Veiled Freedom (13 page)

“Miss Ameera?”

Amy opened her eyes. Jamil was standing in the doorway, patu back over his shoulder, a puzzled expression knitting his eyebrows together. “You wish to sleep?”

“I wasn't sleeping. I was praying.”

Her assistant looked unconvinced as his glance touched her seated position. “Rasheed is sending me to the bazaar to purchase paint and cleaning supplies. He wishes to know your desires in regards to window glass.”

“I'll be right there.” Rising, Amy went out to embrace Afghanistan.

Steve raised the Motorola hand radio to his mouth. “Let's roll.”

And right on schedule, though Steve was still adjusting the Velcro straps of his tactical vest as the reinforced Hummer that was the convoy's lead vehicle nosed out onto the street. Bones was at the wheel, Mac's huge shape emerging from the roof hatch to man the turret gun. Steve, Cougar, and Phil followed in the Suburban. Behind, Ian had the wheel of a double-cab pickup. Rick and Jamie McDuff brought up the tail in a Mitsubishi Pajero. A dozen troop hires were divided among the vehicles.

The convoy exited via the opposite checkpoint from where Steve and Cougar had entered. A few blocks later the streets turned abruptly to dirt. They were now out of the Wazir district and into neighboring Sherpur. This had been a modest mud-brick district when Steve was last in Kabul. No longer.

“Wow, what happened here? Barbie meets Arabian Nights? Vegas on Ecstasy?”

Phil's stunned analogy was appropriate enough. Mansions sprouted two, three, even four stories above the unpaved streets. A bewildering fusion of domes, peaks, cupolas, and turrets were trimmed in even more bewildering combinations of pinks, oranges, yellows, greens, and blues. Only concertina wire and the occasional row of blast barriers spoiled the effect of confectioners gone wild.

“The latest in Afghan architecture,” Cougar said. “They call it Pakistani wedding cake. Or poppy palace, depending on the funding. The spoils of war. This little subdivision's been a media hot button since President Karzai's cabinet—all former muj commanders—bulldozed over the existing residents and parceled out the land among themselves.”

The street ended in a cul-de-sac fronting the largest wedding cake. The Humvee curved left to park along a row of blast barriers. The Suburban pulled up behind it, pickup and Pajero following suit. Climbing out, Steve stared upward in consternation as Cougar hurried his way. This was what they'd been contracted to secure?

The villa was only three stories, its walls a mustard yellow. There modesty ended. There must have been a dozen roof levels in blue, orange, purple, and chocolate. The perimeter wall rose a prudent ten feet, but the architect wasn't thinking defensive depth because a second-story terrace ran right out over a canary yellow pedestrian gate. Just off the terrace, an onion-domed, four-story tower glittered blue glass and chrome.

“The guy's sure come up in the world since we were air-dropping MREs for him and his muj.” Phil had emerged to join Steve. “And from the looks of it, he's rolled the dice on the Americans keeping the peace. Imagine an RPG on that.”

It was certainly impressive enough to understand why Khalid had chosen to relocate. But the Wazir compound was at least built like a fortress. All that exposed glass made even Steve itch to loose his M4 on it.

The contractors threaded through blast barriers toward the front gate. The rest of their force fanned out in defensive positions around the vehicles. Afghan sentries behind the barricade and ISAF troops patrolling balconies and terraces had been alerted to their arrival, because they showed no alarm at the invasion of a couple dozen armed men.

“Like I said, the minister isn't interested in low profile,” Cougar told Steve. “This is Khalid's palace, and he isn't going to budge out of here, so we'll just have to roll with it. You did say it was doable.”

“Sure, and those blueprints you gave me didn't tell the whole story. Who in blazes did the advance assessment?”

Cougar's expression displayed guilt. “Are you saying you can't carry out the contract?”

“I'm not saying anything,” Steve gritted, “except that if we're going to do this, I need to start hearing more than what Khalid wants or doesn't want.”

The ISAF detail was a Dutch unit. Their commander met the Condor party just outside the yellow gate. The ISAF officer spoke excellent and furious English. “Now that you are here, I will remove my men within the hour. I will not expose them unnecessarily to further threat.”

“What exactly is the threat?” Steve asked.

“Judge for yourself. Khalid wishes to speak to you immediately. He is waiting inside.”

Inside the compound, the perimeter wall ran back twice the depth of surrounding lots, where land must have been at greater premium than money because the gaudy mansions were built to completely fill their surface area. Helicopter rotors thrusting out past the curve of the glass tower indicated what Khalid had done with the extra footage. His own heliport.

By contrast, a narrow drive between the house and right perimeter wall allowed room for no more than three or four vehicles. They wouldn't even be able to get the convoy vehicles inside, Steve took in with annoyance.

The Dutch officer led the way through an arched colonnade that supported the second-floor terrace and into a foyer so five-star Steve looked around for bellhops and a reception counter. To the right, an arch opened into the glass tower, padded with rugs, cushions, and bolster pillows that were the Afghan version of a sitting room. Across the foyer, a broad marble staircase rose to higher levels.

Steve paused as a white-robed attendant emerged through double doors. The room beyond was sparkling blue from tiled walls and columns to vaulted roof. An indoor swimming pool? Steam rose from at least three water surfaces. Not a pool but a private
hamam
, the bathhouse that was an integral part of every Muslim community.

Men were everywhere. Lounging in Afghan dress on cushions. Perched in Western suits on sofas and chairs. Laughing. Talking. Eating.

“Who are they?” Steve asked the ISAF officer. “And how do you process them for a decent security check?”

“We don't,” the Dutch officer said flatly. “It seems it's an insult to have Kafir infidel hands patting them down. Khalid's own people check over the lower ranks. But the VIPs no one can touch. I'm just waiting for one to show up rigged to blow. It's all we've managed to enforce a weapons check. At least for those we can see.”

