Veiled Freedom (7 page)

Steve shook off unpleasant reverie. “If there's any way we can give the ministry a walk-through, I'd rather not waste time.”

“You're the boss. I suppose Ahmed could drop us off and circle back when we're ready.”

Cougar leaned forward to speak to the driver, and Ahmed immediately hit the brakes. Ignoring angry honks, Cougar climbed out, waited for Steve to follow, then led the way toward a high, army green wall topped with concertina wire. That Steve hadn't immediately noted a barricaded gate or armed guards in blue gray uniforms of the Afghan National Police could be blamed on the market bustle hemming it in.

While the contractors' own armed status was hardly unusual in these streets, their dress broadcast not only foreigner but PSD. Steve's back crawled under a battery of turned heads and unsmiling stares. Just inside the MOI entrance, new arrivals were being patted down, bags searched. Steve expected some protest, but a guard barely glanced at the credentials Cougar showed him before waving them through.

“Khalid's offices are this way.”

Steve matched his surroundings with the blueprints he'd scrutinized as he followed on Cougar's heels. The compound was larger than he'd anticipated with several buildings. Lines of people waited to squeeze into government offices. Others wandered the grounds or rested against walls. A loud honking outside sent a man in a blue gray uniform scurrying to open a gate for two green police pickups.

There is so much wrong with this picture I couldn't begin to list it.

Cougar steered the way to the largest building, where a clerk led the two on a tour of offices with male secretaries bent over antiquated computers, classrooms of police recruits watching training videos. Khalid's work space was on the fourth and final floor, an entire suite filled with imported furniture and clerks in Western business suits.

The tour ended up a short flight of stairs to the roof. Concertina wire had been added to the low parapets, and though sandbagged observation posts were not in use, several men in uniform crouched around a tall clay hookah, assault rifles balanced casually across their thighs. As their guide abandoned the two contractors for a drag at the water pipe, Steve leaned gingerly over the barbed wire.

This side of the building formed part of the perimeter wall, second- and third-story balconies jutting out over a narrow alley that separated the MOI compound from the neighboring apartment building. Market vendors had commandeered the alley as a storage dump, leaving room for only a single vehicle to squeeze through.

“So is it doable?” Cougar asked.

Steve took cover behind a sandbag fortification as he dug binoculars from a vest pocket. A useless precaution considering he could count a dozen buildings tall enough for a line-of-fire view of his position.

Still, he didn't allow himself to be hurried as he completed a methodical survey of surrounding skyline before lowering the binoculars to answer Cougar bluntly. “Anything's doable. But this site's got major problems. From what I've seen, anyone with a badge or uniform can waltz right in without any serious challenge. The place is a sniper's heaven, not to mention grappling hooks over those railings could have a sizable task force up here in five minutes.

“Number one, we move the minister's offices out of here to his own residence or somewhere else we can control access. Second, we go low profile. No marked vehicles. No in-your-face expat Secret Service parades for the media. We keep the guy under the radar and don't let hostiles know we're coming.”

At the mention of snipers, Cougar edged behind the sandbags. “You've got to be joking. You might be able to do something about Khalid's work habits. But low profile? As far as Khalid's concerned, the whole point of this is big and obvious.”

An Afghan in the Western dress of a government clerk emerged from the stairwell. Their original guide jumped up from the hookah circle to meet the newcomer.

Cougar lowered his voice. “There're politics involved. Why settle for MOI when presidential elections are coming up next year? Khalid may be worried about death threats, but expat muscle also happens to look good on cable news and makes the West take him seriously.”

“There're
always
politics involved,” Steve said. “Or maybe the actual threat level's a whole lot less than our new principal's been saying.”

“In any case, it's not our job to secure the entire MOI. Only our own principal. This building's tighter than it looks. All exits are solid metal and secured from the inside. No one's allowed past the first floor without MOI credentials.”

Their original guide crossed the roof to hand Cougar a folded note. The logistics manager scanned it. “The minister's running late for that lunch meeting. He flew to his home district yesterday for a wedding and isn't back. He'll host us for dinner to discuss details of his PSD. Like I said, really worried about those death threats.”

“He's not on our nickel yet, so it's no worry of ours.” Steve shrugged. “Meanwhile, I've got what I need here. If we can't adjust the op, we deal with what we've got. But the extras are going to cost. I'll get the prelim assessment written up this afternoon.”

“Good. I'll give Ahmed a buzz then, and we'll head over to the guesthouse and get you settled.”

As Cougar pulled out a cell phone, Steve raised his binoculars again, shifting position to train them on the crowded boulevard fronting the main gate. Angry shouts drew his focus to a personnel carrier sandwiched between two armored Humvees just emerging from a side street. The ISAF convoy sped onto the boulevard fast enough to stampede pedestrians and vehicles alike into opening a path. Steve sighed as raised fists and a hail of rocks greeted the convoy. That kind of local ill will just made his own job that much harder. Not that he could blame the ISAF. With a recent spat of IEDs—improvised explosive devices—targeting foreign armed forces vehicles, they were simply following standard operating procedure.

Steve's binocular-sweep across the scattering crowd paused on a darting pale blue figure. He focused in. A burqa. And running not to escape the oncoming juggernaut but straight into its path.

Steve's knuckles turned white against the binocular casing as the explosion tore into the convoy. The lead Humvee skidded through a row of market stalls into a light pole. The personnel carrier couldn't stop in time. It slammed the Humvee forward with a screech of metal and burning rubber.

