“That looks like one of our parkas.”
“Not quite.” Steve compared the fragment to his own sleeve. The difference in brown and green and olive pattern was notable only on close inspection. “It’s U.S. Army surplus, same as we handed out to all those new police troops. And it’s got C-4 trace on it.”
“Then we’re talking suicide bomber?” Ian said blankly. “I thought the local Tallies stuck to dynamite and duct tape like that vest we found on the helicopter pad. No, wait—I know what this is. I saw something similar in Iraq with a suitcase. You roll out C-4 nice and thin inside the lining.”
The military grade plastic explosive was not only as malleable as Play-Doh but had unfortunately become as available on Afghanistan’s black market.
“Work as much shrapnel as you can into the explosive, add a detonator, and sew the lining back in place. If it’s done well, you’d never know that piece of luggage sliding through security is a ticking bomb. With the right shrapnel, it won’t even set off a metal detector.”
“Which means Ms. Mallory wasn’t the intended target,” Steve said flatly. “Or even this compound. It’s got to be the loya jirga. Half of Afghanistan’s top leadership in one room, including the owner of this compound. This thing was designed to come through security on one of those counternarcotics police.”
“So why is it here? Or are you’re thinking the bomber couldn’t get through, so hitting one of Khalid’s properties was fallback?” Ian searched the ground. “And if we’re talking suicide bomb, where are the body parts? Unless—”
Both men came to the same thought together. “Remote control detonation.”
Ian straightened to look at Steve. “You think this might be the same guy who dropped that other vest on the roof? It’s hardly the same signature.”
“That means zip. If the first was a statement rather than a serious threat, it makes sense they wouldn’t use the same design. They wouldn’t want to give us a heads-up to be checking out every surplus Army coat coming near Khalid.”
“Any chance this wasn’t the only one?”
“I’m about to find out.” Steve hit speed dial. “Meanwhile, seal off this property. No one goes in or out.”
Jamie McDuff answered on the first ring. “I was just about to call you. The loya jirga finished without a wrinkle. Everything okay on your end?”
“No, it isn’t.” Swiftly, Steve explained. “Don’t trouble Khalid or Ismail until their event finishes, but I want complete body checks of anyone within a hundred feet. I’m calling Hamilton now.”
By the angry shouts and running feet, Ian was carrying out his orders. The two Condor operatives at the orchard gate now had their M4s up.
“Jason? Those forensic trainees you had sweeping the MOI roof—I need a team here now. Yes, I’ve every reason to believe it’s connected to Khalid, maybe even Waters. That’s right, the whole works. I want this guy found before he tries it again.”
“Steve, why are your men sealing off the gates and keeping people inside?” Amy called out. “And the house. I need to get everyone out of this cold, and your guards won’t even let me in for supplies. I had to have Phil make the guards bring me over here.” Stepping through the orchard gate, she picked through glass to the veranda. A neat bandage now showed white under her headscarf. Her eyes went wide with horror as she peered past Steve into the blackened wreckage of the storage depot.
“Sorry about that.” Steve lowered the phone. “I’ll give orders to safety check enough space to get you all out of the weather. But I’m afraid this is just the beginning. You might warn your people that everyone and his dog are about to descend on this place.”
Amy shook her head dazedly. “But I thought your friend said this was just an accidental explosion triggered by the chemicals and stuff stored in there.”
“Sure, except a bomb triggered the chemicals. And since your security system is functioning properly, whoever planted that bomb either had access to this facility or was let in by someone who did.”
Steve hardened himself against a sudden stricken look in her eyes, his tone impersonal. “Which makes this property a crime scene and every person on it a suspect.”
By afternoon, it seemed to Amy all the peace and sanctuary she’d worked so hard to establish at New Hope had been blown apart in the same explosion that blasted those doors. Within the hour of Steve’s horrifying announcement, the compound was swarming with armed and uniformed men. And dogs, Steve’s comment having proved literal. K-9 units, Amy gathered, watching animals and handlers sniffing around the orchard quadrant. Maybe even Gorg’s parents.
