Veiled Freedom (15 page)

A hint? Well, it certainly looked more comfortable than the broken-springed ride that had been taking Amy back and forth from her guesthouse. As Jamil held the door open, Amy slid into the backseat. “I didn't know you could drive. This is a nice surprise.”

“It has been a long time, but Rasheed tested me yesterday in this vehicle to ensure your safety in my hands.”

Jamil kept his eyes averted as he climbed into the driver's seat. Amy had read up on local customs enough to understand the reasoning. Afghan women did not raise their gaze to men, especially those not of their own family, while a man staring at a woman was at minimum insulting. As a foreign woman alone, Amy recognized that Jamil's air of what she could only term polite invisibility was undoubtedly for the best. Still, it went against the grain for Amy to treat another human being as little more than a piece of office equipment.

“To the MOI then.”

As Jamil maneuvered the car through heavy morning traffic, he seemed competent enough. It was with dismay that Amy recognized the army green wall and concertina wire of the MOI compound ahead. Bombing debris had been cleared away, the street again crowded with market stalls and pedestrians. Concrete barriers now closed off the entire block from vehicle traffic.

But that bomber was a pedestrian.

Amy had waited until after lunch in hope that lines would have dwindled. But by the time Jamil found parking several blocks away, tossing a coin to a street urchin to guard the sedan, and they walked back to the MOI entrance, a multitude waiting to get inside still stretched far down the block. Amy forced herself not to glance across the street where a burned-out taxi had inexplicably not yet been removed.

Suicide bombers like lightning never strike the same place twice.

The oft-repeated truism seemed to Amy more wishful thinking than scientific fact, and she was thankful when the line finally crept up to the entrance. While security guards patted Jamil down, Amy stepped behind a canvas screen. The female guard offered a cursory body search, then peered into Amy's shoulder bag. Amy didn't dare protest when the guard confiscated a pack of chewing gum, tucking it into her utility vest before waving Amy through.

Inside, the compound held several buildings. Amy waited while Jamil made inquiries, then followed him down a hallway into a large room that was crammed with people. Amy trod forward until she reached a desk.

Picking up her U.S. passport, the immigration officer switched to reasonable English. “Please open to the correct visa page.”

And there progress stalled.

“I
know
it's been more than forty-eight hours. But the office was closed because of the bombing. I couldn't get the card stamped. No, please! I've already been in this line more than an hour. There has to be
something
we can do! What about all the others who've arrived in these last two days?”

Jamil's urgent plucking at her sleeve as much as the official's peremptory gesture moved Amy reluctantly to a huddle of people standing against a wall. Only then did she realize the immigration officer's glare wasn't only because of her paperwork snafu. Yanking her headscarf back over her hair, Amy tightened the ends around her shoulders.

Did the guy expect a bribe? Was she simply to stand here the rest of the day? Amy's desperate glance landed on a shaved head and stocky frame in safari clothing just entering the room. The older of the contractors who'd rescued Amy was accompanied by an Afghan man Amy recognized vaguely as having been with the two men at the airport. They walked straight through a door beyond the desks.

Almost immediately they reappeared, heading back toward the exit. Amy could see a sheaf of passports in the contractor's hand. Amy looked around for Jamil. He had his back to Amy, cell phone to his ear. Detaching herself from the wall, Amy threaded swiftly through the throng. The two men had reached the hall before she caught up. “Cougar?”

The man turned. “Why, it's Amy. What are you doing here?”

“I've been trying to get my MOI card. Thanks to that bombing, I'm past the forty-eight hours, so they're saying I'm out of luck. Is—uh, Steve here to do his?”

“And waste time in all this? Whoever's giving you advice, I hope they told you it's not necessary to come down in person. Just send in your passport and photo with your fixer.” Cougar's nod indicated the Afghan beside him as he waggled the passports in his hand. “He'll settle the overdue issue too, though it may cost you a bit extra.” Then he was gone down the hall.

And if you have no fixer?
Amy wanted to wail after him.

Furtive stares alerted her she'd lost her head covering again.

“Here, honey, let me show you how to do that so it won't fall off.” The woman who reached up to shake Amy's headscarf loose around her face was several inches shorter than Amy and plump. Graying brunette wisps escaped a flowered cotton scarf. Under a matching tunic, she wore jeans.

“The trick is heavier material. These synthetics just slide right off.” A few deft tugs and tucks secured Amy's scarf. “I'm guessing you're new in town. Let me introduce myself. Debby Martini, New York.”

“Oh, thank you, I've been fighting with that ever since I got here three days ago.” Amy could have hugged the American woman—or burst into tears on her shoulder. “I'm Amy Mallory, Miami. I'm country manager for New Hope Foundation, an NGO looking to set up projects for women and children at risk here in Kabul. That is, if I can ever get myself legally registered.” She held up passport and MOI card. “Are you here for this too?”

“Oh no, I've been down the hall trying to cut some red tape for a project of my own. Unsuccessfully, I might add. But you shouldn't be fighting with that. Where's your fixer?”

“I didn't even know there was such a profession. Is that why people keep jumping to the head of the line? That doesn't seem a very fair system.”

“Fair or not, it's the only way you'll get anything done. Everything here runs on having the right contacts—or at least being able to pay for them. If I can't cut my own red tape, I can certainly help with yours. My fixer can have you in and out in no time. Najibullah?”

Only then did Amy realize a tall Afghan in Western dress lingering nearby was with Debby. The New Yorker plucked passport and MOI card from Amy's hand with as little hesitation as she'd adjusted Amy's head covering.

Within minutes, Najibullah was waving them in front of an immigration official.

Before Amy could follow Debby's fixer through the door, Jamil intercepted her, narrow features frantic. “Miss Ameera, I turned to look for you, and you had disappeared. I was afraid I had lost you again—”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Amy broke in. “I should have told you where I was going.”

