Veiled Freedom (46 page)

Rev Garwood was heading away when he turned around. “Oh, I almost forgot. We collected some gifts for that children's project of yours as per your guidelines. They're up at Bagram. How can we get them to you?”

Amy's incredulous glance saw red rising up Steve's neck as he answered, “I'll take care of it. I'll be up there myself tomorrow.”

“Good. I'll leave the stuff with the chaplain's office.”

“You were right,” Amy said as she stretched her legs to keep up with Steve's long strides back to the car. “I like your friend.”

“Yeah, Rev's quite a guy. One of the original Green Berets and a POW back in Vietnam before he became a chaplain. Which is why he can fill up a chapel on Sunday morning. The recruits know he's got credibility because he's been where they're at. No one before or since has ever talked me into singing in public.”

The lightness of Steve's tone did nothing to downplay his affection and respect for his former superior officer, and Amy looked up curiously as he opened the passenger door for her. “But you've really never considered what he said? joining back up?”

“Never.” Steve's answer was immediate and flat. “Well, never say never. Like the Rev said, if my country came under attack again, I doubt there's a PSC still weapons-qualified who wouldn't have their gear packed and be first on the bus. But under the present circumstances—you heard what I had to say. It isn't just that I don't buy the mission anymore. I could no longer blindly follow orders, at least not in the kind of missions I'd be handed. I've seen too much, and I know more than I should.”

Steve rounded the hood to slide into the driver's seat before grinning at Amy. “Enough of that. Rev's right; we got kind of carried away there. Blame me. You may have noticed I've a talent for starting arguments I hadn't planned.”

“I noticed,” Amy said dryly. But her return smile was wholehearted. She was starting to get this guy—or thought she was. He wasn't being deliberately provocative. He just said what he thought, as though the life experiences he'd passed through had stripped away the usual social shield of prevarication and diplomacy. It could be exasperating. But there was also something reassuring in a person who said exactly what he meant and meant what he said.

“Actually, I enjoyed myself. And the Thanksgiving service. Thank you for inviting me.” Amy waited until the car was moving before asking, “And this children's project Rev Garwood mentioned?”

Red deepened up Steve's neck and ears as the guard waved them through the gate. “It's no big deal. I just happened to mention your project when I heard Rev Garwood was heading this way. Didn't know he'd take it seriously. My granddad sent some stuff too. They were thinking Christmas, of course. But with this Eid thing, I'll make sure the stuff gets to you tomorrow. Our team house guys got a few things for the kids too.”

Amy stared at him, stunned. “It's a very big deal—to the kids and me. Especially when you've already done so much for New Hope.” Slowly, she added, “
I
should be apologizing. I don't think I've had a very . . . well, shall we say, accurate picture of you.”

“Is that so? And just what kind of picture did you have?”

Amy hesitated. But under his quizzical glance, she gathered her breath. After all, the guy believed in straight talk. “To be honest, since I met you, I've thought you were kind of . . .”
Daunting? Bossy? Disapproving? Tough as nails?
Amy wrinkled her nose. “Intimidating comes to mind. And I guess I had the idea you'd no use for things like faith. Or humanitarian projects like New Hope. That you thought what I was doing was somewhere between stupid and hopeless.”

“I hadn't noticed you're so easily intimidated,” Steve answered as he eased the car back into traffic. “Make no mistake, I've got faith enough in God. It's people I have no faith in. So don't give me too many kudos. I hope I'd never be so rude—” another quick grin—“to use words like
stupid
or
hopeless
for what you're doing. I'm just not convinced it makes any difference in the long run. Or even that you're doing these people any favors when you keep stepping in to save them from what are also consequences of their own choices. Maybe not individually but certainly as a society.”

Amy abruptly lost her smile. “I'm not sure I understand what you're saying. It bothers me too that we—the West—should cooperate with ideologies that put people to death for their faith. But you can't be suggesting we withdraw humanitarian aid from countries that don't share our ideas of human rights and freedom. Why, there'd be millions starving this winter right here in Afghanistan if we weren't here to offer food and shelter. I can't believe you'd want that on your conscience.”

“It's not a matter of conscience. You think I don't feel sorry for starving kids on a street corner?” Steve took a hand from the steering wheel to run through his hair. “But let's be honest. For years I've heard people in your line of work blaming poverty for corruption and violence. And always with some bighearted idea that with enough food and cash, the world's problems would disappear. Yet for all the decades organizations like yours have been handing out aid, do you see any fewer starving children, abused women, corrupt dictators?”

Steve took in Amy's mutinous expression. “Exactly. Because in my rather extensive experience, corruption and violence breed poverty, not the other way around. This planet has plenty of resources. I'm not talking natural disasters. Pitching in there's understandable. But how much aid goes to bail out countries that have created most of their own problems? And forgive me if it sounds hard-hearted, but more often than not, the very aid that saves a few lives also enables bad governments to keep their grip.

“All I'm saying is maybe it's time to stop interfering and let the natural consequences of bad human behavior play themselves out. If there're no more bailouts, maybe the locals will get desperate enough to lay their own lives on the line against tyranny. Or not. But let it be their decision—and consequences—not ours.”

“Which all sounds good and logical.” Amy found that her voice was shaking and steadied it. How had she let herself consider this man worth liking? “Except what about all the children and women at New Hope? Maybe you can dismiss them as easily as natural consequences. But to me they're people I care about, not statistics. How can you be so unfeeling?”

