Veiled Freedom (37 page)

“Yes, he was here yesterday. He wanted to see the project and was asking about our security.”

Was it cowardice or prudence to follow Steve's own tack? Amy had to admit relief when the chowkidar nodded and walked away. And after all, like the CS contractor, she'd told only the truth.

Resisting the impulse to return Steve's earlier call, Amy applied herself to her office work. After lunch, the children helped push back the folding divider between schoolroom and communal salon. Roya and Najeeda pitched in with Farah in refereeing a succession of relays and games. But Amy found herself drifting to the windows as often as the children to check on the progress outside.

Workmen mixed water with bags of cement and sand in the wheelbarrows they'd brought in. Others slapped the concrete atop the perimeter wall, setting carefully into it shards of broken glass bottles. Above the broken glass workmen stretched ordinary barbed wire. The combination was an effective enough household defense and common in even the city's poorest neighborhoods. Again Amy had to admire Steve's astute handling of Rasheed's concerns.

Partway through the afternoon, Rasheed ushered workers into the inner courtyard to add barbed wire and broken glass to the plastic panels already shielding the back wall. By then the children were tired enough to settle down for Dari-dubbed Japanese cartoons. Despite the buzz of activity, when Amy answered her cell phone barely five hours after Steve's initial call, she wasn't expecting his abrupt, “We're done. You mind coming out?”

Workmen were trundling away wheelbarrows of tools and empty sacks as Amy slipped out the front entrance. Posts sunk into the brick wall supported three strands of barbed wire as far as Amy could see around the perimeter. Glass shards in still-moist concrete sparkled in the lengthened sunbeams of late afternoon.

Phil Myers and his long-haired associate were at the perimeter wall, inspecting their handiwork. Steve stood near the open gate in conversation with Rasheed, but as Amy came down the steps, the caretaker dodged a wheelbarrow to exit the gate.

Steve approached Amy. “I've just been explaining the system to your caretaker. And I'd like to line you out too. Don't let the low-tech facade fool you. Your caretaker's right that you don't want to scream high-value target. But we had some fiber-optic cable left over from our security setup at Khalid's principal residence. Mac and Phil have been stringing it along that barbed wire.”

Steve indicated his two expat companions. “You can't even see it's there, but anyone tries climbing over that wire or even gets too close, and an alarm will go off. Not just here but over at our command center.”

Amy shook her head. “I don't know about that. We have children playing out here. Something that could shock them or set off an alarm—”

“Fiber-optic fencing is proximity sensitive; it won't shock anyone.” Steve brushed away the objection. “In fact, it doesn't use electricity at all, which makes it ideal for this kind of setup. It works on a radio frequency system, and you're close enough to tap it into our own central unit, so it's no extra trouble. But you're right about the kids playing. Which is why I got this for you.”

Steve handed Amy what looked like a small remote control. “We keep our system up 24-7, but yours is rigged to turn on and off at will. The button there is a simple on-and-off switch. The green light means it's activated. If it's not activated by midnight, our system will do it automatically.”

Amy took the remote from Steve. “This is incredible. The women are sure going to feel safer seeing all that up there. I really don't know how to thank you.”

The literal truth. Regardless of how much Steve stressed his employer's interests, what he'd done here this afternoon was so far above the call of duty, Amy was at a complete—and rare—loss for words.

Steve looked embarrassed. “Hey, it was no big deal. Anyway, this should take care of your external defense. Internal is another matter. Which reminds me—”

The earsplitting wail of an alarm siren drowned out his next words. Simultaneously, just behind where Steve stood facing Amy, a torso pulled itself up above the cinder-block partition. As Steve spun around, a leg swung over. Its owner half dropped, half fell to the cobblestone path. Amy saw taut menace ease from Steve's muscled frame even before he reached to snatch the remote from her hand. An instant later, the siren went quiet.

Jamil scrambled to his feet, a file in his hand. Even as Steve handed the remote back to Amy, his eyes didn't leave the Afghan's face.

“You remember my driver, Jamil,” Amy put in quickly.

“I certainly do. You were hopping a wall then as well. Sorry about that. I was about to add that we didn't have materials to run perimeter defenses down your interior partitions. But with strangers in and out of that mechanics yard, we did run a fiber-optic cable along the top of the wall there.”

Jamil responded neither to the contractor's slight smile nor proffered handshake. With dismay, Amy saw that shock had drained his olive complexion to such a sickly gray she was worried he was going to faint. Then Jamil put a hand to the wall to steady himself. Holding out the file to Amy, he said, “I brought the permits you requested.”

“I am so sorry to spring this on you,” Amy said remorsefully. “Why don't you take that up to the office? I'll be there shortly.”

Steve's hard gaze followed her assistant as he disappeared up the steps. “Is it your driver's regular habit not to bother with gates?”

Amy looked at him reproachfully. “He has a room on the other side. And since the gates are kept shut, it's easier to hop the wall than wait for someone to open them every time he needs to go back and forth. If you'd asked first, I'd have said to leave your cable off there.”

“Well, don't expect an apology,” Steve said. “As I was about to say, you can put up all the external defenses in the world, but you've still got to consider the possibilities of internal threat. These people you're living with—what kind of background checks have you done? What if one of them turns out to have a beef against expats? For that matter, what's to keep one of them from selling these women's whereabouts? Does your staff have access to personal records?”

As Amy's face gave away the answer, Steve went on. “And what if one of those prison women snaps and gets violent? Who'd ever know for backup? It's clear you like it here, but does your HQ understand the security implications of an American woman living alone in what's essentially hostile territory? At least with a guesthouse, someone'll come checking if you don't come home.”

