Veiled Freedom (26 page)

But the directness and contemplation and fire with which Ameera spoke was not female. Or so he'd always been taught. There'd been female students in Jamil's classes in Islamabad. Not many, but women too needed doctors. They kept to their own corner of the classroom, eyes lowered, not offering opinions. Not like the vociferous, argumentative male students. Did they have such discussions as Ameera offered among themselves when men were not listening?

And the things Ameera had to say. The things she did. These were more troubling to Jamil's peace of mind than her undeniable womanhood. His pace quickened as though the propelling of his body would thrust aside unwelcome thoughts. Jamil didn't bother with the front gate. Wajid's slumber never roused unless someone thundered against its metal. Hoisting himself onto the partition wall, he dropped easily to the other side. Two mechanics hammering inside an open hood looked up but showed no reaction. They'd grown accustomed to Jamil's shortcut.

Beyond the tin-roofed work shed and a scattering of vehicles that now included the Corolla, a row of small, concrete rooms ran along the partition to the rear of the mechanics yard, guest habitation for clients from out of town. Rasheed had tossed a tushak into the farthest for Jamil. In the back wall, a metal gate led into the rear quadrant of the compound. A large padlock kept the gate secure, but above the wall could be seen green, leafy crowns of trees, apples and apricots visible in the higher branches.

Unlocking a much smaller padlock he'd purchased at the bazaar, Jamil went inside. Not that there was anything worth stealing beyond his clothing, personal oddments, and the new prayer rug. There'd been a time when he'd have thought a beggar more fortunate. Now his scant possessions seemed riches.

Because he'd skipped the dinner hour, light still filtered through a small, barred window. Jamil stretched out on the tushak and pulled the camera manual from inside his vest. The diagrams and their terse English explanations entangled in his mind with the woman who'd commissioned him to decipher them, bringing back the twisting to his stomach. Dropping the manual, he turned over to bury his face in his arms. But cutting off the light was easier than cutting off his thoughts.

Ameera. Why did people like her have to come here? to shake up the convictions that had burned like acid into his soul? It was so easy to hate, to fuel the passion of his fury, when he saw what others were doing to his homeland. The foreigners with their extravagances and drunken revelries. Their convoys speeding with arrogant disregard through the streets. The endless conferences and surveys and programs that put money into their pockets but brought so little change to the people of Afghanistan.

And the leaders of his own people who were no better. Who restored to power the same brutal warlords who had ripped this country apart. Who posed in their Western suits for TV cameras or with the foreign dignitaries behind the high, guarded walls of their embassies. And who were now happily splitting up the foreign aid nest egg, as they'd squandered Soviet and American and Saudi billions in turn, building their own fortunes and futures instead of their homeland.

But then along came this Ameera, who did not fall into any of his equations. Who spoke to him, not as a woman to a man, but as two people who might even be friends, mind speaking honestly to mind, heart to heart as no other in his life had spoken. He hadn't even known a man and a woman could speak so to each other.

And her actions. The care—yes, and love—she gave to these women and children to whom she owed nothing. Jamil had seen the beggars on the streets, driven past the hovels of the poor and hungry, since his earliest recollection. But he'd never thought much about their plight until he'd come to share its desperation. Even then it had been his own that consumed him, not others'.

Nor would he soil his hands now for such women as shared these walls, quarrelsome and troublemakers, did he not need sanctuary and food enough to fuel his body. As would not Soraya without incentive of that generous foreign salary, Jamil had absolute certainty. He knew the arrogance of the aristocrat because it had once been his own.

As for Rasheed, Jamil knew the reason for the chowkidar's capitulation, if Ameera did not, because he'd overheard the man's complaint to Wajid. “The landlord will not permit me to evict these delinquents. He says foreigners grow angry at such things and complain to their press. And he is in need of the Americans at this time.”

But this Ameera!

Jamil had seen on the TV screen the luxury in which Ameera's countrymen lived, so different from her present life. Yet she chose to live among his people, eat their food, learn their language, instead of remaining in the wealthy quarters of the foreigners. And the look on her face when she embraced a child. No, whatever reason Ameera had come to his country, Jamil could not accuse her nor convince himself that she did all he'd seen her do with any other thought than to help his people.

What made the difference? Ameera was an infidel. Yet she was nothing like the Christian world he'd seen on satellite TV, against which the mullahs railed with reason. She behaved like—

A better Muslim than I have ever been,
he admitted into the tushak.
A Muslim such as the mullahs say women should be. Giving to the poor. Praying. Living a life of modesty and service.
More so, she was compassionate, kind, even to those who were not of her faith. And that the mullahs did not teach.

Rolling over to a sitting position, Jamil unearthed from a vest pocket the slim volume Ameera had given him. The olive green oblong roused in him both supreme distaste and curiosity. Was it the teachings said to be in these pages, teachings of the prophet Ameera professed to follow, that made her so different? What in those teachings differed from those of the Quran?

