Veiled Freedom (54 page)

Black, foul-smelling smoke boiled from the main stairwell. The women and children gathered for the clinic were moving down the hall, a hysterical bottleneck jostling at the door that led onto the balcony and outdoor stairs. Coughing and choking, Amy stooped to swing Najeeda's son into her arms while Becky helped support Najeeda. Fahim buried his face against Amy's tunic while they inched forward.

Then they were out onto the balcony. Amy hadn't even had time to consider the source of the explosion or that acrid stench billowing down the hall. Now she could hear that shrieks of terror and pain weren't all from the hysterical mob around her. “The children!”

Amy couldn't push through the traffic jam on the balcony staircase. Disentangling herself from the boys, Amy climbed over the balcony railing, dropping with a hard thud onto the tiles below. The air out here was little more breathable, and Amy could see that the entrance hall doors were blown from their hinges, smoke thickening in the inner courtyard to become a dark, oily cloud. Women had emerged from their living quarters, smaller children in arms and at their skirts. Some were pounding on the heavy, wooden door leading to Rasheed's quadrant. Why was no one responding?

And now the first school-age children were stumbling, crying and choking, from the main wing's rear salon. Why they sought refuge in the courtyard was immediately evident as Amy waded against the flow. Someone had lifted down the metal bar securing the French doors, but these were locked, and window grilles prevented any escape that way. Amy pounded frantically on the French doors. Surely someone out there had to hear.

Then she spotted Fatima staggering through the small door in the paneling that divided the rear salon from the schoolroom. Above the bedlam, Amy yelled, “Are there any more children inside?”

Fatima looked dazed, blood spilling down her face and one arm. When she didn't answer, Amy stepped past her through the opening. She immediately regretted it. To this point, the paneling had shielded her from whatever was responsible for those burning, choking fumes. Now Amy could neither breathe nor hardly see. Just enough to take in doors not only blown open but lying flat on the floor.

The smoke was too thick to see into the hall as Amy shuffled across carpets and cushions, scarf tight over her face. She could be thankful now for that shortage of glass. Though plastic panes bulged against metal bars, they hadn't shattered. Fatima's desk and blackboard were tipped over, workbooks, pencils, and crayons scattered widely. But Amy's fumbling hands felt no small, limp forms as she'd dreaded.

Two propane heaters were overturned, their flames blown out, but intact. And from the smell, still pumping out deadly fumes. By the time Amy managed to turn them off, she was growing woozy. Groping back to the paneling, she was in despair of finding the opening when an arm grabbed hers. It was Farah. Half lifting Amy over the sill, the girl slammed the door on that thick, black smoke.

But this side offered little improvement. And to Amy's horror, children were pouring back into the salon, screaming, crying, and choking. Stumbling back to the French doors, Amy saw that the gate from Rasheed's quadrant now stood open. Could the caretaker and his wife have just abandoned them? Here those plastic panes were a disadvantage because she couldn't even break them to let in fresh air.

Oh, God, please have mercy on these women and children. Don't let them die before they ever have a chance to know your love.

Two people dashing through the open gate didn't look like angels, but they had to be. A black chador holding a key ring. Soraya running on her high heels. The French doors flung open, a stampede of small bodies pouring out. Amy gulped in a wonderful taste of diesel-laden smog as she hurried toward Fatima, still slumped onto a rug.

But Soraya was ahead of her, face white, eyes wild with horror. Soraya lifted Fatima to her feet and supported her toward the French doors. “Fatima-jan, I feared you were dead. I could not reach you until Hamida opened the gate. And then all was locked, and we had to find Rasheed with the keys.”

Farah had gone to Fatima's other side to help, so Amy headed to the courtyard. Smoke still poured from the main doors. But Hamida had unlocked the side door, and here too women and children flooded into Rasheed's garden. Becky Frazer had lingered to help some of the women. Amy grabbed a toddler in each arm while Hamida lifted another.

The New Hope tenants retreated through the gate to cluster as far from the fire as possible. Carrying her burden over to their mothers, Amy saw the front entry doors lying smashed into the fountain, the same black, acrid smoke pouring through the opening. As she reached the others, she could also see there were more injuries than she'd thought. Contusions already turning purple. A limp arm that looked dislocated. Bloodied faces and scraped limbs. Becky had thought to grab her medical bag and was helping Soraya settle Fatima to a sitting position.

I should go help her, find out who's hurt worst.

But a dazed lassitude gripped Amy, the throbbing at her temple spreading through her head, so that she swayed. For one weak moment, she wished fervently that instead of acting the leader, she could throw this mess on some stronger, wider pair of shoulders. Just a week ago, Steve's speed dial would have been her first reaction. But the security contractor had made it clear any further appeal from Amy would earn only a biting, “I told you so.”

Then Amy's eye fell on Rasheed striding toward the fountain, a coil of hose over his shoulder. Behind him, other men rushed through the front gate with pails and shovels. A stocky frame of medium height was among them. Had that loiterer the other night simply been a mechanic from next door?

Amy bestirred herself to move toward Rasheed. “What happened? And what do we do? Is there a fire department to call?”

“I have already informed the landlord.” Rasheed lifted aside a smashed door. “As to a fire department, I have heard of such things. But who would wait if they wish their home to survive? We will put out the fire. Then we can enter to discover what has happened.” He threw a disapproving look over his shoulder as he began attaching the hose to a water fixture. “Your women are indecent. They must cover for the firefighters.”

He was right. None of the women had taken time to grab a burqa, and some had even been caught without headscarves.

“Does that matter right now?” Amy said indignantly. “We almost suffocated in there. We could have died if Hamida hadn't let us out.”

Rasheed now had the hose connected. Pulling a scarf over mouth and nose, he turned it on. “That was not intended.”