“Don't do this to me,” Amy cried out vehemently. She had to bite her lip to stop her voice from trembling. “Look, I know you're trying to be helpful. I appreciate everything you've done today. And okay, so it's your job to be suspicious. But your own boss trusts Rasheed to run this place. And Soraya has done incredible things considering all the roadblocks she's faced.

“As for Jamil, I do know he's some distant relative of Rasheed's. And he's one of the nicest and hardest-working people I've ever met. I-I can't live with these people or do what I have to do if I'm going to start distrusting them or their motives, especially when they've never given me reason. I 
won't
live that way.”

“Hey, believe me I'm the first to hope you're right.” Running a hand through dark, clipped curls, Steve let out a sigh. “And you're right that I suspect anything and everyone. An occupational hazard. Just—well, like I said before, watch your back. And if things ever do blow up, don't forget you've got that speed dial.”

Rasheed was coming back through the gate now, so Amy excused herself quickly. Strange how awkward it suddenly seemed to be found speaking to an unattached male. Was this how Afghan women felt?

The project permits were on Amy's desk, but she didn't see Jamil until she stepped farther into the office. He was hunkered down against the wall in that chairless Eastern sitting position, head resting against the plaster, eyes closed, hands clenched at his side. Amy again felt remorse. The loudness of the alarm had startled her, and she'd known what it was. Had the explosion of sound flashed him back to some past trauma?

But as Jamil raised his head, Amy saw it wasn't fear or distress that tightened his jaw muscles and blazed from his dark eyes but anger. His low, fierce demand made no reference to the alarm. “Why is that American soldier here again?”

His challenge took Amy aback. Steve had with patent calculation presented himself and his associates to Rasheed in official safari-style contractor uniform. But neither body armor nor weapons had been in sight. Then Amy remembered her first encounter—and Jamil's—with the PSD contractor, an M4 over his shoulder, the pistol he'd fired in the air.

Then too Jamil had seemed pale and shaken. Amy had put it down to exertion and his wound, even reaction to the bombing. After her early abortive probings, she'd respected Jamil's clear desire to leave his past
in
the past. But somehow—perhaps because it was easier, because Jamil had opted to work for Amy, a foreigner and American—she'd chosen to assume her driver's family were victims of that endless Taliban-muj conflict.

Had they instead been casualties of the American liberation campaign? Was that the horror Steve seemed to provoke in Jamil? However unavoidable the collateral damage, those on the losing end of this war didn't see the patriotic defenders of freedom that lifted Amy's heart every time she saw red, white, and blue on a uniform lapel, but killers of their sons and daughters and husbands and wives and parents and friends.

“Mr. Wilson isn't a soldier. He's head of security for our landlord. Part of his job is making sure the minister's properties have adequate perimeter defenses. I'm sorry he disturbed you, but he shouldn't need to come again unless we have a problem.”

The hand Amy laid on Jamil's shoulder was an instinctive comforting gesture, but it was the first time she'd touched her assistant in any way except bandaging that cut foot, and she knew it was a mistake before his hand came up to cover hers.

Jamil's fingers were ice-cold against hers, and it was with utmost gentleness that Amy said as she withdrew her hand, “We'll take down the wire on the partition wall. I won't let him block you from getting back and forth.”

“No, in that the American is right. I have been thinking the same. Anyone from the trucks that stop here could come across as I do. That you and the children should be secure is of greater urgency than my convenience.”

“Then maybe I can ask Rasheed to give you your own gate keys so you can get in and out once the mechanics go home.”

Jamil shook his head. “I do not wish a key. If a vehicle or other valuables should go missing, I do not wish a finger to be pointed at me.” He produced a faint smile as he tapped a vest pocket. “If there is ever such an emergency that I must get out after the gates are locked, I can call.”

Jamil seemed calmer now, so Amy retreated to her desk. Opening the file to official-looking stamps and curlicue script that meant nothing to her, Amy said dismissively, “Thank you. This looks good.”

Taking the hint, Jamil pushed himself to his feet and headed toward the door. But he'd taken only two steps when he turned around. “I do have one other matter I have wished to ask about.”

Amy looked up from the file. “Yes, Jamil?”

“Your prophet—Isa Masih. Why was he martyred? With his power to stop storms and raise the dead, could he not have prevented the soldiers from putting him on a cross?”

Amy was startled at the abrupt change of subject, at the intensity with which Jamil seemed to be waiting for the answer. She considered her words before she said carefully, “Because he loves us. Because God loves us. Like it says in the book I gave you, in the Gospel called John—‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.'”

Jamil's black brows drew together. “But how does dying show love? Would not living be more profitable?”

“Boy, you sure don't ask easy questions.” Amy pushed away the file with a rueful sigh. “I'm no theological scholar, but let me see if I can explain. Jesus is God come in the flesh to walk among us in our world. That's the meaning of another name the Bible calls Jesus. Immanuel—‘God with us.'”

“Yes, I read that. But God is one. Jesus cannot be God.” Jamil looked more shocked than confused. “That is blasphemy.”

“God is one,” Amy agreed. “Christians believe that too. And yet the Bible also says Jesus is God. And the Son of God. I can't explain how that works. Some things about God are just too big a mystery for our brains to figure out. Except, well, if God wanted to reach out to the people he created, how would he do it, how could we possibly hear him? Unless he came down to earth to live with men and tell them himself how much he loves them and how they should live. If God became only a man with the limitations of a man's body, what would hold the universe together? Somehow God remains up there.”