Veiled Freedom (6 page)

Almost everything.

The exception was behind the card table. A stocky Caucasian man in his forties with thinning sandy hair. Fingers drummed restlessly on a closed briefcase. Black dress shoes tapped impatiently.

All that mattered to Amy was that he was obviously, gloriously, expatriate. Relief liberated Amy's smile as she crossed the room with outstretched hand. “Mr. Nestor Korallis, New Hope Foundation. I'm so glad to see you. Amy Mallory.”

The man made no effort to rise or take her hand, which offended Amy less when she glanced down to realize how grimy it was. Instead, he was staring at Amy with the same stunned incredulity with which her escort had greeted her at the airport. “
You
are A. M. Mallory?”

Amy surreptitiously wiped her hand on the blue polyester ball. “That's right. Amy Margaret Mallory. Why? Is there a problem?”

“The problem is, I was expecting a man.” He checked his watch. “And you're eighteen hours late.”

Indignation dimmed Amy's smile. “Mr. Korallis, I'm sorry, but—”

“I'm not Korallis. He couldn't make it. I'm Bruce Evans, New Hope's chief financial officer.”

“Mr. Evans, then. If there's been a mix-up, I apologize. As to the delay, I reached Dubai on schedule, but the Ariana flight was grounded for an engine repair, so I spent the night in the terminal. I tried to e-mail, but the wireless connection was down.”

“Call me Bruce. We aren't that formal at New Hope.” The man was still staring at Amy as though he couldn't quite believe what he saw. “Unfortunately, I have to be at the airport by noon to fly to DC. Which gives us, instead of a full day to line you out here, barely an hour.”

He pulled his stare from Amy to open his briefcase, then looked up again, blinking rapidly. “Are you aware of just why you're here in Afghanistan and what your duties will entail?”

Now it was Amy's turn to stare. Was this some trick question? “I originally applied for your earthquake relief project up in Kashmir, if that's the confusion. But I've always had an interest in Afghanistan. So when Mr. Korallis called to say you'd had a personnel emergency and needed me here for a few months, I told him I'd be willing to fill in wherever you needed me.”

“Then you spoke to Nestor personally. He knows you're a woman and a young one.”

“I'm twenty-four. That's hardly young in the aid community. I've been in the field for three years and have experience in project administration as well as disaster relief.”

This was not Amy's first time at this particular conversation. While volunteers of all ages could be found in the NGO community, they tended toward youth, so it was not uncommon for field personnel to find themselves in management positions at an age when back home they'd still be making coffee.

“I'm aware of your résumé. Miami-raised. International business degree from Florida International University. You've spent the last three years working with a volunteer NGO called Christian Relief. Honduras. Peru. India. Philippines. Indonesia. Africa. Any place some natural disaster called for cleanup. Nestor forwarded your credentials to me when this situation arose. Age and gender were little tidbits he left out.”

“So you just assumed I was a man?” Amy said slowly.

“I assumed that Nestor understood Afghanistan is hardly a work-friendly environment for a young and single American woman. At least not in our current situation.” Bruce unearthed a satellite phone from his briefcase. “If you'll excuse me a moment.” He rose from the table, hurrying across the room to step outside onto the veranda.

Amy could hear his voice but not the words. With some annoyance, she glanced around. If he wasn't going to offer a decent welcome, she'd just have to make herself at home.

Wiping a chair with the blue polyester, Amy pulled it up opposite the briefcase. Then she noticed the small cooler sitting on the floor under the table. As she'd hoped, it held bottles of water. The first order of hospitality in expat travel. Amy suppressed an unladylike moan of pleasure as the dust and thirst washed down her throat.

“I'm sorry. I should have taken care of that.” Bruce was back. “This has all caught me so off guard, I wasn't thinking. Do make yourself at home.” He sat down. “Nestor confirms you are the A. M. Mallory contracted for this position, and he informs me he not only was aware of your gender but considered it a bonus in the hiring. We've been lacking gender balance in our overseas hires.” His tone was as dry as the dust filming the table. “So now that everything's in order, let's get the paperwork started.”

As Bruce unloaded files from his briefcase, he added belatedly without glancing up, “I trust your trip was uneventful other than the delay. Rasheed collected you, no problem? We've got a lot of ground to catch up, so may I assume you've arrived ready to hit the ground running?”

What a question.
With no new boss to charm, Amy was irritated enough to trade diplomacy for frankness. “Actually, it was the longest twenty-four hours I've ever sat straight up in coach. After eighteen hours' delay, Ariana still didn't transfer my luggage, which added another hour filling out forms at the airport. As to your driver, he seems to have a major attitude problem. Would you believe he made me wear a burqa?”

Okay, enough honesty for one dose.
Letting shoulder bag and blue polyester ball slide to the floor, Amy wrinkled her nose in a rueful grin. “But I made it, and that's what constitutes a good flight, right? As to getting started, I'm ready when you are.”

Bruce looked taken aback. He blinked again as he pushed a sheaf of papers across the table. “Good, then you can start with these. The contract's standard three-month probationary with automatic renewal if both parties are satisfied. Just sign every place you see an X.”

Now it was Amy who was blinking. The salary listed was more than she'd been led to expect, while the project budget—
Wow, if we'd had this in Mozambique . . . !

“As for Rasheed, he's a devout Muslim, and he was expecting a man. If you arrived like that, well, just be glad he handed you a burqa instead of ditching you at the airport. With your credentials, I'd have assumed you'd know long sleeves, loose clothing, and head covering are a minimum here even for expats. Women, that is.”

