Veiled Freedom (62 page)

“You're saying someone gave you an Army-edition New Testament? There were thousands mailed out to troops during the war. I mailed some myself.” Amy straightened up, her eyes wide, at his story. “Did you ever find out who the American was? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

Jamil shrugged. “He looked like a mujahedeen. I knew him to be foreign only when he spoke. And my heart and my eyes were on Khalid alone. It does not matter now. Except that I was angry at first you would give me such a book. And then I was angry because of what the book said.

“But as I continued to read, I grew confused. To forgive one's enemies instead of hating. To love all men, not just your family and tribe. To treat others as you would be treated. To work hard and share instead of stealing. To help the poor and widowed and orphans, not to earn merit with Allah but out of love. To return good for evil. These teachings of Isa Masih seemed good teachings. Teachings that could change my people, my country, as not all the fighting nor the mullahs' traditions nor even the shaheeds have ever done.”

Jamil shook his head as he went on. “But then I was even more confused because I had witnessed the foreigners who are called Christian indulging in the alcohol and undress and other immorality your television and movies show us. So I believed either you or your book lied. Then you told me it was those alone who followed Isa Masih's teachings who were his disciples and that only by reading the prophet's words could I know what truly is Christian.

“So I began to read again. And I saw that the way you lived, the way you loved the children and women of New Hope—this was what Isa Masih spoke of, what it meant to be his disciple. And my heart cried out to know this love and forgiveness for myself, even as my head instructed me to remain focused on my mission and the hate and vengeance that would give me strength to carry it out.”

Jamil's expression darkened fleetingly. “Then I read the words of your Isa Masih: ‘You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.' But the very night I taped my shaheed testimony and prepared the new bomb, I learned that those who recruited me had lied. They had sworn by Allah's own name to find and care for my mother and sister, but it was only a trick. If they could lie about such a sacred trust, what other lies had they told?

“It was as though a woman's burqa had been ripped from my eyes, and I was no longer confused. The truth that could bring freedom was not their words but those of Isa Masih. And even to assure paradise for myself, I knew I could not kill others. I do not believe any longer that it is Allah's will for men to kill to attain paradise. I knew then what I was called to do. But first, I had to rid myself of the bomb. I borrowed from the Eid gifts to make a copy so those watching me would not know I had changed my mind.”

Anguish was back in his eyes. “You know the rest. I . . . I thought I had killed you and the others when I saw the smoke rising above the walls.”

“You didn't,” Amy reassured quickly. “That's all behind us now. But now that it's all over, surely you can tell your story. I believe you. Others will too. If nothing else, Khalid deserves to be punished.”

“No, no, I have only told you because I could not leave without knowing you understand. You do not know my people, our ways. The takings of battle go to the winner. I cannot prove what I have told you. And if I could find someone to testify to who I am, they will simply say again that it was battle, that my mission here today proves I was a Taliban.”

Jamil's head shot up as the door creaked opened. This time Amy lifted her own to meet Steve's hard gaze that lingered on her tear-streaked cheeks. “Your time is long up.”

“Please—just a few more minutes.”

The door shut with a hard click. Amy turned to Jamil. “What are you going to do? You said earlier you had plans. Did you mean your mother and sister? That you're going to go search for them?”

“I do not know where to look,” Jamil said simply. “Those who recruited me did not lie about their search, because I made my own inquiries. They have never returned to Peshawar, where we once lived. Nor are they listed in any camp or roll as refugees, at least not by their name. They had no male protector or money. They may have perished like so many others. Perhaps someday if the Creator of all is truly merciful, a Father to his children, as Isa Masih speaks of him, then I will one day discover what has happened to them.

Jamil spread his hands in acceptance. “Today—no, I have known since the moment I walked away from death to life what mission is placed before me. ‘You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.' But my people are not free. They have never been free, because they do not know the truth. As great a veil as a burqa is the veil of darkness and lies that has kept my people in chains. And now they must know the truth!”

“What are you thinking of doing?”

“I will go to give them the truth. As Isa Masih did. As his other followers have done. Did they not walk from town to town, telling the people the good news of a kingdom that is of the heart and not the sword? I cannot do miracles as they did. But I have some small gifts of healing. In the villages where there are no doctors, they will be grateful.”

Digging into his pack again, Jamil brought out the infirmary's copy of
Where There Is No Doctor
. “I wished to ask if I might take this, to pay you from my salary to buy another. I can tell stories of Isa Masih and his teachings. If I do not have his words yet in Dari and Pashto, I can translate as I do for the children.”

“No, of course you can take the handbook.” Amy hurried into her room and returned with the Dari and Pashto New Testaments. “And Becky Frazer brought these this morning. I was going to give them to you—well, when everything blew up. But didn't you tell me it would be considered an insult to your country, to Islam, to teach the people to question the mullahs?”

“For you, yes, perhaps,” Jamil agreed gravely. “Because you are a foreigner here and a guest. But another Afghan—that is different. You said once that freedom must come from within. That one country cannot give freedom to another but that a country must find it within themselves.”

It was Steve who'd actually told Amy that. But she'd no opportunity to deny credit because Jamil was going on. “No, it is not the responsibility of a foreigner but another Afghan to carry the truth to my people. Even to the mullahs, because they too cannot have heard the truth. Perhaps when enough listen to the words of Isa Masih—not only listen but choose to follow his commands—then I may yet see the day when my country will rest on a foundation of justice and righteousness. And then my people will at last know what real freedom and peace can be.”