Steve, Cougar, and Phil followed the ISAF commander up the staircase. Steve had not yet seen armed presence indoors, but as they entered the second floor, two flaxen-haired, uniformed men moved aside at their commanding officer's signal.

“We've at least convinced Khalid to move his personal reception area back here, but he doesn't like the view.” The Dutch officer stopped outside a door where two more ISAF troops stood watch. “Khalid's waiting for you. Be aware we're pulling out at 1700 hours on the dot. When you're ready to walk through security procedures, let one of my men know.”

Cougar pushed open the door. The salon into which they stepped was big and airy, its decor an eclectic mix of Afghan cushions and rugs along with burnished leather sofas and chairs. But floor-to-ceiling windows explained Khalid's complaint. They overlooked a concrete slab supporting the gray green bulk of Khalid's Mi-8 helicopter. Beyond a rear perimeter wall, the neighborhood reverted back to mud-brick hovels and dirt alleys.

“Willie! Salaam aleykum.” The former muj commander was as changed as his living conditions, at least thirty pounds heavier, hair and beard styled and suspiciously free of gray. An Italian suit replaced combat fatigues, and if the watch he wore wasn't a Rolex, it was an expensive facsimile. Steve received a whiff of pricey cologne as Khalid kissed him enthusiastically on each cheek. “I am so happy you are here. I feel safer already.”

Then he took in Phil's presence and repeated the embrace. “Phil! I did not think to see you here. I had heard you were wounded and had left my country. I am glad to see the reports were exaggerated. And now you have come to defend my life again. Come, friends, let us converse.”

As they moved into the room, Khalid waved at a tall, lean man who'd lingered silently at a distance during Khalid's effusive welcome. Steve recognized him as the translator who'd been their team's personal driver and liaison with Khalid and his men.

“You remember Ismail, my comrade and yours against the Taliban. He is now my deputy minister.”

Steve had seen Ismail minimally since the liberation of Kabul. In fact, the last time had been only a couple of days later. He'd asked about the prisoner transfer. Ismail had assured Steve all had gone well. The next day their team had flown out to prepare for the Anaconda campaign.

The deputy minister followed Khalid's lead with hearty kisses and salaams. Unlike the former muj commander, Ismail still clung to traditional dress. But a richly embroidered chapan and turban were of expensive silk, curly dark hair and beard ruthlessly trimmed and oiled.

“So, my friends, what do you think of the new Afghanistan you have helped to create? Much change, no?” Khalid settled himself into a leather chair with a gingerness that betrayed he wasn't yet comfortable in the constriction of Western dress. “Allah has prospered us greatly since you and I fought jihad together.”

“You certainly have a beautiful home here,” Steve agreed evenly.

“Yes, I designed it myself. Just like America, no? There are those who criticize this beautiful neighborhood we have created. But all these houses were built from the private pockets of Afghans. It is our prayer that one day all Afghanistan will be beautiful like this and that all the poor too will have such houses.” Khalid lifted his hands toward the ceiling. “But everything belongs to Allah, does it not? And is it not he who chooses who should be blessed and who should not? Allah gave this land to those who fought on his behalf.”

For all the exigency of his earlier summons, Khalid seemed content to reminisce indefinitely. But his affability evaporated when Steve steered the conversation to the purpose for their presence. Steve soon understood why the ISAF commander had opted out. He didn't remember Khalid being so intransigent. Of course back then the MOI had been a ragtag warlord in desperate need of the firepower and money Steve could call in for him. Now he plainly considered the shoe to be on the other foot.

“No, no, no, no, no! My people must be free to see me. I must be free to come and go. You may post all the guards you wish, but I will not change my manner of living to satisfy barbarians who think to terrorize me. Nor offer insult to men who once risked their lives fighting at my side.”

“It's just standard security protocol.” Cougar was endlessly patient and cajoling, Phil silent.

Steve stood up abruptly. “I guess that leaves nothing to discuss. Khalid, we're prepared to do everything possible to minimize impact on your daily life without compromising security. But our contract is with the U.S. State Department, and we answer to them for the success of our mission. I will simply report that you've declined our protection. I'm sure they'll be happy to redirect those funds elsewhere.”

Steve heard Cougar's muted noise of dismay and knew the millions CS stood to make—or lose—were passing through his mind. But Steve's hard gaze did not waver from Khalid's, and it was the former muj commander who at last flung up his hands.

“I am happy to make whatever arrangements you require. Is it not, after all, my life you seek to protect? Let us sit and reason together.”

An hour later Steve walked out onto the second-story terrace that overlooked the front gate. Down the street the ISAF troop transport was disappearing around a corner. TCNs patrolled balconies and hallways. Khalid's own guards had been relegated to outer perimeter lookout duty. Cougar, Bones, and Ian had taken the convoy back to the team house to prepare for tomorrow morning's embassy expedition.

On the lower floor, a departing tribal delegation had thinned out the crowd. The European diplomats with their entourage were now holed up with Khalid. Mac and Rick had peeled off two Guatemalans, both former Kaibil officers, feared elite unit of that country's past military regimes, to form a provisional PRS detail. Phil and McDuff were sorting through comm and camera gear.

From the cover of a marble column, Steve turned slowly to examine each crazy curve, angle, and jutting roof surface Khalid had dreamed up to complicate his job. Then he began the same painstaking inspection of the panorama outside the perimeter walls.

Beyond those Crayola box mansions, visibility was so poor Steve could barely make out the city's encircling mountains. The dust he remembered well but not this oily gray haze so thick Steve could taste diesel in his mouth. A low rumble beneath his feet gave away the biggest culprit, the private generators with which anyone who could afford it supplemented Kabul's uncertain electricity.