Veiled Freedom Page 13

  “So how are they doing?” Steve asked as he reached Phil’s side.

  “More spraying than aiming.” The medic shrugged. “But the Romanians can handle a convoy run, and the Guats are ready for secondary ring security. The Chilean bunch are former Pinochet secret police and know what they’re doing. Khalid’s own militia have the most actual combat experience.”

  “And are most likely to be infiltrated. We’ll keep them on outer perimeter—and no ammo.”

  The advantage of TCNs or third country nationals was that they were cheaper and endlessly available. So for a high-value contract like Khalid, you did exactly what Condor Securities had done. You surrounded your principal with an inner defense “diamond” you personally could trust, preferably all tier one Special Ops.

  Then you started sorting out your second tier of TCNs, finding out who had real combat training, who could be trusted for basic guard duty or convoy ride-along. The best you elevated to supervisory capacity. But you never let them inside your inner defenses. It wasn’t that these guys would necessarily take a bribe, sell off their equipment, steal supplies, turn weapons on civilians, or just throw them down and run when trouble came. It was that you couldn’t count on them not to do any or all of the above.

  “Give McDuff your evaluations. As of tonight we go three shifts, let everyone start getting some decent sleep.”

  “And R & R. Cougar brought by an invite to another open house this evening. I think that makes a round dozen.”

  “No thanks. Schmoozing bureaucrats and aid workers hardly falls into my CS contract. But, hey, you’re off shift with the new schedule.”

  Phil shook his head. “My first evening off? Nothing doing. I’ll be spending it with my wife and kids. I’ve got Skype and a webcam set up. You, on the other hand, my friend, have no family restrictions. Go have some fun. Give some poor Peace Corps volunteer a thrill. Better yet, pick one, settle down, and have some babies. I mean, what’s the point of making all that dough if you’ve no one to spend it on?”

  “And end up separated three weeks out of four? Not interested.” Steve wished he could bite back his words as he caught the stricken look on Phil’s face. “Hey, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just not in the market. Though if I ever come across a gal as special as yours, I’ll reconsider.”

  An unlikely scenario in his current profession. Which was just as well. Despite Steve’s retraction, bottom line, this job was murder on relationships. Maybe Phil could make it work. For his friend’s sake, Steve hoped so. But Steve had seen too many Special Forces and PSD buddies go through the misery of divorce to do that to any woman.

  Not to mention his own family.

  Steve headed toward the administrative modules that made up a small town near the compound entrance. The last three days had been a scramble, but things were coming together. Cougar had squeezed another six tier one operatives out of CS, not all Western Special Ops, but the two Russians and German looked good. Former KGB, Steve would hazard.

  Khalid’s embassy run had gone smoothly, his handshake with the U.S. Senate majority leader making cable news. The minister’s ensuing good humor allowed Steve to push through a solution to their guest flow problem. When a local German beer garden was liquidated for ignoring Ministry of Vice edicts, Cougar had snapped up a metal detector gate they’d installed for security. This now formed a trellised archway just inside Khalid’s pedestrian gate.

  Now if they could do the same for the Ministry of Interior. Absolute security was never attainable. But the place was just too big, too open, too crowded—and too much a part of Khalid’s regular pattern—for even minimal security.

  Which was the motivation behind Steve’s current quick stride. DynCorp, one of the largest private security companies, had the contract for training the Afghan National Police as well as a recently formed separate counternarcotics task force, placing MOI squarely within their sphere of operation. Combining resources could be a win-win for both sides. A blast of air-conditioning welcomed Steve into a large module. A bored-looking Aussie, feet up on his desk, M4 balanced across a paunch, barely glanced at Steve’s CS credentials. There any pretense of helpfulness ended.

  “What do you mean, you can’t give out that info? Then who does have the authority to discuss this?” Steve looked around the long room with its empty desks and blank computer screens with exasperation. “Where is everyone? This place was full yesterday.”