Then they stepped into a much less crowded room where two officials stamped and signed cards at a rapid pace. Najibullah positioned Amy against a wall while a clerk snapped a digital camera. In five minutes, she had her card complete with photo and stamp.

“I can't thank you enough,” Amy told Debby fervently. “I just wish there was something I could do to return your kindness. I'm so sorry your own paperwork wasn't successful. Do you work with an NGO here in Kabul?”

“I'm heading back stateside in a few days. I've been in town the last couple of months dealing with a project over at the women's prison. Which is what I'm doing here. MOI oversees the police and the local prisons.”

“The women's prison? Then you're in law enforcement?”

Debby chuckled. “Back home I run a beauty salon. But I've got a friend who did a stint here after liberation as consultant for the new Ministry of Women. When I came over to visit, she took me to the women's jail.” She shuddered. “It was like going back to the Middle Ages. A bunch of women in rags huddled in what was basically a dungeon. No heat. No sanitation. No medical care. Whatever food the prison guards didn't siphon off for their own families.”

The two women started walking down the hall, the male escorts at their heels.

“When I got home, I raised enough money to come back and paint, clean some rooms, and add real bathrooms. We bought space heaters and blankets, set up a fund with a local NGO to get food and milk for the kids into the jail. We even brought in some pedal sewing machines and cloth so the prisoners could make clothes for themselves and learn a trade. Then I headed home, thinking I'd solved at least one of Afghanistan's problems.”

“I remember something about that,” Amy said. “Wasn't there some CNN special on the place?”

“Oh yes, there was a lot of interest, but it didn't last. There's always a fresh news story. Anyway, a few months ago, I was able to come back. I thought maybe we could do a similar project in another city.

“Instead, I found the jail we'd fixed up here totally trashed. There were three times as many prisoners crowded into a couple of unfinished rooms. So I've spent the last two months fixing the place back up. This time no improvements that can be physically carried off. And at least now some other NGOs are getting involved in things like classes for the children.”

The story was sounding depressingly familiar to Amy. “I'm surprised Kabul even has a women's prison. As restricted as women are here, I wouldn't think they'd have the chance to get into any real criminal activity. Is that why the prison's grown so much—because women have more freedom of movement than under the Taliban?”

Debby stopped dead in her tracks to stare at Amy. “You really don't know, do you?”

Amy and her new companion had reached the MOI compound's front entrance.

Debby eyed Amy. “Didn't you say you were setting up projects for women and children at risk? I'm heading over to the jail right now. Why don't you come with me and take a look to see what you think of the possibilities?”

Female criminals were not on any project list Amy had remotely considered for New Hope. On the other hand, Debby had been enormously helpful, and thanks to her kindness, Amy was freed from those endless lines. “Well, I suppose I could. But I've got my driver with me and a car parked down the street.”

“Bring him along. That way you can leave any time you're bored.” Debby turned to address Jamil. “Do you know the Welayat, the prison?”

He hunched his thin shoulders. “Everyone knows the Welayat.”

“Then how about I meet you there in a half hour? The women's section is around back. Look for a green door. Here's my card with cell phone number if you can't find me.”

Feeling as though she'd been caught up by a benevolent whirlwind, Amy took the card. Out on the street, Debby bustled away, Najibullah lengthening his strides after her.

Amy followed Jamil in the opposite direction to the Corolla. Was she imagining that her assistant seemed even more somber and silent than usual?

Their underage guard was still on duty, the vehicle intact. Amy dug out another coin as reward.

Jamil was pulling out into traffic when he spoke up. “I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Ameera. I have failed you. Rasheed will be angry.”

“For what?” Amy demanded, puzzled.

“Your papers. The foreign woman is right. I have been gone too long from this city. I do not have the proper contacts or knowledge to be an adequate assistant to you.”

“That isn't true. I didn't hire you for this fixer job,” Amy responded vehemently. “You've done a wonderful job translating for me and now driving and everything else. I'll make sure Rasheed knows that too. And if we really do need someone to deal with red tape, we'll just have to see about hiring someone.”

Jamil nodded, but his expression lightened fractionally. His knowledge of city layout was at least adequate because he showed no hesitation in following Debby's directions. The Welayat proved to be another tall wall topped with concertina wire, though the compound behind this one was much larger, covering several city blocks. Amy spotted the green door as Jamil turned into an unpaved parking lot.

Debby and Najibullah emerged from a white Land Cruiser lettered
USAID
across the door panels. Only as the Corolla pulled into the adjoining dirt patch did Amy realize they weren't alone. Two other women were climbing down from the SUV. One was a petite Asian in pantsuit and high heels, her headscarf the scantiest Amy had seen in Afghanistan.

“I'm so glad you could make it,” Debby greeted Amy cheerfully. “This is Alisha Chan with USAID.” Which explained the Land Cruiser. “She's been spearheading a children's project at the women's prison. Alisha, this is Amy.”

Debby gestured toward the second newcomer. “And this is Soraya from right here in Kabul. She'll be translating for us.”

The guidebook Amy had perused on the plane covered Afghanistan's ethnic tapestry. The northern Uzbeks and Tajiks were as fair as many Europeans. Hazaras, an often persecuted minority group, were descendants of Genghis Khan's invading Mongolian hordes. Pashtuns, Afghanistan's largest ethnic group, were related to the Pakistanis. Somewhere in her later thirties or forties, Soraya looked Pashtun. Dark, curly hair escaping under her scarf. Smooth, olive features with a high-bridged nose. Elongated dark eyes with impossibly long lashes. Her chapan, an ankle-length buttoned-up robe, looked like real silk, and she carried herself with authority Amy had not yet seen in an Afghan woman.