Veiled Freedom Page 20

  But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. . . . If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?

  Love your enemies? That was not the way of Islam. It was not even the way of manhood. An enemy was to be hated with the passion with which one loved one’s family. To be held accountable before Allah and the ulema, the community of the faithful. To be remembered with unforgiving patience until Allah granted opportunity to redress wrong.

  With swift fury, Jamil threw the volume from him into the night. He heard the rustle and thud of its landing, but he did not go after it. No wonder the mullahs called this book corrupt, refused to teach it.

  Hastening back to his room, Jamil pulled the patu over his head and fiercely shut himself into sleep.

  That night the dreams were back in full measure.

  Boredom was the killer.

  Steve shifted from one foot to the other. Having your toes fall asleep while standing at your principal’s back wasn’t an item that made it into PSD how-to manuals. The meeting had gone on for hours, a dozen men around a conference table.

  “There will be no aerial spraying!” The minister of agriculture’s fist came down on the table. “That is no longer an item of discussion. The Afghan people will not stand for it.”

  “Aerial spraying could make a sizable reduction in a matter of weeks,” an attaché from the U.S. embassy’s Bureau of International Narcotics persisted patiently. “As we’ve explained, the spraying is very precise. And it won’t harm your crops. With the time crunch we are currently facing—”

  Khalid broke in smoothly. “Yes, the visit from your new—what do you call him?”

  “Drug czar,” DEA Chief Ramon Placido murmured. “Jim Waters.”

  “Ah yes, czar, as once ruled the infidel Russians. A strange name for a man who opposes these drugs. We look forward to showing your Jim Waters the hospitality of our country. And if we cannot yet offer him success, surely the new Colombian instructors you have provided will soon produce in our own forces such competence as they display against their own delinquents.”

  Was Khalid being serious or sarcastic? Across the table, DynCorp manager Jason Hamilton was listening to this exchange with a deadpan expression. The best that could be said for Colombia’s own counternarcotics operation was that coca cultivation had somewhat stabilized under the U.S.–sponsored Plan Colombia while Afghanistan’s opium production had exploded from two hundred tons at the height of Taliban rule in 2001 to over eight thousand tons in the most recent harvest. But Colombian hires were cheaper than American counterparts, and since U.S. tax dollars had paid for said instructors’ training, offering America’s south-of-the-border allies a piece of the action was a shrewd political gesture.

  Still, it said much about how bad things were on the ground here when the mess in South America was held up as a yardstick to which the Afghans might someday hope to aspire.

  Steve shifted his feet again, an annoying prickle signaling that blood was once more reaching his extremities. A secondary itch had started under the ceramic inserts of his tactical vest, but his mad urge to tear off boots and vest didn’t register in a large wall mirror above the table. It reflected instead an impassive profile, stance straight and relaxed, M4 hanging loose but within instant grasp. Wraparound sunglasses offered anonymity for blinking and looking around, the comm wire curving from earpiece to Steve’s mouth discreetly invisible.

  “We will host a loya jirga,” the minister of counternarcotics offered. “Ministers, governors, police, and counternarcotics commanders will all come to welcome your new leader. By then your Colombians will have finished their training. The new recruits can put on a demonstration.”

  “And my people can organize a tour of alternative development projects. The sugar factory won’t be up and running again yet, but we’ve got some exciting new crop ventures.” The USAID alternative development coordinator was one of several on the American side of the table who spoke no Dari, while Khalid alone of the Afghan ministers had learned English. At the end of the table, a translator murmured Dari and English alternatively for communication sets both sides wore.

  “That isn’t good enough,” the BIN attaché answered sharply. “It isn’t just Waters we’ll need to impress but the congressional delegation coming with him, especially the chairman of the Senate Budget Committee. You’ve got to understand the mood of the American people right now. They’ve invested billions into building up the Afghan security machine. And frankly, they’re hard-pressed at the moment to see what they’ve got for their buck.”

  The embassy official’s assessment drew no rebuttal from either side of the table. Following the Taliban’s ouster, the biggest challenge facing Afghanistan had been restoring immediate security and rule of law. The new government and their Western allies had come up with an ingenious stopgap to fill the vacuum, deputizing in each district local muj commanders and their militias.

  Rather like deputizing Bonnie and Clyde or Jesse James and their outlaw bands as the new sheriffs in town.

  In the short term, it seemed a win-win situation, giving the task of preserving order to those already with the muscle to do so while providing a career opportunity for all those otherwise unemployed mujahedeen. Unfortunately, the losers proved to be Afghan civilians who’d trusted that establishment of law would liberate them from the rapaciousness and marauding of those same militias. With minimal funding attached to said deputizing, the new law in town simply squeezed their wages out of the local residents.

  “My colleague has a point,” U.S. Deputy Chief of Mission Carl Bolton interjected. “All this discussion hasn’t yet resolved the reason we’re here. We don’t have a firm date for Waters and his team. But we can count on two months, three at most, since Waters plans to present his recommendations before Congress dismisses for year-end holidays. Welcome celebrations and tours are fine. But without some hard progress to present, we can kiss good-bye our current budget, much less the increased aid package we’re counting on to turn this situation around.”

