Veiled Freedom

by Jeanette Windle

  His grabbing of Wajid’s Kalashnikov had been a gesture of desperation when he found the old man unconscious. But as he’d hoped and silently prayed, the bursts he’d fired into the air until the weapon was empty had convinced the intruders their target was not so undefended as they’d assumed. Lying prone on the flat roof of his quarters, Jamil had watched them retreat until the arrival of the foreign mercenaries sent him to conceal himself in the orchard.

  Yes, he’d done a righteous deed tonight. A deed that must surely weigh favorably in Allah’s judgment scale. A deed such as Isa Masih might approve.

  But it was no thought of his own righteousness that warmed Jamil in some inner place the frigid air pouring through the window frame couldn’t touch. His thoughts were of this house and its vulnerable residents, who because of his decision to act were returning to disrupted slumber warm and safe and unafraid behind these strong walls. Was this what Ameera felt when she helped the Welayat tenants and the children in those hillside hovels and the refugees from other disasters of which she’d spoken?

  It was a good feeling, one he could wish to feel again.

  Jamil had run out of faces and was panning back when he stiffened. He waited for a head to turn, zooming in until the screen became a blur of colored pixels. The men were leaving, the police herding prisoners ahead of them, the others drifting through the gate to their vehicles. Across the cinder-block partition, Jamil could see that a blue gray unit of police uniforms had stationed themselves to guard the broken gate. The sight of them didn’t trouble Jamil. They were but local precinct recruits, hired not for inquisitiveness but unquestioning obedience.

  With his targets out of range, Jamil replayed the footage, studying each frame with unblinking concentration. No, he hadn’t been mistaken.

  The battery gave out just as he ran his taping to the end. Jamil stored the camera meditatively, placing its case on Ameera’s desk for her use in the morning, leaving her keys beside it. What use this information might prove, he did not yet know. But one thing this night had taught him.

  Truth was not only freedom.

  Truth was power.

  “Thank you for meeting at such short notice. Khalid, thank you for your hospitality. Now, as you’re all aware, the most important item on the agenda is the arrival of Jim Waters and his delegation. They’ll be flying out of DC this evening—” Deputy Chief of Mission Carl Bolton glanced at his BlackBerry—“and landing here sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  The assembled group was virtually the same as had gathered around a conference table over a month ago now. But this time Steve was seated with Cougar and DynCorp manager Jason Hamilton among the American embassy personnel and Afghan ministers scattered around the plush sofas of Khalid’s reception suite. Behind the minister stood a Russian operative who, along with Roald, a retired German commando, was Steve’s most recent tier one hire. Neither spoke fluent English nor any Dari at all, but they’d become Khalid’s favorites for agent-in-charge duties.

  “But why have we not been told this before?” The minister of agriculture looked aggrieved. “Were we not informed he would be coming during your American Christmas festival? This allows little time to prepare a welcome that will properly honor such distinguished guests.”

  “Moving things forward was a last-minute decision,” Carl Bolton answered smoothly. “Congress just recessed for the holidays but not before approving the full expanded aid package we’ve requested for Afghanistan. Jim Waters felt it would be appropriate to offer his congratulations in person as well as look over the good work you’re doing here.”

  Unspoken was the reality that the State Department didn’t offer travel plans for their high-ranking personnel any further ahead than necessary. The less advance notice, the less likelihood of someone seizing opportunity for a potshot at the U.S. government’s top counternarcotics spokesman. Which was the reason Steve and Jason Hamilton were included in this VIP assembly. Between DynCorp’s embassy contract and Steve’s position as head of Khalid’s detail, security for this shindig would be their headache.

  “Yes, the new budget appropriations were better than we’d hoped for, not just for counternarcotics but across the board.” DEA station chief Ramon Placido looked over at the U.S. task force commander. “Our government wasn’t happy that satellite surveys show poppy planting up again. But drug arrests are up even more so, which tipped the scale in our favor. For that we can express our appreciation to the Ministry of Interior.”

