Veiled Freedom Page 4

  A small panel in the pedestrian gate slid sideways; then the gate opened. An elderly Afghan man stepped out, beard long and white, assault rifle hanging by a strap over one shoulder. The driver headed up a cobblestone path, leaving Amy to shoulder her bag and follow. As the gate clanged shut behind her, Amy seized the opportunity to yank off the burqa. A late morning sun felt deliciously cool after the sauna inside the burqa, and Amy felt no shame as she used the polyester to wipe away sweat and grime before balling it up under one arm.

  But now that she could see, Amy found herself swallowing back disappointment as well as dust. In the JPEG the gate’s black metal hadn’t shown itself rusted enough to fall off its hinges. The cobblestone path led to a courtyard with a fountain. Behind the fountain, marble steps rose to a columned portico and into a two-story villa.

  But the fountain wasn’t running, the courtyard’s tiled mosaic broken, windows on both floors boarded over. Though the lot was several acres, only tree stumps, broken trellises, and sun-baked dirt remained of what had once been extensive gardens and orchards. Alongside the path, a cinder-block partition divided the property from pedestrian gate to main residence. Over this wall, the sun glinted on a metal shed roof. Banging, thuds, and men’s voices indicated some kind of manual labor.

  A similar cinder-block divider on either side of the villa effectively cut the property into four. In the quadrant where Amy had entered, stacks of bricks, tiles, sawed lumber, and piled-up cement sacks suggested repairs. But these were thick with dust, and Amy saw no workmen in sight.

  Nor anyone else. Where was evidence an international nonprofit organization occupied these premises? Amy’s escort had disappeared up the marble steps. Little though she welcomed his company, he was Amy’s only contact here, so she quickened her steps. Debris propped massive wooden doors permanently open. Amy walked through into a wide hallway. Her escort had already reached the far end, where doors were missing altogether. In compensation, double doors to either side were not only closed but locked, a tentative wiggle of door handles confirmed. To the left of the back entrance, a staircase curved upward.

  Tap-crunch. Tap-crunch.

  The footsteps whirled Amy around. A man had stepped onto the broken mosaic of the courtyard. Amy’s first thought was the watchman, but this man was far younger, closer to Amy’s own age. He’d stopped to look around, his head tilted back to take in the boarded-up windows, giving Amy the opportunity to look him over thoroughly.

  He was bareheaded, with the curly dark hair and beard, high forehead, and wide-spaced, espresso-brown eyes of a movie-screen Jesus that had startled Amy the first time she glimpsed such features in real life here in this part of the world. Behind him, the pedestrian gate now stood open, the elderly watchman shuffling inside. No mystery then. The newcomer too had just come in off the street.

  Ahead in the far doorway, Amy’s driver-escort had paused to look back. As his unsmiling gaze rested on her naked face and arms, Amy again felt unease, acutely aware of being not only foreign here but female and alone. She was beginning to understand the rationale of tugging that blue polyester back on. A burqa could be as much a shield as a prison.

  No, now I’m not being paranoid. Where is this boss of mine who’s supposed to be here?

  Then the watchman disappeared into a guard shack beside the gate. Her driver-escort stepped forward through the missing exit doors. At that same moment, a shadow at the base of the staircase coalesced into a black chador, the less-confining women’s covering that left eyes and nose exposed. A straw broom in the wearer’s hands slid over the tiled floor as silently as she’d emerged from the shadows. The presence of another woman gave Amy the fortitude to return to the entrance to confront the young man.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Amy dredged up her laboriously memorized Dari to repeat the second question. “Che mekhaahed?”

  The young man looked startled, whether from her atrocious accent or because he hadn’t noticed Amy inside the hallway. His gaze rested everywhere but on Amy as he responded hesitantly, “You are an American, yes? I am looking for the—how do you say it?—the boss who is in command of this facility. I was told I might inquire as to employment.”

  “Oh, you speak English.”