It was hardly an apology. Amy suddenly realized that among the men arriving, she hadn't yet seen her assistant. Wajid had thought he might have returned from his dawn shopping to sleep. A horrible thought caught at Amy. Her one relief had been that there were no apparent serious injuries. Had she been wrong? Jamil's quarters were very close to where that blast had gone off.

I have to find someone to send over. No, there's no time. I'll go myself.

Amy turned away. But just as a stream of water penetrated the smoke, a fresh explosion sent a noxious cloud through the broken doorway to catch Amy full in the face. Coughing and choking, she groped for her scarf to follow Rasheed's example. This was now soaked a sticky scarlet, and that terrible lassitude had settled over her again so that she couldn't lift a limb. Nor could she breathe, her whole world reduced to a throbbing fire that seized chest and throat.

“No, turn off that water! You—bring the fire extinguishers!”

Had the command been Dari or English—or both? Hard arms closed around Amy. She must have lost consciousness because when she swam up out of darkness, there was air in her lungs, a grim voice saying, “Breathe, will you? Didn't I tell you something like this was bound to happen? Just too stubborn to take anyone's advice. No, don't you dare give up on me. Breathe!”

A shuddering gasp eased pressure on Amy's rib cage. She lifted heavy lashes to gray eyes blazing with anger, a mouth compressed so tightly it was bloodless. But Amy didn't mind the anger because she'd heard raw fear in Steve's tirade, the relief that greeted her first labored breath.

“You came!” Then Amy's last conscious thought flooded urgently back. “Jamil?”

Steve's expression went blank; then he got to his feet.

Struggling to a sitting position, Amy took in a thick, down coat beneath her. Becky Frazer was hurrying her way, concern on her face. Men swarmed around the house.

But all that was driven from Amy's mind by a new movement bursting through the open gate. Eyes wide with emotion were black instead of brown, features thinner, a taut frame slighter. But the anger and fear were the same. So was the relief as that dark gaze fell on Amy's sitting shape.

This time Amy's exclamation held its own delight and relief. “Jamil!”

Now that Amy was sitting up, Steve stepped back, his face turning to granite as the aid worker's assistant dropped down beside her. “Miss Ameera, you have been hurt! And the children? I saw the smoke at a distance and was so afraid.”

Jamil wore only shalwar kameez with a vest, and he was shivering. But he didn't seem to notice the chill breeze as his hand went toward the gash at Amy's temple, the joyous relief lighting his face as revealing as his earlier distraught expression. Did Ms. Amy Mallory know her Afghan assistant had fallen in love with her? The man's unreasonable antipathy now made a world of sense.

And mine?

Jamil snatched his hand away as Amy pushed herself to her feet, her fingers probing her hair. “It's nothing, just a cut. And everyone got out okay. Wajid said you were already back from the bazaar, so when we couldn't find you . . .” Her voice shook. She stared at bloodstained fingers, then wiped them on her scarf. “Where have you been?”

“I—” Jamil glanced at Steve as he got to his feet. “I had to return for another errand. Forgive me if I caused any inconvenience.”

“Now that you're here, maybe you can give Becky and me a hand. Do you still have that first aid kit in the truck? We've got a lot of cuts and bruises, and the infirmary's cut off by the fire. I'll meet you over there.”

Amy gestured toward the huddle of women and children. From a black bag and the cut arm she was tending, Steve guessed an older expat woman who'd turned back when she saw Amy sit up was the aid worker's American nurse friend. Despite a lingering pallor and harsh breathing, Amy appeared in control again. As her driver hurried toward the gate, she reached for the parka she'd been lying on and handed it to Steve.

“This is yours, isn't it? I'm not sure what happened, but I have a feeling I have you to thank again. I just hope I didn't get it too dirty.”

“That's the last thing that matters right now,” Steve said roughly as he shrugged the coat on. “And we'd better deal with that cut on your head before you start in on anyone else.”

“That I can handle.” Phil came up beside them, carrying a field hospital kit.

“Phil, what are you doing here?” Amy said with pleasure. She glanced around to take in the dozen or more CS personnel. “What are you
all
doing here?”

The Special Forces medic threw Steve a wry glance as he opened his kit. “Let's just say Wilson was pretty worried about you. Now let's get you patched up.”

Amy's eyes went wide, but Steve turned away to see Ian approaching. Behind him, the shattered entrance and black billows now reduced to negligible wisps screamed this was no heater accident.

“Boss, we've got the fire pretty well out. Good thing we brought those foam extinguishers because the blast zone had enough toxic chemicals to turn this whole block into a poison cloud with the water they were pumping in. That last explosion was a couple barrels of acetone going off.”

He didn't get any further because Amy spun around from the pressure pad Phil was applying to her temple. “Toxic chemicals? You mean—that explosion was something poisonous? What about the children and others who've breathed it in?”

“Hey, no worries,” Ian said quickly. “From what I can tell, we're talking industrial chems here. Turpentine, paint thinner, engine oil—workshop stuff. Of course those are hazardous enough, especially when mixed with water, which can turn any and all of them from highly flammable to toxic gas.”

Glancing at Amy's pale face, Phil intervened. “The good news is most of that stuff is also explosive enough to burn off in the initial blast. If your people are all breathing and walking, you're likely looking at smoke inhalation, nothing worse. Why don't we go take a look?”

By now Jamil was back with a red and white box. As the three moved away, Steve ignored something cold settling into his chest to swing around on Ian. “Nice going.”

“Sorry. Forgot there were civvies present.” Ian watched Amy head toward the huddled group. “Your lady friend's really something. Thinks of her troops before herself. I'd take that one at my back in a combat zone any day.”