By then Steve had kept his word. Amy was still explaining to Becky and the others when the contractor named Ian came by to say the kitchen salon and its neighboring dormitory had passed inspection and could be put back to use. What they’d been looking for, Amy couldn’t imagine. She was just grateful to get everyone back inside.
The dormitory became a sickbay, and Amy was soon even more grateful for Steve’s medic friend. From somewhere, Phil requisitioned additional first aid supplies when New Hope’s own scant stock ran out. With Jamil’s help, he expertly tugged that dislocated shoulder into place. And between him and Becky and Jamil, they made short shrift of swabbing, stitching, and bandaging, along with doling out cough drops and sedatives with a liberal hand.
Now that Amy had seen that burned-out storage depot, she was even more grateful it hadn’t been worse. That shattered glass and wood and metal could so easily have been the flesh and blood of precious small bodies. Thank you, heavenly Father. Thank you for your mercy! Thank you for watching over these precious human beings you’ve entrusted to me.
All in all, it astonished Amy how quickly and matter-of-factly all the children and mothers settled back to routine with a resilience of people so accustomed to their world falling apart; a bomb blast was just one more inconvenient interruption. By the time the last patient was resting and Steve’s men had vacated the inner courtyard, a warming lentil stew had been dished up. Scavenged plywood offered a temporary barricade over the broken hallway doors. And though an odor of smoke still clung to everything, air quality had improved to Kabul’s usual smog.
Amy wished she could muster as much resilience. Perhaps because she’d breathed more fumes than the others, her throat and face hurt so she could hardly speak, every movement an effort as she walked Becky to the gate.
Amy’s hug was fervent. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t here.”
“You’d have managed. If I didn’t have that TB clinic this afternoon, I’d stay. I don’t like abandoning you like this.”
“Of course you have to go. And I’m hardly alone, as you can see.” Amy gestured to the swarm of CS personnel and police uniforms.
“You know what I mean. You look like you should be in bed yourself. Just be sure to take that ibuprofen as soon as you can get off your feet.”
As Becky’s minivan pulled away, Amy turned back toward the house. The burned-out front entrance was still a beehive of uniforms and guns. Missing were the volunteer firemen, who’d been herded over to the other side. Rasheed had opened the guest rooms to shelter the detainees, among them that stocky loiterer from two nights ago.
I forgot to ask Rasheed if he’s one of the mechanics.
No, Amy didn’t even want to think about Rasheed. If he had seemed appreciative of the CS team’s help in putting out the fire, he’d been infuriated at the arrival of police uniforms, even more so at the quarantine. He’d ranted and raved so furiously at the security personnel who’d taken over gate duty Amy could be glad they’d confiscated Wajid’s Kalashnikov. He’d yelled even more angrily at Hamida when he caught his wife helping the women to their quarters.
Amy had tried not to think of Steve’s assertion that someone on her property was responsible for placing a bomb in that storage depot. After all, why would any of her personnel risk possible injury to themselves?
Except that none of Amy’s
resident staff had been in the building when the bomb went off.
A coincidence, surely. And as in that earlier invasion, Amy could rule out Jamil at least. She’d seen horrified shock when he’d rushed in, witnessed the distress and compassion with which he’d tended the injured children. I’ve got to change his mind about going back to medical school; he’d make such a wonderful doctor.
But Amy hadn’t forgotten how Aryana’s in-laws had paid their way to this compound. Soraya had been troubled over some financial emergency. Certainly she’d shown distress over Fatima’s injuries, but had she even realized the teacher had returned ahead of her from the holidays?
And Rasheed. Surely he wouldn’t destroy so much property, some undoubtedly his own. Unless he was paid enough to compensate. Hamida had evacuated the New Hope residents, not Rasheed. Did he really not realize the danger they’d all been in? And those past comments about wanting the Welayat women off this property. Had he perhaps thought only to add a further scare that would drive them away? Or been paid to allow someone else that privilege? Maybe he hadn’t known how much damage those stored chemicals could cause.
