that man waiting and watching without seeming reason. After what Miss Ameera announced, I thought it best—”

“Ah yes,” Rasheed interrupted. “The jinga truck driver. He will have been awaiting my return. I informed him last week there were no openings before today to bring in his truck for repairs. I will go make arrangements with him.” He marched across the street.

Relieved, Jamil headed to his quarters. His jumpiness had exaggerated a business appointment to a mystery.

Pulling out Ameera's gift, Jamil leafed back to the page he'd been reading. It had grown dark enough to turn on the flashlight before he reached the final column of the Luke narrative. He shook his head with renewed incredulity.

Ameera's prophet a shaheed? It boggled the imagination. The mullahs taught that Isa Masih had never mounted the cross. Instead the prophet had sent Judas or Simeon of Cyprus or some other friend to take his place, living out his own life until he'd died at a peaceful old age. Unless, though none knew for sure, Allah had rewarded his prophet by transporting him in the manner of Elijah directly to paradise. From there tradition said Isa Masih would return one day to complete his interrupted ministry, battle the antichrist, and establish a thousand-year kingdom where the earth would finally in its totality bow in submission to Allah.

But the mullahs could not have read these injil. The prophet in these pages could no more have allowed a friend to sacrifice himself in his place than he could leave a blind man crying on the side of the road or a leper pleading for cleansing. No, the only conclusion was that Isa had indeed given his life in martyrdom. Possessing power to whistle up legions of angels, he'd laid down his life with the deliberation and free choice of any suicide bomber.

The resurrection part Jamil could dismiss. Perhaps this was where Muhammad had needed to correct the confused readers of the book. Or perhaps by some great miracle he had returned to his earthly life. After all, Elisha and Isa himself were said to have raised the dead. In that case the mullahs' teachings were easily reconciled with this account.

“Jamil-jan! Jamil-jan!”

The high, piping chorus drew Jamil out of the thin pages of the book. He'd missed supper, and the children were calling him for story time. Turning off the flashlight, Jamil tucked the volume away. But he was still deep in thought as he pulled himself up onto the divider wall and jumped down to the other side.

Why had Isa allowed himself to be martyred? It was not to strike down his enemies. It seemed, in fact, a final act of weakness. And yet, if there was anything that Jamil had gleaned from these pages, it was that there was nothing weak about the prophet Isa.

The image of that bright head and slim figure hemmed in by a crowd of children, the valiant smile paired with anxious eyes, stayed with Steve as he walked briskly to the CS team house. There a minor emergency awaited him. An entire container of weapons, body armor, and other gear intended to augment what he'd scrounged from Condor Security's in-country stock had been seized by airport customs. And since customs fell under the Ministry of Finance, dropping Khalid's name made little impact.

It was dark before Steve drove back to Sherpur in a commandeered Pajaro, but Phil was still at his desk. The medic tossed over a stapled pile of clippings and printouts as Steve walked in.

“Take a look at the coverage of your MOI surge. Every major newspaper's grabbing for some good news coming out of Afghanistan. And of course it's all over CNN. The MOI came out looking good. You and the rest made it into some background shots.”

“Let's just hope it puts a smile on Waters's face. And that budget committee.” Picking up the stapled file, Steve headed to his desk. “By the way, I've got an op I'd like you to put together. We've had some security issues develop at one of Khalid's properties.”

“The one where we dropped Ms. Mallory?” Phil swiveled around in his chair with a knowing grin. “Cute kid but an NGO? I thought you'd sworn off the type.”

Steve gave no indication he'd heard the jab. Pulling up Skype on his laptop, he settled the headpiece in place. The electronic ring of the Internet phone was replaced by a voice. “Hey, if you're not too busy, would you mind doing a couple things for me?”

“Here is the translation of the new ministry directives for your American employers,” Soraya said. “I will fax it to them before I leave.”

“Don't bother. I'll do it. It's Thursday, and I've held you up enough already. Jamil just took the permit papers for the second neighborhood outreach down to the ministry. With your two new teachers, we should have no problem expanding now. Which should make Mr. Korallis happy.” Amy smiled across the desk at Soraya.

Her housemate had hurried in yesterday just as Hamida was laying out supper with good news of two available teachers. Even better, one was male, which should satisfy parental grumbling at their current project over a woman, Soraya, instructing their sons.
Never mind they're getting it all for free.

“When you contact them, tell them to come see me first thing after the weekend Saturday morning. And Becky Frazer is going to give us a date for the women's checkups as soon as she works out her schedule.”

