Veiled Freedom

by Jeanette Windle

  The dream he’d had of this city, this country, being swept on its sifting foundation of sand toward the cliff was as vivid in Jamil’s mind as though he were again in the grip of sleep.

  “Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”

  The equation Jamil had been laying out step by step now came together in an unassailable conclusion. His country, his people, prostrate, bound, and helpless, were still sliding inexorably into floodwaters that even the blind could not help but see amassing on the horizon. And not all the rakats and ablutions and right postures and foods and clothing could free Afghanistan from the chains that held it in bondage.

  An inexhaustible flow of handouts, advice, weapons, and foreign guardians could not safeguard his people from each other, much less from outside threat. Above all, the sword of jihad would never transform his homeland. How many more generations would it take his people to learn that lesson?

  Only the wise words of the prophet Isa Masih, taught to his people and, more urgently, put into practice, could break those chains, offer the freedom Jamil’s people, his own heart, had yearned to see for so long. A freedom that came from peace and righteousness and justice and truth, not power. Isa Masih’s kingdom that was not of this world where men fought, hated, betrayed, and killed but built on a bedrock no storms of war and oppression and greed could sweep away.

  The kingdom of heaven.

  Paradise.

  Stiff from immobility, Jamil shifted position. As he did so, a foot nudged his handiwork spread out beside his tushak. A shudder of unease swept over Jamil’s body, caught at his quiet breathing.

  And Isa’s martyrdom?

  America’s new drug czar was as tough and unyielding as Ramon Placido had described. An iron gray crew cut still held streaks of sandy brown, his grip as hard as his pale blue eyes. There was military training as well as law enforcement in Jim Waters’s background, Steve would stake his 401(k).

  “So you’re running Khalid’s security detail,” Waters said as he released Steve’s hand. “How essential do you consider your services?”

  Steve looked over to meet Ramon Placido’s impassive gaze. The DEA chief was well aware how much he resented being pushed into this call. But Steve couldn’t offer less than his best and honest evaluation.

  “Sir, all I can really confirm is my own experience in this current mission. The overall threat level in Afghanistan is as high as it’s ever been. Is there a specific threat leveled against our own principal? That’s a harder call. There have been any number of public bombings since the sugar factory, bigger and more deadly—and not involving our principal. We’ve had no solid evidence of any personal vendetta against the minister of interior.”

  “And this suicide vest I’m told your people found? That isn’t evidence enough?”

  Steve was silent, thinking, before he answered cautiously. “There are some questions about that. The biggest that it was designed for remote detonation—like an IED rather than a suicide bomb. And of course it was never detonated, which makes us wonder if it wasn’t intended as a statement rather than a serious attack. There have been no attempts since. Undoubtedly Khalid could duplicate our current procedures without us, assuming he can trust his own inner team. Which is where all this started.”

  Jim Waters nodded. “That’s fair enough. We’ll see what else this trip brings to light. But one way or another, Condor Securities can expect my decision within the week.”

  Steve caught the slight easing of Placido’s shoulders, and both men looked satisfied as they walked away. But the exchange left a sour taste in Steve’s mouth. What would they have said if Steve spilled out what he was really thinking? Not that any evidence remained to back it up. At Steve’s direction, Phil had deleted the audio recordings. Jason Hamilton was unfortunately accurate that their existence would land the CS team in more hot water than Khalid.

  A dozen agents closed in protectively as Waters and Placido joined the congressional delegation, Khalid, a handful of other Afghan ministers, and an array of news crews waiting to greet the arriving guests just inside the Justice Center’s massive front gates. Whatever Steve’s personal frustrations, this was one day paranoia was justified. Add to that welcoming committee the delegations of governors and provincial commanders beginning to collect outside the gate, and you had a high-profile target.

  A concern that had occupied Steve’s every waking movement for the last two days. A skift of snow yesterday had almost moved the ribbon-cutting indoors. But this morning was dry, if cold, so the courtyard between the front gate and main building held rows of folding chairs fronting a podium. Behind this, steps led up to a ribbon taped across closed double doors.

  Steve raised binoculars to complete a surveillance sweep. Every security precaution Steve and Jason Hamilton had hammered out looked to be in place. All entrances but the front were sealed under armed guard. Just outside the front gate, a pavilion shielded an airport-style security checkpoint. Security had been simplified further by restricting guard patrols to MOI’s own well-vetted new counternarcotics force.

  A group of these were even now passing through the metal detectors. Once through the metal detector, Ismail and the counternarcotics police commander supervised a pat down of their heavy Army-issue parkas and visual check of knapsacks before a uniform with a clipboard directed them to their posts. Whether in honor of his American guests or for his dignity as deputy minister, Ismail displayed under his own thick parka the first Western suit Steve had ever seen him wear.

  Steve focused the binoculars on individual faces as the arriving guard shift dispersed. He’d come to recognize a good part of this group after several weeks on the road. But an outraged bellow shifted his attention to a commotion erupting at the gate. The first delegation was now entering, among them a white-bearded Pashtun who refused to unwrap a thick, ornamented patu for pat down.