  “It’s Thursday. Everyone leaves early to hit the showers and open house circuit.”

  Steve needed no further explanation. Friday was the Muslim day of worship, making Thursday equivalent to a Saturday back home. In Basra, a large Western base, the local calendar had been ignored. But here it seemed bureaucrats and aid workers weren’t the only expats who’d made a conscientious effort to adapt, at least when it came to playtime.

  The DynCorp contractor managed not to topple weapon or chair as he stretched an arm to grab a Post-it pad. Scribbling name and number, he shoved it toward Steve. “Here. If it’s urgent, you can try our country manager. Or come back Saturday after the weekend.”

  Steve pulled out his cell phone.

  “Jason Hamilton.” The DynCorp manager’s voice was barely audible above a babble of voices and roar of engines. “I’m out at the ISAF hangar. Then I’m heading over to an open house in Wazir. If you want to come on down there, I’ll be happy to discuss details.”

  “I’d rather—” A background whine rose to a roar of rotors; then the connection broke. Steve slapped his phone shut with a grimace. Like it or not, he was in for some R & R after all.

  Small faces popped up at window bars to watch Amy and Jamil trail Geeti back across the courtyard, though the girl in the pink tunic was not among them.

  “The story you told the children, it is a beautiful story,” Jamil told Amy. “The story of paradise, is it not? I did not know you were a follower of Muhammad.”

  The green door slammed shut behind them, the prison warden’s key ring jangling as she locked them out.

  Amy followed Jamil across the plank bridge. “Yes, that was the story of paradise—the creation of earth and the Garden of Eden. But I’m not a follower of Muhammad. I’m a Christian, a follower of Jesus Christ. Isa Masih, as you would call him. And the story of Creation isn’t just a Muslim story. It’s from the Bible, the first chapters of the Old Testament.”

  “Your Christian holy book.”

  “Not just Christian. The Old Testament was the holy book of the Jews, and a lot of its stories are taught also in the Quran.”

  “I did not know that.” Ushering Amy into the back of the sedan, Jamil slid into the driver’s seat.

  Amy’s smile met his fleeting glance in the rearview mirror. “And I didn’t know you were a medical student. I feel especially privileged now to have you on board at New Hope. Are you planning to go back to finish?”

  But her assistant wasn’t giving out any more personal data. “That was another life. To begin again, no, it would not be possible. Now where do you wish to go next? Back to the New Hope compound?”

  Amy considered as Jamil pulled out of the unpaved lot. Between MOI and Welayat, her afternoon had evaporated, the sky still light overhead, but the sun already dropped behind the mountain peaks. “No, it’s too late to start anything else at New Hope. I think I’ll head back to my guesthouse and type up those reports. Do you know how to get to the Sarai?”

  “Yes, Rasheed showed me your lodging when he was testing my driving. Then you will not be needing me to drive again today? Rasheed has requested that I transport you anywhere you require to go.”

  The questions held the neutral courtesy of an employee. But Jamil’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, something of his earlier conflicted expression back in the rearview mirror.

  Amy was taken aback. She and Jamil hadn’t discussed his hours, though the generous salary by local standards presupposed a certain flexibility. “I don’t expect you to be on call 24-7. I’m not planning on going out to
night, but if I do, I’ll make my own arrangements or call a taxi.”

  She leaned forward. If commenting on appearance was a cultural faux pas, she was about to compound it. But her assistant looked so desolate. “Is everything all right?”

  His face went blank. “Yes, everything is as it should be. It is just . . . I had thought to go to the bazaar if you did not require me. I do not have a proper musallah for the mosque tomorrow. But it is not important. And you must not seek transport with strangers. It is not safe. Should you choose to go out, you need only call. If not I, then Rasheed will retrieve you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Unconvinced, Amy studied Jamil with covert interest as he maneuvered between a mule cart and a swaying, top-heavy city bus. In just three days, Jamil had lost some of the gaunt exhaustion that had first moved Amy to compassion. He was a good-looking man, and in his new finery, even the set of his shoulders seemed straighter and more self-assured. He’d been a medical student, of an educated family by his account, so he hadn’t always lived like this. Had Jamil transformed himself only to go to the bazaar? Or did he have evening plans he felt no obligation to share with his foreign and female employer?

