Veiled Freedom Page 9

  It wasn’t Rasheed’s first time with a sat phone; he quickly punched in a number. Finished, he beamed at Amy. “The Sarai Guesthouse is where Mr. Nestor and Mr. Bruce stay when they are here. They have a room for you. I will drive you there when you are ready.”

  And what’s your commission? Amy wasn’t sure she liked the new jovial Rasheed or the satisfied glance resting on her new outfit. He thinks he’s won. He’s exercised his will over me, a female, and gotten away with it. But Amy was going to need the man’s connections and knowledge of the local system that Jamil wouldn’t have.

  At her request Rasheed took Amy on a tour of her new rental property. Downstairs, a single large salon on each side opened onto the inner courtyard. To either side, a tiled staircase wound up to the second-story balcony. Upstairs, the rooms were smaller with two on each side. Amy was pleased to find a second bathroom directly above the first.

  Rasheed nodded when Amy explained her interest in expanding to the front courtyard and at least part of the main wing, waving aside her suggestion that she negotiate personally with the landlord. “That is not necessary. I will speak with Khalid myself tomorrow. I am sure all can be arranged. Whatever you should require I have already informed Mr. Bruce I will fix it for you.”

  Amy would have liked to survey the entire property from this upper level, but the only windows in the women’s quarters opened onto the interior courtyard. In contrast, the main wing had no windows facing inward through which visitors might catch a glimpse of female residents. At the top of each outer staircase, a door led into the main wing’s second story. But like those locked salons in the hallway, these doors were in good repair and locked.

  “Hamida will clean all of this when you require it,” Rasheed said.

  His wife and Jamil had both trailed at a discreet distance during the tour. Hamida pulled her chador back over her face as she stepped out onto the second-floor balcony.

  So even in the prison of their own quarters, they’ve got to worry about men looking over the back wall. Amy rebelled.

  “Hamida is not educated, and she is barren. But she is a hard worker, and she is not stupid. She can learn whatever you wish for her to do.” Turning to his wife, Rasheed broke into Dari.

  Repeating his directive, Amy guessed, and by Hamida’s apprehensive expression, not kindly. At that moment Amy hated Rasheed for the way he spoke of his wife and how he was grinning at Amy as though he’d just offered her a housewarming gift.

  Her indignation warmed Amy’s smile as she stepped toward the other woman to acknowledge the halfhearted introduction. “Salaam aleykum, Hamida. Please call me Amy.”

  Hamida’s fingertips barely brushed Amy’s offered hand.

  Pointing to herself, Amy repeated with clear emphasis, “Thank you so much—tashakor—for a delicious meal and all your help.”

  “Ameera.” Rasheed nodded, shaggy beard wagging as though Amy had been speaking to him. “Yes, that is a much better name. An Afghan name. Ameera.”

  Under the expectant pleasure of his beard-splitting grin, Amy gave up being angry. She wasn’t here to bang her head against countless generations of cultural attitudes. By Afghan standards Rasheed might even be a decent husband. Hamida looked well fed, adequately clothed, with a roof over her head despite the barrenness that entitled any good Muslim husband to a divorce.

  Stay focused. I’m here to help women and children, not try to reform macho jerks. Her mind flashed to a tall, lithe form. Of any nationality.

  Just so the chowkidar didn’t treat Amy like that. Amy infused authority into her voice as she continued to smile at Hamida. “This property is much too large for one person to clean. Would you ask Hamida if she knows of a few other women who need employment and would like to help?”

  “Of course,” Rasheed agreed, though he didn’t add a translation to his wife.

  Amy let it go because she’d just remembered another undone item on her to-do list. She turned to Jamil. “What about you? Do you have a place to stay?”

  Again Rasheed intervened. “That is not necessary. There is a place for him to sleep in the mechanics yard. It will be useful to have another guard at night.”

  That explained the trucks and noises Amy had encountered over the cinder-block partition. “The other side of the property is rented out?”

  “The business belongs to Khalid.” Rasheed led the way downstairs. “But you need not be concerned. There is no entrance into this side of the property.”