“But you're acting like you can just walk out of here and . . . and start preaching about Jesus—Isa Masih—on a street corner. What happens if these villagers or the mullahs get angry for what you're doing? Are you even thinking how dangerous this could be?”

“Why should they be angry? Are Muslims not told also to do good deeds? Does the Quran not speak of Isa Masih as a great prophet? His teachings should have been told long ago to the people. But even if there should be danger . . .” His smile was the radiant one that reminded Amy so much of those media images of Isa Masih. “Don't you see? If I could die to avenge my family, should I be less willing to die to offer hope and truth and freedom to my people?”

Tears poured hot and furious down Amy's cheeks again. “I do see. It's just . . . oh, Jamil—”

This time the door slammed back into the wall. All three of the contractors were marching into the room as Jamil and Amy scrambled to their feet.

Stooping for his pack, Jamil said quietly to Amy, “Forgive me. I have lingered much too long. I must go now.”

Amy made no further protest. She snatched up Jamil's pack and set it on the table. “Just one minute.” Fumbling to open the knot that bound it, she swept all the remaining first aid supplies on the table on top of his scant clothing. “You may need these along the way.”

The cash box was in the office, but Amy always kept an emergency stash of afghanis in her shoulder bag. Digging out the entire wad, she dropped it on top of the pile. “Your severance pay.”

Then Jamil was moving away.

Dropping into the chair, Amy drew her shawl back over her face, lowered her eyes to the hands knotted in her lap.

“Get him down to the gate and off the property.”

There was a shuffle of boots. A door closing. Silence reigned over the room. Amy knew she wasn't alone only because of boot tips intruding into her peripheral vision.

“You're in love with him, aren't you?”

The demand was so unexpected, Amy's head jerked up.

Then through gritted teeth, Steve burst out, “Didn't I warn you these people would break your heart?”

Amy didn't try to explain. Why should the former soldier believe a story too like tales fabricated by any number of real terrorists to talk their way past American interrogators? Her gesture was a helpless one. “You don't understand.”

“Understand?” Steve paced a tight circle around Amy's rug before swinging about to face her again. A muscle bunched at his jawline. Then Amy saw impassivity fall like a mask over his face, heard formal courtesy take over his tone. “What I understand is that my men and I have intruded on you long enough. Especially since it would appear our interference was neither needed nor wanted after all. If you'll excuse me, we'll be off the premises just as soon as I can get everyone rounded up.”

“Wait!” Amy leaped to her feet as Steve turned away. “I just remembered, my landlord down there, Khalid, your client—he said something about you remembering the day Jamil was captured. You were part of the Special Forces fighting with the mujahedeen. Were you here that day?”

He turned, and the grim blankness of his expression gave the answer even before he said curtly, “It was war. The battle to liberate Kabul. That piece isn't one I've cared to remember.”

It was war. Just what Khalid had said. Then Jamil was right. There was no going back to the past, only forward to the future. But there was one other thing Amy had to know. “I sent a New Testament with that letter. Jamil told me one of the American soldiers was kind to him, even wrote a note in a New Testament to give to the interrogators so he wouldn't go to prison.”

“One more piece of well-meaning interference that made no difference. Would you believe I even trotted up to Bagram on my next leave to make sure the kid was okay? But intel geeks don't talk to grunts like me. I always assumed the kid had been let go.”

So there hadn't been a broken promise. “And now? Are you really going to let Jamil go, like Khalid promised he could?”

“Didn't I say so?” Steve took a long stride toward her. “Did you think I was lying down there? Or that I'm not capable of keeping my word?”

Something in the harsh demand hurt in Amy's chest as much as Jamil's own pain. “I didn't mean it like that. Please, you can't possibly be blaming yourself for all this. Like you said, it was war, and you were doing what you were trained to do. I'm sure a lot of things happened we'd all give anything to change. But at least you did what you could. Today, too. About Jamil, do you think I don't understand you did what you had to here? Or that I wouldn't rather know the truth—no matter how it's turned out?”

Amy broke off. How could she possibly speak to what was going on behind those stony features any more than she could sympathize with the horror of Jamil's narrative? “I'm sorry. I'm in no place to be handing out platitudes. I just—I don't want you to go without knowing how much I appreciate all you've done today. And all your men out there, too. If nothing else, at least we know someone's not targeting New Hope.”

Swallowing, Amy lowered her head to wipe a corner of her scarf surreptitiously across her damp face before lifting her chin to manage an unsteady smile. “I hope you'll pass on my gratitude to your associates. And that I didn't totally embarrass your men by coming unglued like this. I guess I'm just not as brave as I hoped I'd prove in a crisis like this.”

“Are you kidding? No Special Ops I've ever worked with could have kept their head and looked out for their troops under fire better than I saw this afternoon.” His expression softened slightly. “In fact, Ian tells me he'll take you at his back in a firefight any day. You did just fine, Ms. Amy Mallory.”

This time Amy's smile lit her whole face. But what she would have said, what he might have answered, Amy had no idea because just then the door opened. “Miss Ameera.”

It was Soraya, an arm around her daughter, her husband hovering behind. The police below must have finished releasing the detainees.

Steve straightened, his body language withdrawing even before he stepped toward the door. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll let you get your world back to normal.”