  From his armchair, Khalid beamed. Beyond that spectacular destruction of Dilshod’s hoard, the Black Hawk and Chinook had ferried back to Kabul an accumulated ton of seized opium bricks and close to two tons of hashish. The MOI “surge” had continued after Khalid’s return to Kabul with the new counternarcotics police force racking up more arrests and even more seizures all around the country. Which made up for the freshly planted fields Steve had noted everywhere. Opium poppy was seeded in late fall to be harvested in the spring.

  “Though it is short notice,” Khalid said, “we will be honored to offer our hospitality to this czar Jim Waters and his associates. But not tomorrow. It is Eid-e-Qorban. All will be occupied with the feast day.”

  “And we understand that,” Carl Bolton put in quickly. “Our staff will welcome Jim Waters and his team, and they’ll spend the day with embassy personnel. But maybe Saturday we could start with that loya jirga, then a troop review and a look at your overall operation. We’ve only got three days. He flies on to Iraq Monday.”

  Both Ramon Placido and the minister of counternarcotics shook their heads. As the translator murmured into his headset, Ramon Placido explained, “The trainees will be heading home to spend the festival with their families. We’ll be lucky if half of them are back by Saturday, much less ready to show off.”

  “I can arrange a Black Hawk for an air tour Saturday,” the U.S. task force commander offered.

  Khalid looked less than pleased at the proposal, and Steve knew those few hundred thousand acres of recently seeded poppy fields were going through his mind. But the tailored shoulders of his Italian suit rose and fell. “That will be satisfactory. On Sunday then I will offer hospitality for the loya jirga. My people can quickly make things ready. This will also permit time for the ministers and governors and commanders we have invited to arrange their schedules.”

  “Pardon my frankness, Minister,” Ramon Placido replied, “but the MOI’s perimeter defense is as leaky as a sieve, as I’m sure your head of security would agree.” Steve kept his face expressionless. “If the participants have time to make travel plans, so do the bad guys.”

  “What about our embassy complex?” The U.S. task force commander spoke up. “There’s tons of room, and it would avoid exposing Waters and his people.”

  Bolton frowned. “May I suggest the new Justice Center? I know it’s not quite finished, but at least that means no occupants to screen. The U.S. embassy is always happy to cooperate, but they don’t feel they can handle so many outsiders at short notice.”

  With the recent upsurge in bombings, Steve didn’t blame the embassy for a reluctance to throw their doors open wide. And he approved the alternative. Another multimillion-dollar donation of the American people, Kabul’s new Counternarcotics Justice Center boasted courtrooms, offices, interrogation chambers, and jail cells where drug suspects could be held, investigated, prosecuted, and sentenced all in one stop. That it wasn’t yet occupied would make it easier to cordon off for such a high-security event.

  Khalid pondered, then nodded. “An excellent idea. In fact, we will make this loya jirga the center’s inauguration. Who better than your drug czar to cut the ribbon? And after the inauguration, we will arrange a parade of our new forces and a ceremony to burn the drugs we have seized.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Bolton straightened up. “That is, if our DynCorp and Condor Security colleagues feel they can secure the place. We don’t want to take any risks with our personnel.”

  “We won’t let a flea by,”
Steve agreed gravely, an amused glance going to Jason Hamilton.

  The meeting wound up quickly. Khalid’s retreat to the warmth of his own home meant Steve had only a quick walk down the hall to reach his desk.

  Cougar intercepted Steve halfway there. “Khalid’s initial three-month contract comes up for renewal in just a couple more weeks. Our contract comes out of the overall MOI aid packet, and it’s going to be one major budget line the Waters team will take a crack at. They’re sure to want your assessment of the ongoing threat level, so you might be thinking about that.”

  There’d been no incidents directly targeting Khalid since that rooftop suicide vest. Could Steve and his men claim credit, or was there no personal vendetta out there against the current minister of interior after all?

  Regardless, Steve could count these last few weeks as a victory—and not just for keeping his principal alive. They’d put real bad guys behind bars or at least run them out of town. Maybe his own role had been a minor one, but standing beside Khalid and Ramon Placido on those dawn raids, Steve had felt for the first time in years he was back in a battle worth fighting—and winning it!