  It was a reminder of how little Amy knew of her assistant beyond the convenience he afforded her. Did Jamil have a life outside the New Hope compound? What dreams and hopes and aspirations did he have beyond dogging Amy’s heels?

  A sudden impulse to ease Jamil’s somberness, a rebellion against treating another human being as an invisible prop whatever the cultural dictates, prompted Amy to speak. “The University of Kabul has opened again. I’ve heard they have a medical course of study. I’d be happy to work something out with your employment at New Hope if you’d be interested in finishing your studies. It’s never too late.”

  “For me it is too late! Please, I do not wish to speak of it again.” It was not a request but a harsh command, and as though immediately regretting the force of his reaction, Jamil added in a milder tone, “Miss Ameera, I have wanted to ask. This ‘date’ of which your friend spoke. And ‘bash.’ I know the English words, but perhaps my understanding is not so good.”

  Jamil’s gaze touched Amy with limpid candor in the rearview mirror. “How does one have a day of the calendar? Or is it the fruit you speak of? And to bash—is this not an act of violence?”

  At least he was talking, and if Jamil’s change of subject was intended to deflect intrusion on his personal life, that was his prerogative. “No, in this context a bash is just a big party. And a date is an activity you plan with another person for a certain day and time. Sometimes a friend, like Debby, though it usually means a man and a woman doing something special together.”

  “Special?”

  “Yes, like going to a party or out to a movie or a restaurant. To get to know each other better and have some fun.”

  “Unmarried? Alone?” Amy wasn’t sure whether Jamil’s shocked exclamation held disbelief or disapproval as he glanced in the rearview mirror at Amy’s finery, then quickly away. “Yes, I have heard of such things. Then this date of which you spoke, it is a party? With men and dancing and alcohol, as in the movies? This is permitted in your country for two women without brothers or father or husband to protect them?”

  Amy turned pink, only now recognizing the pitfall into which she’d stepped. “Things are done a little differently in my country. But tonight isn’t that kind of date. An open house is just a gathering of other foreigners.”

  Amy hoped Jamil’s nod indicated comprehension. They’d reached the wide, paved streets of Wazir Akbar Khan. Amy slid forward across the seat as Jamil slammed on the brakes.

  “Miss Ameera, is this not the proper direction of your lodging?”

  For a moment, Amy too thought they must have taken the wrong turn. Like many of Kabul’s guesthouses, the Sarai was an aristocratic residence refitted for the expat trade on a quiet side street not far from the New Hope compound. At least it had been quiet when Rasheed picked Amy up this morning.

  Now barrel-shaped movable barriers blocked the street. A red and white security bar rose for a white Land Cruiser. Beyond it, SUVs filled both sides of the streets.

  A Gurkha guard strode over to the Corolla, tapping his automatic rifle against the driver’s window. As Jamil rolled it down, a blare of reggae spilled into the car.

  “Only foreign passports permitted. Please reverse the vehicle.”

  “I live here.” Amy handed him her passport.

  The Nepalese soldier frowned at Jamil. “You may proceed, but due to the presence of alcohol, Afghan citizens are not permitted entry.”

  “He’s just dropping me off.” Amy winced as the crash of steel drums over the wall morphed into mariachi brass.

  Jamil’s expression was closed again, his hands so tight on the steering wheel his knuckles were white. After all she’d said, was he getting the wrong idea about her evening plans? Or was something else on his mind?

  “I’ll walk in from here,” she said quietly. “You go on and enjoy your evening. I’ll see you in the morning. No, Friday’s your day off, isn’t it? Then I’ll see you on Saturday.”