Amy was still smiling, this time with gratification as she ran a pen down the agenda she was going over with Soraya. The Ministry of Economy oversaw foreign nonprofits, permits for each new project one more formality in the daunting red tape required to keep New Hope's presence in Afghanistan legal. But Soraya's years working for NGOs had made her an expert at navigating the shoals of Kabul's bureaucracy while Jamil never balked at long hours waiting on one government clerk after another.

I don't need a fixer. I've got my own in Jamil and Soraya and Becky and Rasheed.

Amy reached for her cell phone as it shrilled. It took a moment to place the deep drawl. “We're about thirty seconds out. You said your tenants get spooked around men, so I figured I'd better give you a heads-up.”

“A heads-up?” Amy repeated blankly. “What for?”

“Why, putting up your perimeter defenses.”

Despite Steve's pledge, Amy hadn't held her breath that she'd hear from the CS security contractor this soon. Getting to her feet, she met Soraya's questioning stare. “Before you leave, would you please let the women know some workmen are arriving? I don't want them alarmed. And Fatima, too. I know the children should be getting out of class soon, but if she could keep them indoors.”

Before Amy reached the front gate, she could hear the screech of tires pulling up, the rumble of men's voices. Lots of them. Wajid hurried from the guard shack, fingering his rusted Kalashnikov.

“It's just some workmen arriving,” Amy reassured. But she blinked as Wajid pulled back the bolt and opened the gate. This wasn't a few workmen but an army. Two pickups held at least a dozen men each, a mixture of Afghans and what looked like Gurkhas and other foreign security personnel. A market truck was piled high with sacks, wheelbarrows, buckets, tools, and giant metallic spools of barbed wire.

Steve was climbing out of a black SUV. With him were Phil Myers and another huge, bearded Caucasian with a long, tangled mane. If Steve Wilson was going for unobtrusive, he'd failed miserably. At least any weapons in the mix were being kept out of sight.

To Amy's left, the compound's vehicle gate stood open. A large jinga truck was turning into the mechanics yard, a process necessitating several men waving arms and shouting directions as the truck negotiated the tight fit. Amy glanced at peacocks parading along its side panel, then focused on Rasheed hurrying down the sidewalk.

The men started heaving out sacks and tools. Steve had to see Amy just inside the pedestrian gate, but wraparound sunglasses didn't shift her direction as he intercepted Rasheed. “Salaam aleykum. I'm looking for the caretaker of this property.”

“Salaam. I am Rasheed, chowkidar here. What is all this?” Though Steve had spoken in Dari, Rasheed's answer was in his heavily accented English, at once boosting his own status and shutting out the mechanics and other bystanders avidly eavesdropping.

“Good, then you're just who I want.” The security contractor shifted smoothly into English. “I'm Steve Wilson, head of security for Khalid Sayef, your landlord. We're in the process of upgrading security on a number of his properties. We'll be attending to this one today.”

Rasheed showed no surprise. Everyone in Kabul knew of the minister of interior's foreign bodyguard. But he glanced at Amy suspiciously. “You were requested to come here?”

“Not at all. You will be aware of the many threats against the minister. It is our concern that his enemies, unable to reach Khalid himself, may turn to easier targets. That this property is rented to a foreign charity places it at greater risk. Which is why we are here.”

Rasheed still looked suspicious. “I cannot allow you onto the property without proper authorization.”

“Of course.” Steve flipped open his cell phone. After a murmured exchange, he handed the phone to Rasheed. From the chowkidar's expression, Amy could guess the landlord's representative, Ismail, was on the other end.

Taking the phone back, Steve continued affably, “Now, if you'll come with me, I'll show you what Ismail considers appropriate for your situation. We certainly wouldn't want to call more attention than necessary.”

Rasheed's reservations were visibly dissipating. His smile genial, Steve steered Rasheed toward the SUV where his expat associates were unloading some kind of electronic gear. He still hadn't so much as glanced at Amy. But her initial confusion, even resentment, at being ignored dissolved to reluctant admiration as she watched his performance.

Workers were now pushing by with loads of materials. Next door the jinga truck had finished making its way inside the mechanics yard. Retreating, Amy started back to the main residence. Children's faces and excited waves greeted her from the schoolroom windows. Entering, Amy found classes dismissed, and Soraya in conversation with the teacher.

“I have made an announcement all must stay inside until these workers are gone,” Soraya informed Amy. “If you wish, Fatima can continue with the children's studies through the afternoon.”

“That won't be necessary,” Amy said. “Farah can help me organize some indoor activities. I'm sure some of the mothers will be happy to help.”

Rasheed waylaid Amy as she emerged into the hallway. He'd resolved the problem of containing the New Hope tenants by closing the tall front doors that normally stood open during the day. Some of the suspicion was back as he frowned at Amy. “This foreigner—Wajid tells me he was here yesterday. You have known him long?”