  “I have surrendered my weapons in the name of peace. But you will not put your hands on me!”

  Dropping the binoculars, Steve caught Phil’s eye a few meters away, who joined him in hurrying over to the checkpoint. Security details were already closing in front of Waters, Khalid, and the other guests, M4s coming up.

  Ismail reached the fracas first. Stepping forward, he kissed the white beard soundly on both sides as he offered a warm embrace. “Hassan, my brother, welcome!”

  A snap of the deputy minister’s fingers brought over one of the newly arrived guards. “The esteemed governor of Kawgar does not need to be delayed further. You will show the governor personally to his seat.”

  The governor made no objection to his entourage undergoing the manual double check. Phil’s quick grin told Steve he’d seen the same thing. Ismail handily frisking the old man in the process of that embrace. Good show.

  Steve raised a hand to Ismail in salute. The deputy minister nodded gravely. Steve turned away. This is going to work.

  Leading the white-bearded dignitary to a seat of honor in the front row, he looked around to match his surroundings to the map he’d memorized as he waited for the old man’s entourage. As the first straggled over, he strode along the side of the main building.

  He’d arrived too early outside the gate. But he’d loitered out of sight until others wearing the same uniform he’d been supplied were lining up to pass security. To be one prompted dangerous scrutiny. To blend in like a desert chameleon was anonymity, safety.

  He’d felt panic when he’d noted ahead that manual search, more as he’d spotted those probing binoculars. By then it was too late to bolt. But the pat down proved cursory, and as he’
d showed his ID, he’d recognized with relief an indifferent gaze above unfamiliar clothing.

  It took effort to walk unconcernedly. The Army-issue parka he wore was far heavier than its appearance, the thick layer between the coat’s exterior and lining no longer soft down but at once solid and flexible. Panic rose again as heads turned in that huddle of dignitaries and cameras and sharp-eyed foreign mercenaries. Among them was the face he’d been seeking, and despite the cold he could feel perspiration dotting forehead and upper lip.

  But there was no flicker of recognition or interest in the watchful glances sliding over him. Turning a corner, he paused to wipe a sleeve across his face. The back entrance was where the map had indicated. Two sentries in the same uniform he wore scanned his ID as he announced tersely, “Guard duty for the loya jirga.”

  The building was like any other, a maze of corridors and doors. To his left, doors opened into a council room. Unlike the ribbon-cutting ceremony, this had been arranged for the comfort of the loya jirga participants with rugs and tushaks and cushions. A row of chairs across the front provided for the foreign guests. Scattered uniforms were already in place against the walls and in the hallway. Though they were out of the wind, there was no heating indoors, and those standing guard had their Army parkas zipped up tight, caps pulled down low against the chill.

  As planned.

  He headed past them to the end of the corridor. To the left was the hallway down which the loya jirga guests would come through the front entrance. He turned instead to the right. The toilet facilities were as new and clean and expensive as everything else. There was also a basin with running water, a mirror above it. He drank deeply to relieve the dryness of his mouth, then lifted his gaze to the mirror.

  What he saw explained any lack of recognition. Hair several shades lighter than his own. He peered closely at his eyes. He’d heard of contacts. They were now available even in Kabul to the wealthy. But that they could change his eyes to the green of summer pasture seemed somehow an intrusion on a province that belonged to Allah, not man. If not his own, the image in the mirror was that on his ID card.

  Satisfied, he locked himself in the farthest stall. His wait stretched long enough he began to wonder if he’d mistaken his directions. Then he heard quiet footsteps, a metal latch sliding shut across the toilet facility’s outer door. A soft tap came on the stall door. As he unlocked it, the man who stepped into view was dressed as he’d seen him outdoors. But the now-familiar turban and scarf hid his features. At this stage, the precaution seemed almost ludicrous. But he said only, “I was afraid I would not be able to pass the guards.”

  “Did I not tell you to trust me? You’ve seen where to go? where to stand?” The man did not ask if there’d been a change of mind. “To destroy all would take a miracle. Allah will choose who will live and who will die today. But if you position yourself as we have spoken, among them will be your enemy and ours.”

  “I understand my mission. I do not need further instructions.” He pulled a cell phone from a pocket of his parka. It was the same this man had dropped into his hands in a dark alley so many weeks ago. “All except the code. You said you would give it to me here.”

  But to his consternation, the man made a gesture of refusal. “That will not be necessary.”

  He stared in astonishment. “What do you mean? A shaheed chooses his moment of martyrdom. Last time you said this would not happen again. Do you no longer trust that I will complete the mission?”

  “It is not a matter of trust but timing. It must be exact, and so my employer and yours considers it best this remain in his own hands.”

  “Then he is here. Why can I not see him then? I will appeal to him myself.”

  “No, no, do not press for what I cannot grant. Be satisfied that your family will find blessing through your sacrifice. And that this day you will indeed meet Allah in paradise. Enough!” His companion produced a Quran from a breast pocket. “You have performed the ablutions and fasted? Then let us pray.”