  As the car backed away, Amy allowed the Gurkha to probe her shoulder bag, then detoured the red and white security bar. The Land Cruiser had found parking, and a Caucasian man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans headed toward the guesthouse gate. Recognizing Amy, a guard waved her through as a companion ran a metal detector wand over the Hawaiian shirt.

  Inside, unroofed parking was also crowded with vehicles. Amy followed the music into the two-story residence’s communal lounge. French doors opened onto a veranda, beyond which stretched the rosebushes and grape arbors, lounge chairs and swimming pool of an extensive backyard. Had she just stepped through a space portal from the streets of Kabul, the New Hope compound, that awful women’s prison?

  People swarmed everywhere, splashing in the pool, eating around tables, stretched out on lounge chairs, gyrating on a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the lawn. Under a thatched shelter, tables held food and meat sizzled on several grills.

  Amy hadn’t dreamed Kabul held so many expatriates. The chatter around her encompassed English, French, German, and Italian. She noticed tall, blond Scandinavians and small-framed Asians, Africans with Nigerian and Kenyan accents, and East Indians.

  And every one of them dressed for the perfect September garden party—back in Miami.

  It was no sin of his employer that consumed Jamil as he drove away but his own. He did not like to tell lies. Not only because the look in the foreign woman’s eyes was the trusting one of an Eid lamb, but because with each, he added another grain to the scales of Allah’s justice already weighed damningly against him. Still, what choice had been left him? At least Ameera had been easily distracted from his doings.

  Medical school. Those days were so long in Jamil’s past, he’d thought them forgotten, as his fingers had forgotten their skill until he’d touched the child. Now Islamabad’s finest university rose up around him, the laboratories and computers, the white-robed professors, the books.

  A carefree existence it had been, even privileged despite the deprivations of war, with no greater concern than the results of his latest exam. There’d been companionship. Debate. The excitement of intellectual challenge. The warm, noisy safety net of family. And more freedom than he’d recognized until it was taken away.

  Freedom, above all, from shame and guilt.

  It had seemed so simple then, to be pure before Allah such an all-consuming aspiration it hardly required thought, the five pillars of Islam giving framework to every hour of life.

  The shahada—the declaration of faith made over and over on every occasion since the moment of birth. Illaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah. There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet.

  The salat—the five prayer times that divided each day into its rhythm: the sun’s first rays, its zenith, the western arc of afternoon, sunset, the coming of night.

  The zakat—almsgivin
g that the poor and widows and orphans might share some small measure of Allah’s bounty.

  The sawm—the Ramadan fast that could be onerous on a growing, young body and yet so purifying and uplifting in the challenge of its discipline.

  The hajj—the pilgrimage that outweighed in merit all other acts but one of submission. As his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father had earned merit, so he too had planned one day when life was not so pleasurably full.

  And within the framework of those five pillars, countless other requirements of Jamil’s faith studied and memorized in careful emulation of that most righteous of lives, Allah’s apostle Muhammad. The proper cleansing ablutions so that one’s prayers were not nullified. Which foods to eat. How to sit cross-legged with the right foot above and soles carefully inward. How to brush one’s teeth. Which hand to use for eating. Which rakats to recite at each succeeding cycle of prayer.

  Until in time the smallest detail of daily life became a habitual act of submission to Allah.

  And each act an offering piled up into the scales so that at the end of life they might outweigh the stray loose thought. The glance of lust at a woman’s bared ankle or eyes. The unintended defilements that lurked when one was not attentive. Even willful disobedience.

  The mullahs stressed that in Allah’s implacable sovereignty even the most untainted could not be assured of divine favor. But as long as the scale was safely tipped toward purity and submission, there was no need to lose sleep over one’s eternal destination. Was not his very choice of vocation—to mend the bodies and souls of his fellow men—a daily meritorious offering of zakat?