“You have
got
to be kidding.” Amy set down her pen hard. “How many years has it been since the Taliban skipped town? I'm aware of local sensibilities and have every intention of wearing culturally sensitive clothing when mixing with locals. One of those missing suitcases has an entire wardrobe. But I sure didn't expect to fly from Miami that way. And certainly not inside New Hope's vehicles or quarters.”

“Yeah, well, the big NGOs run their own vehicles and drivers. New Hope prides itself on working through the locals. In fact, you'll be our first expat living on-site. So I trust you'll accommodate their cultural prejudices.”

This time Amy opted for diplomacy. “Actually, New Hope's commitment to work directly with the Afghans was a major selling point. . . .” Then what he'd said sank in. “Wait, you're saying I'm your first expat? Who's been running the project? I must say I expected a little more infrastructure than I've seen so far. What size staff do you run?”

“Actually that's the emergency.” Bruce looked uncomfortable. “I don't know how much Nestor told you of how New Hope works. It's a foundation that partners with local NGOs in developing nations. Funding comes mostly from Korallis Enterprises, an investment firm founded by Nestor Korallis's grandfather. Nestor's been administering the foundation since he retired from the corporation.

“Since 9/11, Afghanistan has been the largest focus of international aid. About two years ago, Nestor decided to jump on that bandwagon. The foundation was approached by an Afghan NGO with impeccable connections to the current local government and international community. New Hope contracted the project. A dozen regional centers offering employment, nutrition, shelter, education, and health to be set up over a two-year period.”

Amy didn't like where this was going. “So who oversaw the project?”

“Nestor or I would fly over for a few days every two to three months. That's how we got to know Rasheed. One of the other NGOs recommended him as a driver-slash-translator. The project was going well. Unfortunately, when we published pictures in our promo literature, NGOs began coming out of the woodwork saying those were their projects, not ours.”

“And the project funds?”

“Gone. Along with our local Afghan project manager as soon as he found out the whistle had been blown. And all the staff, who it turned out were family members.”

“That's terrible. Poor Mr. Korallis,” Amy exclaimed. “Why am I here then? If there's nothing left, wouldn't it be easiest to just shut down the project and walk away?”

“That's not an option,” Bruce said. “The IRS doesn't take kindly to vanishing funds, and we're scheduled for an audit. Either there's a documented project here by the end of this calendar year, or the monies will have to be reimbursed.”

“But this is already September,” Amy said, aghast. “And you've no personnel.”

“Just our new country manager. You did say you'd do whatever was necessary. And may I remind you that you've just signed a contract.”

“Which I wouldn't have if I'd known the situation.” Amy rubbed her face. “This is crazy! I've done project management, but not completely on my own. I don't even speak the language. And what could Mr. Korallis possibly expect anyone to do in three months that your Afghan personnel couldn't do in two years?”

“On the contrary, the project itself shouldn't be a problem,” Bruce said coolly. “I signed a lease on a major chunk of this property for New Hope's new country office. Rasheed's lived on-site here as caretaker for years. He'll serve as driver and translator; his wife, Hamida, to do housekeeping. The budget's a generous one, so hiring further personnel is only a matter of finding them. As to aid recipients, this country's crawling with starving widows and children. How hard can it be to get a few of them in here, clean them up for a few decent photo ops? The right person should have no difficulty turning this around.”

Bruce began stuffing papers back into his briefcase. “All that to say, I hope you understand now my consternation at finding out just who A. M. Mallory really is. Nothing personal, believe me. I have no doubt you are a very capable young woman. Nestor Korallis certainly seems to feel so. But as you've already found out, Afghanistan is a man's world.”

In other words, a man could pull this off, but I can't.

Bruce pushed a manila envelope across the table. “Here are your lease papers and banking arrangements. Nestor is a generous employer. If you feel this is all beyond you, there's the option of breaking the contract you just signed. I'm assuming you took a careful look at the penalty clauses. Under the circumstances, we could work out a waiver. Make your decision, though, because I'm leaving in five minutes.”

“And if I broke the contract?” Amy asked slowly. “Mr. Korallis told me he had no one else to take the position on such short notice, that Afghanistan was a hard slot to fill.”

He shrugged. “That's true. But that's New Hope's problem, not yours. If I know Nestor, he'll make good out of his own pocket if he has to.”

“But that could be millions.” Amy fell silent, her feelings conflicted. None of this had turned out as she'd envisioned. She didn't like to think of letting down that sweet old man she'd spoken with on the phone. But how in the world was she to do what was demanded of her in a strange country without language skills, staff, or existing infrastructure?

On the other hand . . .

The smallest flame of excitement burned at Amy's dismay. How many times in the last three years had she dreamed of having enough funds and a free hand to carry out a project properly? to do away with the incompetence and bureaucracy she'd battled so often?

So now the chance was falling into her lap. She'd been dropped into a strange country without a soul she could count on, but she had a base and money.
Time to see if Papa is right!

Amy straightened up to look directly across the table. “I have no intention of breaking the contract. I'm ready to start today.”

“Ministry of Interior's on the next block. There's no parking, so I'm figuring a drive-by just to give you an overview. We've got a lunch date with the minister at his residence at 2 p.m. There won't be a lot of down time at the team house.”

The SUV had just turned a corner, and Steve saw what Cougar meant about parking. They were now on a major boulevard, traffic inching forward several vehicles abreast. Sidewalks were swallowed up by the bright awnings and ambling vendors of an open-air bazaar.