It was true that like Adam and Noah and Abraham and Moses, Isa Masih was lauded as a prophet by Muhammad himself. But Jamil had not been totally honest in his bold declaration to Ameera. If the Quran itself made frequent reference to the teachings and works of the prophet Isa, or Jesus in Ameera's language, it gave few details, and the book said to contain those details was so little favored by the mullahs, Jamil had never heard or seen its contents. The Taliban had banned the book completely as an instrument of the infidel West. But they'd banned so much else, and it had been reflexive protest against their autocratic dictates as much as the new ones these foreigners thrust on the Afghan people that prompted Jamil's impetuous pronouncement.

And yet why not? If the Quran did not forbid, was it not perhaps the duty of a Muslim to ascertain who this Jesus was, what he had taught? It would be useful practice for the translations Ameera had requested.

Or was this only a distraction, an excuse to please Ameera?

Jamil sat with the small volume in his hands, fingering its cover until a corner began to curl, as twilight cast a dappled pattern of light and dark onto the wall above his head. Soon it would be too dark to see its pages. With sudden decision, Jamil opened the book. Turning a page, he began to read.

“Hey, Steve, DynCorp just faxed over the final report on the MOI suicide vest.”

Steve put aside Khalid's movement schedule to pick up the single sheet of paper Phil dropped onto his desk.

The medic saved him the bother of skimming through it. “Basic summary, no news. Jason had his trainees do a full workup, fingerprinting everything in sight and everyone in the building. Minus all the visiting police chiefs and their entourages, who'd long gone by then. Prints on the bomb components matched a couple good ones on the balcony railing but no matches to the fingerprint roundup. They're feeding their catch now into a computer database. Great training exercise, but without suspects for a match, it won't do us any good. The only interesting tidbit was the vest itself. Schematics right off the Internet, but the trigger mechanism was remote control. A cell phone. I thought these guys usually blew themselves up.”

“I've heard of remote-control IEDs but not suicide bombs. Hmm.” Steve swiveled his desk chair to stare out a picture window. The upstairs suite the CS team had co-opted as command center overlooked the same concrete slabbing as Khalid's reception salon but no longer offered a view of the massive Mi-8 helicopter. The minister had finally agreed to retire his monster to a well-guarded helipad on the PSD base where some out-of-bounds guest couldn't slap a magnetic explosive on its underbelly.

Steve ran a satisfied eye over an assortment of armored SUVs and Humvees with gun turrets that had taken its place. “So the perp wasn't the one who called off the mission. On the other hand, he had to make the choice to drop his vest behind. I wonder who had the remote and where. Or maybe we've got it all wrong, and the perp was just carrying the trigger separate from the bomb.”

“Unless we catch the guy, we may never know,” Phil said. “Nor is there any evidence of how the perp entered the building. Everything was locked up tight. No sign of break-in on doors and windows nor marks of grapple hooks coming over the perimeter wall. As to the apartments next door, no one admits to seeing anything beyond bazaar traffic and MOI's own security.”

“According to Jason, those ANP K-9 trainees never went above the first floor with their demo C-4,” Ian spoke up from across the suite where he and Phil had been calibrating computer screens and monitors for a network of security cameras. “But I was there. Those dogs were going nuts from the moment they were brought inside all the way up to the roof. Which suggests that suicide vest strolled through the first floor and upstairs.”

“You don't suppose Khalid's capable of orchestrating the whole thing himself?” Phil gestured toward a flat-screen TV on the wall, its sound muted. Satellite feed was one perk Khalid supplied. The screen showed a live feed of the Afghan parliament, their principal currently addressing the assembly. “The whole thing's been a PR bonanza for him. Even the cable news back home's picked it up. The assassinated interior minister's brave successor standing up to death threats.”

“Impossible,” Ian responded. “Khalid's never out of our sight. What I'd like to know is does he really have the guts to clean up MOI the way he's been talking? You two worked with the guy, fought with him. What's your take?”

Steve eyed thoughtfully the minister resplendent behind the televised podium, McDuff and Rick visible in the background. “What Khalid's capable of orchestrating, I've never been able to read in that wily brain of his. But don't let the pop star facade fool you. Khalid doesn't go into combat without planning to win.”

“One other bit of intel came in today. That ISAF attack outside MOI the day we arrived—they've managed to DNA-match the bomber. It was a woman, and no illiterate peasant either. A university student from Peshawar. Afghan refugee family.”

So now they had to start suspecting every burqa drifting down the street. Not that IDing the perp solved that particular mystery. What could motivate an educated young woman—or any person—to enough passion they'd blow themselves up along with total strangers?

More urgently for the future of this region and maybe the world, what could motivate such passion to change its mind?

“Ameera-jan! Please tell us a story.”

A mob of children clustered around Amy and Soraya as they stepped into the inner courtyard. The two women had spent the afternoon driving through dirt alleys in the impoverished neighborhood behind Wazir and Sherpur. With Jamil keeping wary vigil over the car, Amy and her companion knocked on doors to converse with suspicious veiled eyes or spoke to children playing in the muck. If all went well, New Hope would soon launch its first literacy and feeding outreach there.

The outing had taken longer than Amy expected, and the Welayat women were already clearing away the evening meal under the colonnade, washing dishes by the fountain. The women stopped their activity, falling immediately silent, as they caught sight of the new arrivals. Small bodies pressed against Amy, warm, sticky hands clutching hers. But around Soraya reigned a respectful amount of space.