  Amy would have inquired further, but an undulating cry split the air. It was followed by another more distant cry, then another. The city mosques issuing the third, or midafternoon, of the day’s five calls to prayer.

  The effect on her Afghan companions was electric. As one, Rasheed and Jamil unwrapped the light blanket, called a patu, that Afghan men wore draped around their necks to spread it out on the courtyard tiles. Amy’s presence was forgotten or ignored, their flow of speech so rapid Amy caught only the occasional “Allahu Akbar.” “God is great.” They bowed, hands dropping to their knees. Then they were prostrate on the ground, foreheads pressed against the material that separated them from the ground.

  Hamida had drifted away, perhaps to her own prayers.

  After an awkward moment, Amy slipped unobtrusively back into the original salon and sank into a chair at the card table, feeling as though she’d been spying on something intensely personal.

  These people have things to teach us about prayer and devotion. How many Christians stop everything to pray five times a day?

  To Amy it was a gentle rebuke. For the first time since she’d stepped off the plane she pulled her thoughts from all that needed to be done. I’m here, heavenly Father, as I’ve dreamed for so long. Thank you for bringing me this far, for keeping me safe from my own stupidity. Thank you for this unbelievable opportunity to do something new here. It’s all so much bigger than I expected, and I’m not sure I know what I’m doing.

  Against the inside of Amy’s eyelids, a mental image sprang to vivid Technicolor, then another. A terrified toddler lost on a crowded sidewalk. The passionate relief on a man’s face as his son’s arms closed around his neck. The indomitable grin of a grizzled old man propelling his legless body in a homemade wheelchair. The skeletal hand and hopeless slump of a woman in a burqa wailing baksheesh. The somberness of remembered grief turning a young man’s eyes old. A black veil falling away to reveal a gap-toothed smile of unexpected sweetness. Even the furiously twisted faces of her own attackers, their anger birthed not of hate but of fear.

  But even without really knowing them yet, I care about these people. You made them, and I know you love them. They’ve suffered so much. I want to show them your love.

  “Miss Ameera?”

  Amy opened her eyes. Jamil was standing in the doorway, patu back over his shoulder, a puzzled expression knitting his eyebrows together. “You wish to sleep?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I was praying.”

  Her assistant looked unconvinced as his glance touched her seated position. “Rasheed is sending me to the bazaar to purchase paint and cleaning supplies. He wishes to know your desires in regards to window glass.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Rising, Amy went out to embrace Afghanistan.

  Steve raised the Motorola hand radio to his mouth. “Let’s roll.”

  And right on schedule, though Steve was still adjusting the Velcro straps of his tactical vest as the reinforced Hummer that was the convoy’s lead vehicle nosed out onto the street. Bones was at the wheel, Mac’s huge shape emerging from the roof hatch to man the turret gun. Steve, Cougar, and Phil followed in the Suburban. Behind, Ian had the wheel of a double-cab pickup. Rick and Jamie McDuff brought up the tail in a Mitsubishi Pajero. A dozen troop hires were divided among the vehicles.

  The convoy exited via the opposite checkpoint from where Steve and Cougar had entered. A few blocks later the streets turned abruptly to dirt. They were now out of the Wazir district and into neighboring Sherpur. This had
been a modest mud-brick district when Steve was last in Kabul. No longer.

  “Wow, what happened here? Barbie meets Arabian Nights? Vegas on Ecstasy?”

  Phil’s stunned analogy was appropriate enough. Mansions sprouted two, three, even four stories above the unpaved streets. A bewildering fusion of domes, peaks, cupolas, and turrets were trimmed in even more bewildering combinations of pinks, oranges, yellows, greens, and blues. Only concertina wire and the occasional row of blast barriers spoiled the effect of confectioners gone wild.

  “The latest in Afghan architecture,” Cougar said. “They call it Pakistani wedding cake. Or poppy palace, depending on the funding. The spoils of war. This little subdivision’s been a media hot button since President Karzai’s cabinet—all former muj commanders—bulldozed over the existing residents and parceled out the land among themselves.”