  The young man certainly looked like he needed a job. At this closer vantage, Amy could see that he was very thin even for his slight build, cheekbones protruding above beard and mustache, shoulders bony under the tunic. His dark eyes were sunk deep into their sockets and somber.

  Amy shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just got here myself, and I’m looking for my own boss. But you might try over there. I heard men talking on the other side of that wall.”

  “Mallory?” The driver reappeared in the far doorway. “The American will speak with you now.”

  So Amy did have a new boss around here somewhere. And surprise of surprises, her escort could speak quite passable English when he chose.

  The driver’s gaze fell on her new acquaintance. “Tu!”

  Amy caught none of the rapid Dari that followed, but the driver’s peremptory gesture needed no translation. The newcomer obediently hunkered down on his heels in the passageway. At the jerk of her escort’s head, Amy followed him through the missing doors. The woman in the black chador drifted out behind them, still sweeping.

  Once outside, Amy could see that the villa was actually three wings that formed a square with the rear property wall around an interior courtyard. A colonnade around the three sides of the house supported a second-story balcony. Huge stone pots had once held flower shrubs or potted trees, and in the center was another fountain.

  But here, too, the fountain held no water, its basin cracked. Missing tiles exposed crumbling concrete, and a wrought-iron balcony railing was rusted to brick red. It must have been so beautiful. How could they let it be destroyed so?

  Maybe it was just the consequence of war, though one would think that would be repaired by now. Amy abandoned her inspection as her escort tapped his foot outside a door on the right-hand colonnade. When Amy obeyed his gesture to go inside, he didn’t follow but strode away across the courtyard.

  The salon Amy entered was as dilapidated as the rest of the premises, plastic bags tacked over windows instead of glass, plastered walls stained and peeling. The only furnishings were a card table and plastic chairs. The woman hadn’t penetrated with her straw broom—Kabul’s powder-fine dust lay thickly over everything.

  Almost everything.

  The exception was behind the card table. A stocky Caucasian man in his forties with thinning sandy hair. Fingers drummed restlessly on a closed briefcase. Black dress shoes tapped impatiently.

  All that mattered to Amy was that he was obviously, gloriously, expatriate. Relief liberated Amy’s smile as she crossed the room with outstretched hand. “Mr. Nestor Korallis, New Hope Foundation. I’m so glad to see you. Amy Mallory.”

  The man made no effort to rise or take her hand, which offended Amy less when she glanced down to realize how grimy it was. Instead, he was staring at Amy with the same stunned incredulity with which her escort had greeted her at the airport. “You are A. M. Mallory?”

  Amy surreptitiously wiped her hand on the blue polyester ball. “That’s right. Amy Margaret Mallory. Why? Is there a problem?”

  “The problem is, I was expecting a man.” He checked his watch. “And you’re eighteen hours late.”

  Indignation dimmed Amy’s smile. “Mr. Korallis, I’m sorry, but—”

  “I’m not Korallis. He couldn’t make it. I’m Bruce Evans, New Hope’s chief financial officer.”

  “Mr. Evans, then. If there’s been a mix-up, I apologize. As to the delay, I reached Dubai on schedule, but the Ariana flight was grounded for an engine repair, so I spent the night in the terminal. I tried to e-mail, but the wireless connection was down.”

  “Call me Bruce. We aren’t that formal at New Hope.” The man was still staring at Amy as though he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. “Unfortunately, I have t
o be at the airport by noon to fly to DC. Which gives us, instead of a full day to line you out here, barely an hour.”

  He pulled his stare from Amy to open his briefcase, then looked up again, blinking rapidly. “Are you aware of just why you’re here in Afghanistan and what your duties will entail?”

  Now it was Amy’s turn to stare. Was this some trick question? “I originally applied for your earthquake relief project up in Kashmir, if that’s the confusion. But I’ve always had an interest in Afghanistan. So when Mr. Korallis called to say you’d had a personnel emergency and needed me here for a few months, I told him I’d be willing to fill in wherever you needed me.”