  If nothing else, the hours of monotony were proving educational about Afghan interior politics as well as Steve’s own embassy. That American agencies represented at this table had as much reason to be concerned about the upcoming budget evaluation as the Afghans had never entered Steve’s thinking. But then the same congressional committees threatening to cut Afghanistan’s aid controlled their pocketbooks as well.

  “Which brings us back to aerial spraying,” the BIN attaché said. “There’s simply no other tangible return we can offer at such short notice. I have a hard time understanding why anyone should object, since it’s also the most equitable. Every poppy grower from the biggest landlord down to the peasant with a few plants gets hit the same. Any district not willing to cooperate can simply be assumed to be uninterested in other aid disbursements. We could wipe out the whole crop in weeks, case closed.”

  The logical argument was proof the counternarcotics official must be new in-country. With poppy cultivation all that stood between many Afghans and starvation, the Americans had been as pragmatic as other ISAF nations, eradication to date kept to a token 5 percent or less of this year’s half-million-acre crop. That the highest bidder also determined which fields fell to police scythes was again no secret. It took only for the implications of the BIN attaché’s statements to filter through the translator for protests to start.

  Khalid’s voice rose above the others. “We cannot penalize our farmers for trying to feed their families. And it is, after all, the opium merchants who profit most. If your Waters needs progress to report to your Congress, I myself will ensure he receives it. The regional commanders know who the delinquents are in their territory, though they do not always possess the strength to confront them. So I will prepare an order for each police district to cooperate, while my associate—” he nodded toward the new minister of counternarcotics—“mobilizes t
he counternarcotics task force I myself formerly trained. In two months, we can arrest a number of the worst offenders. Would this satisfy your Waters and Congress?”

  “Sure it would, if you can pull it off,” the BIN attaché answered sharply. “If it’s that simple, why hasn’t it been done before?”

  “I was not minister of interior before,” Khalid responded with an aplomb that left both sides of the table silenced even after translation was finished. After a moment he added as though an afterthought, “I will accompany the task force to oversee these arrests personally.”

  The bombshell left Steve struggling to restore his impassivity. Khalid, you didn’t just spring that on me. In the mirror Steve eyed Khalid’s deputy, at his side as always. Did that poker face suggest Ismail knew the minister’s plans? Or was he just better at hiding surprise than Steve?

  The U.S. joint task force commander gave voice to Steve’s disbelief. “Mr. Minister, is it prudent to expose yourself to such threat? Your country can’t afford to lose another interior minister.”

  “Have I not already faced threat right here in Kabul?” Khalid answered placidly. “On the road it will not be so easy to find me. And I have my own excellent protection.” He waved a magnanimous hand to the tall, silent figure at his back. “You will allow no harm to come to me; is that not so, Willie?”

  No, he wouldn’t, though at the moment an impulse to strangle his principal pulsed at Steve’s temples. Unfortunately, while he might have some small sway in security measures, Steve could hardly dictate the movements and job performance of Afghanistan’s top cabinet minister. And from the serene determination of the minister’s reflection in that mirror, Khalid wasn’t going to budge.

  “Mr. Minister, if you’re serious about this,” Placido spoke up, “I’d sure like to have some of my boys ride along. We’ve been dealing with a lot of those same commanders—and those delinquents you mentioned.”

  “Of course,” Khalid consented.

  A fresh babble of discussion ended hopes of adjournment. Flexing his toes again in his boots, Steve blanked discomfort from his mind to settle himself to immobility.

  At least he wouldn’t have to worry about boredom for a while.

  Thunder rattled the aerie where he crouched, slashes of lightning echoing the chaos of his thoughts, though no drop of rain had yet tamed the city’s dust. Under his sandals, a chunk of concrete broke away, falling into the night’s abyss, but he didn’t retreat from the shattered edge. Was not the manner of his death already fixed around his neck at birth? And tonight, if Allah willed, he would record his declaration of shaheed, receive into his hands the replacement weapon.

  Receive as well the confirmation that was his promised reward.

  No, Allah’s pleasure and mercy were the only rewards for which a man dared hope. Still, to know!

  He turned from the opening to the darkness beyond which broken steps wound down flight after flight to the street. He’d been waiting for hours. Had there been a problem with the necessary materials to replace those tossed so senselessly away? The camera for taping? Or some more serious delay?

  Feet sounded on the stairs, paused outside the ruined chamber. A narrow beam of light flickered across the cracked walls, then winked out before a shadow stepped into the room.

  “Where have you been? I was on the point of leaving.”

  “There has been another change.” Footsteps crossed the room. He’d never seen the newcomer in daylight, knew him only as a voice in the dark, on the phone. An irregular bulge above wide shoulders was a turban wrapped across the other man’s face.

  “Then you do not know.”

  “The time and place, no. But the season is now fixed.”

  “But that is so far distant. An eternity away.” His body was shaking with the intensity of his distress, his hands clenched tight at his sides to contain it. “And what about the other?”

  “Not yet. We are searching. It has not been so long. These matters take time. Inquiries must be made.”