  The street ended in a cul-de-sac fronting the largest wedding cake. The Humvee curved left to park along a row of blast barriers. The Suburban pulled up behind it, pickup and Pajero following suit. Climbing out, Steve stared upward in consternation as Cougar hurried his way. This was what they’d been contracted to secure?

  The villa was only three stories, its walls a mustard yellow. There modesty ended. There must have been a dozen roof levels in blue, orange, purple, and chocolate. The perimeter wall rose a prudent ten feet, but the architect wasn’t thinking defensive depth because a second-story terrace ran right out over a canary yellow pedestrian gate. Just off the terrace, an onion-domed, four-story tower glittered blue glass and chrome.

  “The guy’s sure come up in the world since we were air-dropping MREs for him and his muj.” Phil had emerged to join Steve. “And from the looks of it, he’s rolled the dice on the Americans keeping the peace. Imagine an RPG on that.”

  It was certainly impressive enough to understand why Khalid had chosen to relocate. But the Wazir compound was at least built like a fortress. All that exposed glass made even Steve itch to loose his M4 on it.

  The contractors threaded through blast barriers toward the front gate. The rest of their force fanned out in defensive positions around the vehicles. Afghan sentries behind the barricade and ISAF troops patrolling balconies and terraces had been alerted to their arrival, because they showed no alarm at the invasion of a couple dozen armed men.

  “Like I said, the minister isn’t interested in low profile,” Cougar told Steve. “This is Khalid’s palace, and he isn’t going to budge out of here, so we’ll just have to roll with it. You did say it was doable.”

  “Sure, and those blueprints you gave me didn’t tell the whole story. Who in blazes did the advance assessment?”

  Cougar’s expression displayed guilt. “Are you saying you can’t carry out the contract?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Steve gritted, “except that if we’re going to do this, I need to start hearing more than what Khalid wants or doesn’t want.”

  The ISAF detail was a Dutch unit. Their commander met the Condor party just outside the yellow gate. The ISAF officer spoke excellent and furious English. “Now that you are here, I will remove my men within the hour. I will not expose them unnecessarily to further threat.”

  “What exactly is the threat?” Steve asked.

  “Judge for yourself. Khalid wishes to speak to you immediately. He is waiting inside.”

  Inside the compound, the perimeter wall ran back twice the depth of surrounding lots, where land must have been at greater premium than money because the gaudy mansions were built to completely fill their surface area. Helicopter rotors thrusting out past the curve of the glass tower indicated what Khalid had done with the extra footage. His own heliport.

  By contrast, a narrow drive between the house and right perimeter wall allowed room for no more than three or four vehicles. They wouldn’t even be able to get the convoy vehicles inside, Steve took in with annoyance.

  The Dutch officer led the way through an arched colonnade that supported the second-floor terrace and into a foyer so five-star Steve looked around for bellhops and a reception counter. To the right, an arch opened into the glass tower, padded with rugs, cushions, and bolster pillows that were the Afghan version of a sitting room. Across the foyer, a broad marble staircase rose to higher levels.

  Steve paused as a white-robed attendant emerged through double doors. The room beyond was sparkling blue from tiled walls and columns to vaulted roof. An indoor swimming pool? Steam rose from at least three water surfaces. Not a pool but a private hamam, the bathhouse that was an integral part of every Muslim community.

  Men were everywhere. Lounging in Afghan dress on cushions. Perched in Western suits on sofas and chairs. Laughing. Talking. Eating.

  “Who are they?” Steve asked the ISAF officer. “And how do you process them for a decent security check?”

  “We don’t,” the Dutch officer said flatly. “It seems it’s an insult to have Kafir infidel hands patting them down. Khalid’s own people check over the lower ranks. But the VIPs no one can touch. I’m just waiting for one to show up rigged to blow. It’s all we’ve managed to enforce a weapons check. At least for those we can see.”

  Steve, Cougar, and Phil followed the ISAF commander up the staircase. Steve had not yet seen armed presence indoors, but as they entered the second floor, two flaxen-haired, uniformed men moved aside at their commanding officer’s signal.

  “We’ve at least convinced Khalid to move his personal reception area back here, but he doesn’t like the view.” The Dutch officer stopped outside a door where two more ISAF troops stood watch. “Khalid’s waiting for you. Be aware we’re pulling out at 1700 hours on the dot. When you’re ready to walk through security procedures, let one of my men know.”