  The ritual was one he’d never seen, but he knew it because it was part of childhood hero worship, stories told and retold by elders to a wide-eyed next generation. The prayers were those of a warrior going into battle and for absolution of sins. He could understand now why so many chose this route, because there was indeed a euphoria, an adrenaline rush and sweet release of knowing oneself completely clean inside and out, forgiven, all worries of past and future, all ties to this earth, relinquished. Ahead, only one quick step into eternity.

  The very potency of that euphoria became the strength of the doubt that shook him. Forgive me if I have chosen wrong. Let me not waver now from my pledge.

  Then they were rising to their feet again, his companion embracing him gingerly. “The guests are in place now. The ceremony will start shortly. Then the delegates will proceed to the loya jirga. You must be in place before them, or questions will be asked. It would be most prudent if you remain in here—” a gesture indicated the stall—“until I signal you. Keep your phone on vibrate. I will call you when it is time. Now, may Allah be with you. May Allah give you success so that you achieve paradise.”

  He gave the ritual response. “Inshallah, we will meet in paradise.”

  A moment later he was alone. But for once he did not obey his orders. Instead he retraced his steps to the back entrance and walked to the corner where he could witness the opening ceremonies gearing up to start. As his visitor had stated, the folding seats were now full. Though these were all strangers to him, images of their bodies broken and bloodied aroused no pity. If any single group in Afghanistan could be singled out as responsible for the state in which his country now languished, it was these men, and every morality he’d ever been taught said they were all deserving of death. But his eyes were drawn inexorably to a single face.

  He’d wondered what it would be like to come face-to-face with his target, his enemy. He’d dreamed of this moment. Its hate and rage and triumph. First as fantasy. Then as a mission. And yet now that triumph was in his grasp, it was not rage and hate that added to his cold sweat a hot prickle behind his eyelids but grief and longing.

  Longing for a world no retribution would ever return to him.

  He closed his eyes, breathed quick and shallow to retrieve that serene resolve with which he’d risen from his prayers.

  Do not think. Do not feel. Only do what I have determined in my heart.

  Shrugging his heavy burden more comfortably into place, he turned and headed back inside the building.

  The ostensible reason Becky Frazer had showed up this morning was a follow-up clinic. Already a group was camped out in the hall outside the infirmary. Najeeda was among them, her cough still worrisome. So was Najeeda’s son, his quiet hacking a replica of his mother’s, which was even more worrisome.

  The other reason lay in the two volumes Becky was digging from her medical bag. Both used Arabic script. Amy would have to take Becky’s word that one was a Dari and the other a Pashto New Testament.

  “I tried to get full Bibles, but those are hard to find these days.”

  “That’s okay. The person who requested them will be happy enough for these.” Amy hadn’t told the American nurse for whom the New Testaments were intended, and Becky hadn’t asked.

  “Your contact is aware of the need for discretion?” Becky added as Amy tucked the volumes out of sight between her shawl and tunic. “It isn’t technically illegal for us to hand these out to a local who asks for them, not like Taliban times. The receiving end is a little more iffy. And unlike an English version, which few of the mullahs would recognize, much less read, they can all read these.”

  “He’s aware of the risks,” Amy said more sharply than she intended. “Excuse me. I’ll get these stored away.”

  She had to step over feet and laps to reach her apartment. The patients were spilling out of the hallway into the stairwell. Beyond them were the padlocked doors leading into the second floor of that unused wing.

  That would
make a perfect infirmary over there. We need more room.

  Only yesterday the women’s prison had called to ask if New Hope could take a dozen more tenants. Amy was hesitating, not because she couldn’t find room for a few more tushaks, but because all other services were being stretched to breaking.

  I want the whole building, maybe even the whole property, including that mechanics yard. I’m going to talk to Mr. Korallis about it tonight. If we come up with a big enough rent offer . . .

  Part of that conference call was the pending issue of a permanent country manager. Amy still wasn’t sure if she wanted the job. And even if she agreed to extend her interim commitment, Amy had already made it clear to Mr. Korallis that among her conditions would be adding on a deputy country manager.

  I can’t keep doing it all myself. I can’t remember when I last had a day off other than those few hours at Camp Phoenix. With Eid and the break-in, I haven’t even been to the expat worship gathering in weeks.

  Amy stored away Becky’s delivery by sliding the volumes under her mattress, then headed downstairs. She and Becky needed additional hands before they opened the clinic. Soraya was to have been back from her extended weekend by now. But Amy hadn’t yet seen her housemate, and when she’d asked Fatima, she’d just received an uncomprehending look as though the teacher couldn’t understand her Dari.

  No, Amy refused to think about Soraya now. Farah would be pleased to help, though Amy hated to pull her from classes, especially since she’d become Fatima’s de facto assistant with the younger children. But at least for Najeeda’s son, Amy would have to call on Jamil. For male patients beyond the six-year-old milestone when boys typically left their mothers for the men’s quarters, it would be inappropriate for a female to do the physical examination.