“And how can you be so naive? You speak of faith in God. Well, isn't free will one of the things God gave man? And didn't God almost wipe out humanity once before because of our choices? So what makes you think human beings are any more salvageable now? And I'm not just talking about this part of the world. Believe me, I'm under no illusion our free West has any corner on human decency. All you can really do in this crazy world is take care of yourself, survive the best you can, and be as decent a person as possible while you're at it. What you
can't
do is save people who don't want or deserve to be saved.”

“Yet you're here in Afghanistan.” Amy's annoyance was evaporating as she studied her companion. “And you've rounded up presents for needy children and put up perimeter defenses to keep us safe.”

Steve's grin held no humor. “Well, now, that's the advantage of being a civilian. I don't have to practice what I preach. Like you, I'm hired to do a job that can take me anywhere in the world there's a trouble spot. The difference is, I make no pretence to try to change or save the world. But if the Christmas season brings out the warm and fuzzy even in a hard case like me, I've got no problem putting a temporary smile on a few kids' faces even while I'm well aware my drop in the ‘do-good' bucket doesn't make a bit of difference to this planet's big picture.”

“Maybe not,” Amy said slowly, “but to these particular kids, it sure does.”

The traffic was no less chaotic at this late afternoon hour, the earlier snowfall already churned to slush and mud. But Steve drove as though there were no slickness under the tires, and with his next turn, Amy recognized the quiet paved side street and a familiar blue wall coming up fast on the next corner.

She broke the silence. “In any case, I can't agree with you. I let you convince me once I had no hope of making a difference here. But New Hope is proof you're wrong. Maybe not about all the political stuff. I'll admit I don't know the answers for Afghanistan or the world. What I do know is that the kids at New Hope, my women who've gone through so much, the staff I'm working with—they're incredible people. Resilient and hardworking, and they've survived things I can't imagine putting up with. And I have faith that working together with them, I can make a serious impact to change this country.”

“Faith.” Steve braked hard in front of the black pedestrian gate before turning to Amy, his eyes hard, disbelieving. “You have got to be kidding. You have faith in people who all benefit from you, who all have something at stake in playing nice with you. I'm guessing you've never had your heart broken, have you?”

Amy shook her head, confused. Why was he changing the subject? “You mean, falling in love?”

“I mean betrayal. Breaking your heart over someone else, someone you've trusted, their lies, the pain and suffering they've caused to people you care about.” His tone was harsh. “Even your other missions, all those floods and earthquakes where you've handed out MREs and blankets. You've never had to be personally, emotionally invested in those people. If one lets you down, there's always a dozen more waiting in line.”

Amy looked at him contemplatively before she answered. “I suppose that's a fair enough assessment.”

“Then it's easy for you to have faith. Naive and unfounded but easy. Keep your faith in God, but if you're going to have such unjustified faith in man, you're just setting yourself up for heartbreak. Believe me, I've made that mistake.”

The small security panel in the pedestrian gate slid open and shut again. Then the gate creaked open to let out Wajid. But Amy made no move to get out of the car. She was watching Steve. His long fingers were tight on the steering wheel, his head turned to watch the guard's approach so Amy could see the rigid line of his jaw.

Wajid ambled over to peer through the windshield. At his eyes on her uncovered head, Amy reached for the scarf she'd discarded when she'd first climbed into the vehicle. As she shook it into place, it brushed across the dashboard. Steve grabbed for the yellow mailer as the tassels knocked it off, but not before its contents slid out the open end and fluttered to the floor.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Amy stooped to scoop up a handwritten note and a four-by-six snapshot. The floorboard under her boots was damp from melting snow and mud, and she brushed a mud fleck from a scrawled
Granddad
on the notepaper. “I hope I didn't ruin these.”

Amy turned the snapshot over. Despite a few wet streaks, the picture was as vivid as the day it had been taken. A girl, still in her teens, with shoulder-length flaxen hair and an anxious expression. A group of small children were pressed around her, smiling at the camera.

With astonishment, Amy demanded, “How did you get my picture?” She turned the snapshot over again, this time reading a familiar scrawl across the back:
We're praying for you.
“Wait! You can't be—!”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Steve's face as he plucked the photo and note from Amy's fingers and shoved both with the mailer into a coat pocket. “If you mean the lucky soldier you and your Sunday school class picked out of the hat, I'm afraid so.”

“I can't believe it! So that's why—”
That's why you acted so interested in me, when I knew I wasn't your type. It wasn't because you were really interested in me or New Hope or even because you felt somehow responsible after rescuing me that day. You were just trying to figure out who I was.
“How long have you known it was me?”

“Not until it came in the mail today. You don't think I've been carrying it around all these years. But there was something familiar about you, and when I saw you last week with all those kids crowded around—” Steve leaned back in his seat as he looked over Amy's face—“well, you hardly look a day older. I remembered you saying something about coming to Afghanistan someday. Being me, I like to check things out. So I asked my grandfather to dig that out of my old junk.”

“I just can't believe you kept it,” Amy said dazedly. “I'd forgotten all about it. I never even knew who the soldier was who got that letter. He never wrote back, so I thought maybe it had gotten lost.”

“Don't take it personally. I only kept it to remind myself what a fool I was.”

“What do you mean?” Amy demanded.

“What do I mean?” Steve turned toward the windshield, a muscle bunching along his jaw. “Do you even remember what you wrote with that picture?”