  Was he still astonished this could be Khalid’s doing? In these last months Steve had learned far more about his former muj comrade than when they’d hiked Afghanistan’s mountain trails together. The man’s penchant for luxury and adulation. His harshness with subordinates and lavish generosity with guests. His strict fundamentalism when it came to the women he kept corralled at his Baghlan provincial compound, minus a favorite tucked so tightly into his living quarters Steve had never glimpsed her face. Meanwhile, prayer times, dietary rules, and other religious observances were reserved only for public.

  But those were all external observations. Steve could admit he’d no more idea what lay behind Khalid’s beaming features and extravagant speech, what was actually going on in that wily brain, than when he’d first returned here. As for Ismail, had the tall, hard-eyed deputy always been just a mouthpiece for his master, with no more opinions or personality of his own than a shadow, back when he’d been Khalid’s voice to the Special Forces team and vice versa?

  Not that the man hadn’t proved useful this last week at New Hope. Another victory. And if much smaller, this one was personal. Steve didn’t like men who ganged up on defenseless women.

  Through the command suite picture window, Steve could see Jamie McDuff and Ian Grant readying a convoy to head out to the helipad. Khalid would be spending the holiday in his home province. Phil and Roald were at the security monitors, while Cougar, Mac, Rick, and Bones were on their way out of the suite.

  Mac paused to inform Steve, “We’re off to the DynCorp team house. They’ve brought in a seventy-two-inch screen for the game, real American Bud, all the fixings. Nothing like partying with the big dogs. Sure you don’t want to join us?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got an old friend in town.”

  “Your loss.” Mac nodded toward Steve’s desk. “By the way, you’ve got mail.”

  As the four Americans disappeared out the door, Steve walked over to pick up a small, padded mailer. Tearing it open, he studied its contents, reading through the letter tucked inside before reaching for his cell phone. There was a smile in his voice as it rang through. “Hello to you too. And happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Okay, that’s our last, and another reasonably clean bill of health.” Becky Frazer jotted notes on a clipboard as the woman she’d been examining slid down from the table Amy had set up as a makeshift examining couch.

  “Except for Najeeda’s cough, they’re all healthier than they’ve got reason to be considering the lives they’ve led. And the cough is only bronchial. We’ll need to add TB vaccinations to the rest, but you can cross off worrying about an epidemic. We’ll get Najeeda on antibiotics and steam therapy, and she needs to stay out of the dust as much as one can in Kabul.”

  A discreetly cleared throat from the doorway interrupted the American nurse practitioner. “Excuse me, Miss Ameera, but another patient has arrived.”

  Soraya handed Amy the medical questionnaire she’d been filling out as another draped female shape scurried into the infirmary. In celebration of the upcoming Eid-e-Qorban holiday, Amy had suspended today’s classes and extended her housemate’s weekend leave through Saturday. But this morning was the first Becky had been able to squeeze from her own busy schedule, and since Amy could hardly solicit Jamil’s assistance with the women, she’d asked Soraya to postpone departure until after the clinic.

  Becky’s Dari and Pashto had proved excellent, leaving to Amy tasks requiring minimal language skills like helping women in and out of their voluminous clothing and ferrying water from her own shower for a washbasin.

  While Amy gathered up a black chador, Becky glanced over the final patient’s questionnaire. “Mortality rate here’s so high, if they do survive to adulthood, it’s because they’ve got the constitution of a mule. The aches and pains your women complain of are real enough, but a fair part’s emotional. Unfortunately, there just aren’t resources to treat the amount of trauma they’ve endured. Ibuprofen and keeping them busy are as effective as any other prescription I can hand out. Though your idea on that orchard is a good one. Some trees and flowers and real grass might do even more than ibuprofen. At least your tenants don’t have to deal with the biggest health risk women face in Afghanistan—pregnancy.”

  Their final patient might not consider that such a blessing. Amy had informed Hamida of the visiting doctor, as Becky was categorized here. But she was as surprised as pleased Rasheed’s wife had taken advantage of the offer, even if only after the Welayat women were out of her path. Then, as Hamida raised her head, Amy sucked in her breath sharply. Covering one whole cheek was a fiery red welt shaped like a large human palm.