  “Then you spoke to Nestor personally. He knows you’re a woman and a young one.”

  “I’m twenty-four. That’s hardly young in the aid community. I’ve been in the field for three years and have experience in project administration as well as disaster relief.”

  This was not Amy’s first time at this particular conversation. While volunteers of all ages could be found in the NGO community, they tended toward youth, so it was not uncommon for field personnel to find themselves in management positions at an age when back home they’d still be making coffee.

  “I’m aware of your résumé. Miami-raised. International business degree from Florida International University. You’ve spent the last three years working with a volunteer NGO called Christian Relief. Honduras. Peru. India. Philippines. Indonesia. Africa. Any place some natural disaster called for cleanup. Nestor forwarded your credentials to me when this situation arose. Age and gender were little tidbits he left out.”

  “So you just assumed I was a man?” Amy said slowly.

  “I assumed that Nestor understood Afghanistan is hardly a work-friendly environment for a young and single American woman. At least not in our current situation.” Bruce unearthed a satellite phone from his briefcase. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” He rose from the table, hurrying across the room to step outside onto the veranda.

  Amy could hear his voice but not the words. With some annoyance, she glanced around. If he wasn’t going to offer a decent welcome, she’d just have to make herself at home.

  Wiping a chair with the blue polyester, Amy pulled it up opposite the briefcase. Then she noticed the small cooler sitting on the floor under the table. As she’d hoped, it held bottles of water. The first order of hospitality in expat travel. Amy suppressed an unladylike moan of pleasure as the dust and thirst washed down her throat.

  “I’m sorry. I should have taken care of that.” Bruce was back. “This has all caught me so off guard, I wasn’t thinking. Do make yourself at home.” He sat down. “Nestor confirms you are the A. M. Mallory contracted for this position, and he informs me he not only was aware of your gender but considered it a bonus in the hiring. We’ve been lacking gender balance in our overseas hires.” His tone was as dry as the dust filming the table. “So now that everything’s in order, let’s get the paperwork started.”

  As Bruce unloaded files from his briefcase, he added belatedly without glancing up, “I trust your trip was uneventful other than the delay. Rasheed collected you, no problem? We’ve got a lot of ground to catch up, so may I assume you’ve arrived ready to hit the ground running?”

  What a question. With no new boss to charm, Amy was irritated enough to trade diplomacy for frankness. “Actually, it was the longest twenty-four hours I’ve ever sat straight up in coach. After eighteen hours’ delay, Ariana still didn’t transfer my luggage, which added another hour filling out forms at the airport. As to your driver, he seems to have a major attitude problem. Would you believe he made me wear a burqa?”

  Okay, enough honesty for one dose. Letting shoulder bag and blue polyester ball slide to the floor, Amy wrinkled her nose in a rueful grin. “But I made it, and that’s what constitutes a good flight, right? As to getting started, I’m ready when you are.”

  Bruce looked taken aback. He blinked again as he pushed a sheaf of papers across the table. “Good, then you can start with these. The contract’s standard three-month probationary with automatic renewal if both parties are satisfied. Just sign every place you see an X.”

  Now it was Amy who was blinking. The salary listed was more than she’d been led to expect, while the project budget—Wow, if we’d had this in Mozambique . . . !

  “As for Rasheed, he’s a devout Muslim, and he was expecting a man. If you arrived like that, well, just be glad he handed you a burqa instead of ditching you at the airport. With your credentials, I’d have assumed you’d know long sleeves, loose clothing, and head covering are a minimum here even for expats. Women, that is.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” Amy set down her pen hard. “How many years has it been since the Taliban skipped town? I’m aware of local sensibilities and have every intention of wearing culturally sensitive clothing when mixing with locals. One of those missing suitcases has an entire wardrobe. But I sure didn’t expect to fly from Miami that way. And certainly not inside New Hope’s vehicles or quarters.”

  “Yeah, well, the big NGOs run their own vehicles and drivers. New Hope prides itself on working through the locals. In fact, you’ll be our first expat living on-site. So I trust you’ll accommodate their cultural prejudices.”