The street was pandemonium, the bazaar a chaos of smashed stalls, screams, and blood. On the rooftop, the guards abandoned their hookah party to crowd along the parapet. Steve spotted a pale blue and scarlet heap before it disappeared under the stampede. Man or woman? Woman suicide bombers were rare, but there'd been reports of militants donning burqas for disguise.

“Steve, we've got to pull out! Ahmed says he can get us out, but it's got to be now.”

Cougar was right. Steve was no longer a Special Ops master sergeant but a civilian, and this wasn't his gig. Stowing the binoculars, he jogged down the stairwell with Cougar.

The convoy was moving again by the time the two contractors made it out into the street, the personnel carrier using its bulk to push aside the wrecked vehicle as helping hands yanked the Humvee's contingent aboard other vehicles. Again, SOP. ISAF troops were neither paramedics nor ambulance, their sole responsibility to remove their own wounded and the aggravation of their continued presence before a nasty situation turned into all-out war. A single spat of a turret gun, aimed deliberately high, pushed the converging mob back enough for the convoy to pick up speed.

Steve would have given much to swing aboard. This wasn't the time and place to be obvious foreigners in these streets. As Steve and Cougar pushed quickly through the crowd, the M4s in their hands maintained a bubble of personal space, but glances their way were now openly hostile.
Just one more block.

The mob began to settle as soon as the convoy turned a corner. Across the street, people helped groaning victims, doused the flames of a burning car. Afghans were supremely resilient and experienced at reacting to disaster.

A few meters away a small boy huddled on the sidewalk sent up a terrified wail. Steve hesitated as he saw that the child was alone. Then he spotted a woman in a burqa weaving swiftly through stalled traffic, a youngish man with dark hair and beard at her heels. The woman scooped up the child. Parents, presumably.

Steve had scarcely relaxed when he stiffened again.
Wait.
That was no Afghan woman under the burqa. It was something in the walk. The awkwardness with which the polyester material settled over head and shoulder. Feet tripping on the hem instead of gliding with practiced grace. And yes, those were hiking boots, not sandals, under the blue folds.

Cougar had stopped and turned toward the woman as well, his body tensed. So the cop-turned-security-guard wasn't totally devoid of the right instincts. “Another bomber?” he mouthed.

With a furious babble of Dari, hands snatched at the blue folds, others grabbing at the boy. The woman in the burqa stumbled, almost dropping the child. The little boy screamed hysterically.

“The child! Put the child down!”

Steve had time only to register that the urgent call was in English when a burly man snatched the child from the woman's embrace. The angry mob was still closing in. A fist came up. Then the cloaked figure collapsed into a puddle of blue. Hands pulled at the polyester, exposing the clothing underneath. Steve's swift search did not locate the woman's male escort.

Steve's strides took him toward the woman. Now the mob grabbed at him, jostling bodies and scowling faces close enough to reek of rancid beard grease. Steve didn't slide the safety from the M4 but instead snatched the Glock from the small of his back. A single shot in the air restored the bubble of personal space.

Steve heard quickened, raspy breathing under the mound of blue material. The figure sat up, trying to push away the netlike face grille.

Steve's mouth tightened to a furious line as he pulled back the burqa's veil. “You!”

Ideas spun in Amy's brain. “You said you'd signed a lease on part of this place. Which part? And you mentioned Rasheed was caretaker. If he's not the owner, who is? Do they share the premises? Also, what are my living arrangements?”

“The owner doesn't live here,” Bruce said. “He's some big-shot government official. Minister of interior, whatever that entails. After the Taliban, he built himself a new place, then rented this one out. Some German NGO ran a school here for quite a while. After the kids trashed the place, it was subdivided for piecemeal rent.”

That explained the villa's dilapidated abandon.

“When Rasheed told me this place was available at a discount in its current condition, I grabbed it. New Hope's lease is for this back courtyard with the two wings on either side. I'm told that used to be women's quarters. I'd assumed our new project manager would live on-site. There's plenty of room.”

Amy shook her head. “Not acceptable. A respectable woman doesn't live alone in a Muslim community. I'll book a guesthouse room until I can look over the situation.”

Bruce frowned. “It's up to you. Just be aware that will come out of your living allowance.”

“That's fine,” Amy agreed. “Now that lease. There's no access to this courtyard from the street. If we're to have any meaningful aid project, women and children can't be walking through someone else's rental. I'd like to have access to the front courtyard, preferably the entire house.”

“That you'll have to negotiate with the owner. Rasheed can direct you to his offices. Just remember you've got a budget.”

“Yes, Rasheed!” Amy's next point of concern. “Hiring staff will be my first priority. The best starting place for that will be the local expat and NGO community. Meantime, I need someone with whom I can communicate and who can communicate to the locals on my behalf. Which means more than speaking a bit of English. At minimum, if I'm to exercise any authority as project manager, I need someone who doesn't look at me as though I were an insect underfoot.”

Bruce reached under the table for his cooler. “That isn't so easy. With all the expat organizations here, English speakers and drivers are at a premium. Rasheed may not be to your taste, but he's the best we could get at such short notice.”

Amy's enthusiasm dimmed. She
couldn't
find herself alone with that turbaned, bearded misogynist, even if he did have a wife in that drifting black shadow. “Just a minute. There was a man out in the courtyard who said he'd been sent here to look for work. He had good English, too.”

“Then let's take care of both your problems so I can get on the road. Rasheed!”

The driver-escort appeared so suddenly he must have been lurking outside the door. To Amy's surprise, the young man she'd seen earlier stepped into view behind Rasheed.