No, please let it be a stranger. Even one of the mechanics.
Walking through Rasheed’s quadrant, Amy stepped through the French doors. The plastic window panels had been pulled down to air out lingering smoke and fumes, and a cold wind whistled across the salon. From the other side of the paneling, she could hear male voices, Steve and Phil among them. What were they doing? What had they discovered?
Amy considered opening that small wooden door in the paneling to demand a report. But she felt too weary, her throat too raw to carry through on the thought, so she headed instead toward the door leading to the inner courtyard. Now that things were settling down, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to retire to her own suite. It must be breathable because she’d seen Soraya helping Fatima upstairs to her quarters as soon as the all clear was given.
A quick tap of sandals signaled Jamil before he appeared through the door. “Miss Ameera, I was just coming to find you.”
“What is it?” Amy’s sore face managed a perplexed smile as she looked her assistant over. He wore a patu for warmth over his shalwar kameez, and a bundle was tossed over his shoulder. “You look like you’re hitting the road. Are you going somewhere?”
An answering smile flickered in the dark eyes as Jamil set his pack down. “The police broke the lock to my quarters in their searching, and since there are strangers present, I thought it best to retrieve my belongings. But I wished to speak to you because—” he glanced at the wooden barrier beyond which drifted those voices—“well, I was thinking it would be good to go to the bazaar. I have cleaned the infirmary, but there are no more bandages left or cleansing solution. And some injuries must be dressed again tonight.”
“Good idea. Let me give you some cash for that. And we’ll have to ask Phil to get you past the guard.”
“Not so fast!”
The dry command spun Amy around.
Steve was ducking through the door in the paneling. His scrutiny going from Amy to her assistant showed none of the concern she’d seen when she recovered consciousness.
As Jamil stiffened, Amy stepped between the two men. “Is there a problem, Steve? Phil let Becky leave. Or is it just expats who can break quarantine?”
“Not at all. Your assistant is welcome to go to the bazaar—with an escort—just as soon as we get his fingerprints. Since he’s been helping out, we left him till last. But Phil tells me you’re all done now.”
The tension left Amy’s muscles. “Well, sure, I was kind of expecting that. Do you want to fingerprint women and children too? I can promise you none of them have access to that storage unit. So if it isn’t essential, I’d sure hate to get them all upset again.”
“No, just the men.”
When Steve didn’t explain further, Amy turned to Jamil. Guessing the reason for that frozen immobility, she said gently, “It’s okay. It doesn’t mean they’re accusing anyone. They just have to take everyone’s prints so they can eliminate them against any strange ones, right?”
“Something like that,” Steve murmured, but he was watching Jamil with narrow-eyed intensity. “Do you have a problem having your prints taken? You do understand what fingerprints are.”
Jamil came back to life, something unreadable flaring in his eyes as he said bitingly, “I am not ignorant. I know about fingerprints. And I have no objection. Why should I?” He stalked toward the door in the paneling. “Come, let us be done with this. I have nothing more to hide.”
Amy would have followed, but Steve put out an arm. “He’s a big boy. He doesn’t need you to hold his hand.” His expression softened fractionally as he looked Amy over. “You look all in. Not to mention, that’s quite a black eye you’re developing. Ask Phil for an ice pack, and go get some rest. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”
“No, call me when you’re done,” Amy answered tightly. “If Jamil has to have an armed guard just to go to the bazaar, I’m going too.”
“Afraid we’ll hurt your pal?” Steve jeered softly. Before Amy could reply, he shut the paneling in her face.
Amy picked up Jamil’s pack and went upstairs. She didn’t trust all those policemen and mercenaries any more than the strangers detained next door. The pack was disturbingly light to hold a man’s entire possessions, so its burden wasn’t the reason Amy found herself dragging each foot to set it on the next step the way a toddler climbed stairs. Her only thought now was to reach bottled water so she could take Becky’s ibuprofen and lie down.