  Cougar pushed open the door. The salon into which they stepped was big and airy, its decor an eclectic mix of Afghan cushions and rugs along with burnished leather sofas and chairs. But floor-to-ceiling windows explained Khalid’s complaint. They overlooked a concrete slab supporting the gray green bulk of Khalid’s Mi-8 helicopter. Beyond a rear perimeter wall, the neighborhood reverted back to mud-brick hovels and dirt alleys.

  “Willie! Salaam aleykum.” The former muj commander was as changed as his living conditions, at least thirty pounds heavier, hair and beard styled and suspiciously free of gray. An Italian suit replaced combat fatigues, and if the watch he wore wasn’t a Rolex, it was an expensive facsimile. Steve received a whiff of pricey cologne as Khalid kissed him enthusiastically on each cheek. “I am so happy you are here. I feel safer already.”

  Then he took in Phil’s presence and repeated the embrace. “Phil! I did not think to see you here. I had heard you were wounded and had left my country. I am glad to see the reports were exaggerated. And now you have come to defend my life again. Come, friends, let us converse.”

  As they moved into the room, Khalid waved at a tall, lean man who’d lingered silently at a distance during Khalid’s effusive welcome. Steve recognized him as the translator who’d been their team’s personal driver and liaison with Khalid and his men.

  “You remember Ismail, my comrade and yours against the Taliban. He is now my deputy minister.”

  Steve had seen Ismail minimally since the liberation of Kabul. In fact, the last time had been only a couple of days later. He’d asked about the prisoner transfer. Ismail had assured Steve all had gone well. The next day their team had flown out to prepare for the Anaconda campaign.

  The deputy minister followed Khalid’s lead with hearty kisses and salaams. Unlike the former muj commander, Ismail still clung to traditional dress. But a richly embroidered chapan and turban were of expensive silk, curly dark hair and beard ruthlessly trimmed and oiled.

  “So, my friends, what do you think of the new Afghanistan you have helped to create? Much change, no?” Khalid settled himself into a leather chair with a gingerness that betrayed he wasn’t yet comfortable in the constriction of Western dress. “Allah has prospered us greatly since you and I fought jihad together.”<
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  “You certainly have a beautiful home here,” Steve agreed evenly.

  “Yes, I designed it myself. Just like America, no? There are those who criticize this beautiful neighborhood we have created. But all these houses were built from the private pockets of Afghans. It is our prayer that one day all Afghanistan will be beautiful like this and that all the poor too will have such houses.” Khalid lifted his hands toward the ceiling. “But everything belongs to Allah, does it not? And is it not he who chooses who should be blessed and who should not? Allah gave this land to those who fought on his behalf.”

  For all the exigency of his earlier summons, Khalid seemed content to reminisce indefinitely. But his affability evaporated when Steve steered the conversation to the purpose for their presence. Steve soon understood why the ISAF commander had opted out. He didn’t remember Khalid being so intransigent. Of course back then the MOI had been a ragtag warlord in desperate need of the firepower and money Steve could call in for him. Now he plainly considered the shoe to be on the other foot.

  “No, no, no, no, no! My people must be free to see me. I must be free to come and go. You may post all the guards you wish, but I will not change my manner of living to satisfy barbarians who think to terrorize me. Nor offer insult to men who once risked their lives fighting at my side.”

  “It’s just standard security protocol.” Cougar was endlessly patient and cajoling, Phil silent.

  Steve stood up abruptly. “I guess that leaves nothing to discuss. Khalid, we’re prepared to do everything possible to minimize impact on your daily life without compromising security. But our contract is with the U.S. State Department, and we answer to them for the success of our mission. I will simply report that you’ve declined our protection. I’m sure they’ll be happy to redirect those funds elsewhere.”

  Steve heard Cougar’s muted noise of dismay and knew the millions CS stood to make—or lose—were passing through his mind. But Steve’s hard gaze did not waver from Khalid’s, and it was the former muj commander who at last flung up his hands.