  He twisted around angrily. “Perhaps I should go to search for myself if I am not needed here.”

  “No!” Hard fingers bit into his upper arm. “If you leave, do you think we would trust your word to return? We have the matter in hand. And resources beyond any you could summon. I have given my oath that it will be done. It is a holy matter. Do you doubt me?”

  “No, of course not. It is just . . . I wish to see with my own eyes, to know before—” He bit off his words, got out with difficulty, “What am I to do then in all this time?”

  The clap of thunder broke close enough the hand dropped from his arm with an involuntary gasp. He held his breath. For that single instant, a flash of lightning had reached through the broken walls, casting into sharp relief features no longer masked.

  As night flowed back, he let his breath out quietly. It would be prudent to keep to himself that he’d recognize that stark profile anywhere, should he see it again. He heard the movements of the turban being yanked back into place, felt hidden eyes probing him in the darkness.

  Then the voice answered with bored incredulity, “Do? What does any man do? Breathe, eat, sleep, work, live. I will contact you when the time and place are known. Until then do not seek me out. But do not deceive yourself. We will know of your every movement.”

  The first raindrops had begun to fall as he left the ruined building and hurried in the night. At this late hour, not even the generators of the wealthy offered scattered light, and he was grateful for continued flashes overhead to mark his way.

  For the reprieve, he was not sure whether to be grateful or bitter. The time stretched out endlessly before him, yet so terrifyingly brief. What was he to do to fill the hours so that his thoughts did not spiral down into madness again?

  Breathe. Eat. Sleep. Work.

  Live!

  In the end Jamil couldn’t leave the book alone. What if someone found it there? So was the excuse he gave himself. By daylight, the memory of its words didn’t ring with such effrontery. And anything was better than his present nights. On the third day he went discreetly looking. He found the book under an unpruned rose briar that climbed the wall beside the mechanics shed, the cover slightly damp because it had drizzled in the night but dry inside.

  This time he stayed away from tales of Isa, leafing patiently through the pages until he found the words Ameera had first shown him: “Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies.”

  A good teaching. Though the Quran gave a man great power over his family, Jamil’s father had not been a harsh man, raising his voice but rarely his hand. Still, Jamil knew the statistics from his medical training, had seen in Ameera’s work injustices that could not be denied. Could it be true that unkindness could nullify prayers as easily as careless ablutions?

  These epistles as they were called seemed to be to the hadith, a collection of Muhammad’s teachings gathered by the apostle’s most faithful followers, what the injil, the gospel stories of Isa’s life and teaching, were to the Quran, Muhammad’s direct revelations from Allah. Though he knew the individual English words, there were sections over which Jamil puzzled, especially those written by the disciple called Paul, his discussions of doctrine and teaching as intricate and circumambulating as the greatest Islamic scholars.

  But his commands were brief, many, and unambiguous. Nor were these instructions for brushing one’s teeth or arranging one’s feet the proper way.

  Put off falsehood and speak truthfully. . . . He who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work. . . . Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice.

  To pray, refrain from immorality, obey government, help the poor, work hard, and avoid greed—all good teachings. But others were harder.

  Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing.

  “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.

  And over and over in many forms—live in peace with each other, be
kind and compassionate to each other, love one another.

  Then there it was again:

  Forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

  “Farah, have you seen Soraya at all today?”

  The Tajik girl shook her head as she lifted the box in her arms to the back of the cargo truck.

  “Then would you mind checking around to see if anyone else has heard anything? Maybe Soraya said something to them.”

  “Fatima will know. I will go find her.”

  “No, I already spoke with Fatima when she came in this morning. She has no idea why Soraya hasn’t returned from the weekend. If I’d been thinking, I’d have asked her to check around for me when she gets home.”

  Amy wasn’t sure just when she’d found out Fatima was a relative of Soraya’s. Maybe when she’d stepped out the gate for a delivery of propane heaters just as the same youth who accompanied the teacher on school days escorted Soraya off a city bus down at the corner. Her cousin, Hasim, Soraya explained as the boy climbed aboard, and Fatima’s brother, whose chores would seem to include escort duty for female family members.

  Amy, who’d been wondering if it was appropriate to suggest Jamil’s services, was relieved to learn Soraya wasn’t crossing the city alone. The whiff of nepotism troubled her not in the least. If foreigners hired fixers, for ordinary Afghans, relationships were the grease that made society’s wheels turn, someone inevitably having a “cousin” or “brother” or “uncle” who just happened to have or do exactly what you needed.

  In fact, Amy was counting on Soraya to come up with at least a couple more teachers from among her acquaintances and possibly other personnel as well. Amy cast an impatient glance up and down the street. Morning classes were over, Fatima gone already with Hasim, the noon meal cleared away. A buzz of activity centered now around Rasheed’s elderly cargo truck pulled up to the pedestrian gate.

  More than a hundred children were registered for this afternoon’s launch of their feeding and literacy outreach. Soraya had agreed to oversee the reading class until permanent teachers were hired. Jamil would drive and handle crowd control as well as documenting the event with the video camera.