  “Hamida, what happened?”

  The Afghan woman quickly covered her cheek with her hand.

  Becky translated her distressed murmur. “She says it was her fault. She’s now been married six years and is still not pregnant. She’s hoping I might have a cure.”

  “Her fault,” Amy said indignantly. She hadn’t forgotten Rasheed’s disdainful dismissal of Hamida as barren. “How does not getting pregnant give anyone the right to treat you as a punching bag?”

  Hamida couldn’t understand Amy’s words, but she looked more distressed at her tone.

  With no more patients waiting in the hall, Soraya had joined the other two women inside the infirmary, and she cut off Amy’s fuming. “There is no point in speaking of this matter. It is a husband’s right. When I did not bear a son, my husband—”

  Amy glanced at her curiously. Though she’d chosen to respect her housemate’s reticence, she’d wondered that a woman of Soraya’s age and social value would remain single and childless in this society. “Then you’ve been married?”

  “He died when the mujahedeen battled over Kabul.” Soraya hesitated; then as she met Amy’s inquiring gaze, she shrugged. “Many rockets were fired by the mujahedeen into our neighborhood. One hit our apartment. He died. I lived.”

  Amy waited for more, but Soraya walked over to the door. “If there are no more patients, do I have your leave to go? My family will be expecting my help with feast preparations.”

  “Of course,” Amy said warmly. So like everyone at New Hope, her housemate too had a story of tragedy in her past. “I hope you have a wonderful feast time with your family. Oh, and just one more thing.” Hurrying to the office, Amy returned with a package she handed to Soraya. “Eid mubarak.”

  The latter was the Muslim equivalent of merry Christmas, meaning literally “A blessed Eid.”

  Carefully removing wrapping paper from a dictionary-size book, Soraya looked more puzzled than pleased as she turned it over.

  “It’s an anthology of English poetry,” Amy explained. “You mentioned you’d always wanted to find some of the pieces you memorized in the university.” One of the rare times Soraya had discussed anything beyond work. “I think you’ll find a lot o
f them in there.”

  Though Amy’s guidebook mentioned small gifts to children as an Eid tradition, she’d wanted to do something special for her New Hope adults as well. Hand creams and makeup items from the bazaar would be appreciated by the Welayat women, but she’d looked for something more personal for Soraya. The poetry collection had been among Persian and Arabic titles in a downtown bookstore.

  Soraya’s expression cleared as she turned pages. “Yes, I see. Thank you for thinking of me. Eid mubarak.”

  As Soraya left, Amy returned to the infirmary.

  Becky was scribbling final notes on Hamida’s chart as she explained briskly, “You are in good health. There is no physical reason I can see that you shouldn’t be able to bear children. If you have not yet become pregnant, it isn’t your fault or anything you’re doing wrong. Do you understand? But because there is nothing wrong with you, neither is there anything I can do or give to you to help you get pregnant. You just need to be patient. If God wills, he will give you children in his time.”

  “Inshallah. If Allah wills.” Hamida looked disappointed, but she also seemed more cheerful. After all, no matter how hard one strove, there was no bucking Allah’s inscrutable and sovereign choices.

  Becky shook her head as Hamida left, her chador turning her back into a black ghost. “I sure wish a woman’s worth in this society wasn’t so tied to having children, because unless a miracle intervenes, her chances aren’t good.”

  “But I thought you said she was healthy.” Pushing the table against a wall, Amy gathered up disposable gloves, tongue depressors, and other debris to restore the infirmary to order. “That you could find no physical reason she couldn’t have children.”

  “That’s right, at least not without more sophisticated tests than I can offer. I wish I could say the same for her husband.”

  Amy straightened up. “Rasheed?”

  “That’s right. From what Soraya wrote down of Hamida’s family medical history, Rasheed’s first wife was a widow with a son who died like so many here before age five. But she never got pregnant again during her marriage to Rasheed.