Steve’s right; Jamil doesn’t need me to hold his hand going to the bazaar.
She had stepped into the upstairs hall when she heard voices. Not unexpected since Soraya had retreated to their suite with Fatima. Except that one of these voices was male and angry. It wasn’t Rasheed’s, and Amy’s first thought was that a policeman had drummed up some pretext to harass her female residents. Then as she hastened down the hall, she made out Soraya’s raised cry.
“Nay! I cannot ask for more. I will lose my position. I have already given you my—. It is still two weeks until my next—”
If Amy had missed some Dari terms, she could guess they referred to salary by the harsh reply. “The infidels have money to throw away. They can spare some to you. If you do not succeed, then do not bother to come home. Or ask again to see Fariq.”
So the man was no stranger to Soraya. It was a measure of how completely Amy had been immersed in Afghan life that she found herself profoundly shocked Soraya would permit a man inside the shelter of their suite. She was hardly less shocked that her proud, even arrogant, housemate could sound so pleading.
“Nay! Please do not say such things!”
The sob in Soraya’s denial shot Amy’s hand to the doorknob. It was unlocked. Stepping inside, she froze in disbelief as she recognized the man who whirled in her direction.
It was the stocky Afghan she’d first glimpsed two nights ago, then among the detainees below. Up close, Amy could see he was younger than Soraya and good-looking. Curly hair and beard. Olive-skinned, aquiline features. A high-bridged, strong nose. Though his good looks were spoiled by the disdainful glare that took in Amy’s intrusion, the angry compression of lips. He looked in fact enough like Soraya to be a family member. Which hardly excused his presence in Amy’s sanctuary.
Turning his back to Amy, he said sharply, “You will do what I say. I will wait for you below.” Spinning around again, he strode past Amy so close she had to scramble out of his way.
Across the room, Soraya stood tall and motionless, her proud, beautiful features as stony and blank as though Amy had never heard her pleading. And now through a crack in Soraya’s bedroom door, Amy could see Fatima’s frightened eyes peering out.
Stepping into the room, Amy set Jamil’s bundle on the floor. “Who is that man? What is he doing in our quarters?”
How he’d slipped up here, Amy didn’t have to ask because she’d glimpsed ink-stained
fingers. The man must have stolen up the stairwell after he’d gone through the fingerprinting process. Soraya groped for a chair. Only as she sank into it did Amy realize she’d done so to keep from trembling. Looking down at her hands, Soraya didn’t speak.
Amy sighed. “Soraya, I don’t want to lose you, but it’s clear something has been going on you aren’t telling me. Either I get the truth, or I’m going to have to let you go. Who is that man, and what does he have to do with you?”
Slowly, Soraya raised her head. Then the impassivity of her perfect features crumpled. “His name is Ibrahim. And he is my husband.”
Nothing more to hide.
Jamil’s final statement nagged at Steve as the Afghan man rolled inked fingers across white paper with a competence that said he’d done this before. That very personal hostility in his glance as he obeyed Steve’s order was one reason his inclusion was little more than procedure. The man would do nothing to hurt his employer, and he’d been as shocked as Steve when he rushed in. But did he have other reasons to avoid police inquiry?
Steve had set up a command center in the schoolroom at the far end from its windows. Technically part of the crime scene, it was also the least damaged area, and Steve was reluctant to intrude further on the compound’s residents by annexing more of their living area. The fingerprinting zone was the teacher’s desk, where a pair of police trainees were taking down personal data as well as fingerprints.
Phil strolled over as a pair of uniforms escorted Jamil to a knot of inky-fingered Afghans who’d been the last of that crowd next door. “Anything new?”
Jason Hamilton held up a bag containing a chunk of duct tape and plastic. “Here’s why we’re running fingerprints. It’s definitely part of the detonator. And it looks identical to the one in that suicide vest. Even if assembly’s different, I’m betting the same bomb maker.”
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