  This time Amy opted for diplomacy. “Actually, New Hope’s commitment to work directly with the Afghans was a major selling point. . . .” Then what he’d said sank in. “Wait, you’re saying I’m your first expat? Who’s been running the project? I must say I expected a little more infrastructure than I’ve seen so far. What size staff do you run?”

  “Actually that’s the emergency.” Bruce looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know how much Nestor told you of how New Hope works. It’s a foundation that partners with local NGOs in developing nations. Funding comes mostly from Korallis Enterprises, an investment firm founded by Nestor Korallis’s grandfather. Nestor’s been administering the foundation since he retired from the corporation.

  “Since 9/11, Afghanistan has been the largest focus of international aid. About two years ago, Nestor decided to jump on that bandwagon. The foundation was approached by an Afghan NGO with impeccable connections to the current local government and international community. New Hope contracted the project. A dozen regional centers offering employment, nutrition, shelter, education, and health to be set up over a two-year period.”

  Amy didn’t like where this was going. “So who oversaw the project?”

  “Nestor or I would fly over for a few days every two to three months. That’s how we got to know Rasheed. One of the other NGOs recommended him as a driver-slash-translator. The project was going well. Unfortunately, when we published pictures in our promo literature, NGOs began coming out of the woodwork saying those were their projects, not ours.”

  “And the project funds?”

  “Gone. Along with our local Afghan project manager as soon as he found out the whistle had been blown. And all the staff, who it turned out were family members.”

  “That’s terrible. Poor Mr. Korallis,” Amy exclaimed. “Why am I here then? If there’s nothing left, wouldn’t it be easiest to just shut down the project and walk away?”

  “That’s not an option,” Bruce said. “The IRS doesn’t take kindly to vanishing funds, and we’re scheduled for an audit. Either there’s a documented project here by the end of this calendar year, or the monies will have to be reimbursed.”

  “But this is already September,” Amy said, aghast. “And you’ve no personnel.”

  “Just our new country manager. You did say you’d do whatever was necessary. And may I remind you that you’ve just signed a contract.”

  “Which I wouldn’t have if I’d known the situation.” Amy rubbed her face. “This is crazy! I’ve done project management, but not completely on my own. I don’t even speak the language. And what could Mr. Korallis possibly expect anyone to do in three months that your Afghan personnel couldn’t do in two years?”

  “On the contrar
y, the project itself shouldn’t be a problem,” Bruce said coolly. “I signed a lease on a major chunk of this property for New Hope’s new country office. Rasheed’s lived on-site here as caretaker for years. He’ll serve as driver and translator; his wife, Hamida, to do housekeeping. The budget’s a generous one, so hiring further personnel is only a matter of finding them. As to aid recipients, this country’s crawling with starving widows and children. How hard can it be to get a few of them in here, clean them up for a few decent photo ops? The right person should have no difficulty turning this around.”

  Bruce began stuffing papers back into his briefcase. “All that to say, I hope you understand now my consternation at finding out just who A. M. Mallory really is. Nothing personal, believe me. I have no doubt you are a very capable young woman. Nestor Korallis certainly seems to feel so. But as you’ve already found out, Afghanistan is a man’s world.”

  In other words, a man could pull this off, but I can’t.

  Bruce pushed a manila envelope across the table. “Here are your lease papers and banking arrangements. Nestor is a generous employer. If you feel this is all beyond you, there’s the option of breaking the contract you just signed. I’m assuming you took a careful look at the penalty clauses. Under the circumstances, we could work out a waiver. Make your decision, though, because I’m leaving in five minutes.”

  “And if I broke the contract?” Amy asked slowly. “Mr. Korallis told me he had no one else to take the position on such short notice, that Afghanistan was a hard slot to fill.”

  He shrugged. “That’s true. But that’s New Hope’s problem, not yours. If I know Nestor, he’ll make good out of his own pocket if he has to.”