Veiled Freedom Read Free

he swung around and marched up the marble steps into the villa.
    The translator spread out his hands to the American. “The commander says he knows neither this youth nor his family. And it is well-known that all in this house have served the Taliban.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t true! Maybe he does not recognize me. I was only a child when we left. But he knows this house and my family. Please, I must speak to him myself.”
    Another foreign warrior emerged from the villa, clipped yellow hair and icy blue eyes shouting his nationality louder than curt English. “All clear. Body count’s six male combatants. Minimal damage except the gate. This one’s the only survivor minus a handful of female dependents and kids. From what the muj told us, I expected more bodies on the ground. They must have been tipped off.”
    â€œMaybe. Or the muj were fed some bad intel.” The foreign soldiers moved away, and he missed the rest of their low-voice exchange.
    Then the yellow-haired American waved a hand. “We followed the rules of engagement. They were armed and shooting.”
    â€œA handful of AK-47s. The kid’s right—that’s practically home protection around here. And the prisoner—he’s no combatant. I saw him come over that wall. Should I turn him loose?”
    â€œYou know better than that. The interrogators are screaming for live ones up at Bagram. Besides, you’ve no idea what else he might know. If he’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time, they’ll sort it out and let him go.”
    A radio on the yellow-haired American’s belt sputtered to life. “Willie? Phil? Either of you available? We’ve got brass touching down at the airport. They need an escort to the embassy.”
    â€œOkay, we’re out. The muj will finish here and deliver the prisoner. They’ve got a load of Arab fighters and al-Qaeda types heading to Bagram this afternoon.”
    The translator snapped his fingers, and a knot of mujahedeen stepped forward to take his place. The translator hurried after the yellow-haired American, now marching toward the gate.
    But the other foreign warrior hesitated. “Be there in a minute.”
    He braced himself as the first American walked over. He didn’t allow himself to imagine sympathy in the foreigner’s gray eyes.
    â€œLook, I’ve got no choice but to send you up to Bagram with the other battlefield detainees. But if you aren’t al-Qaeda or Taliban, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. We don’t shoot prisoners. And the muj commander’s a stand-up guy. If there’s been an intel error, he’ll make things right.
    â€œI can at least report that you arrived after the fighting was over and never raised a weapon. If I can find something to write on.” The American dug through the interior pockets of his flak jacket and pulled out an envelope, removing a folded notepaper, then what looked like a snapshot of a yellow-haired young female surrounded by too many children to be her own.
    A tiny, olive-colored volume fell into the American’s palm. Western script read New Testament . “I wondered what I was supposed to do with this.” Taking out a pen, he scribbled inside the cover. “Here. I’ve explained what I witnessed and given my contact info if Bagram needs confirmation. It might at least make a difference in where you end up. If you’re telling the truth.” The foreign soldier dared to offer a smile with the book.
    Fury and hate rose in an acid flood to his throat. With a scream of rage, he struck at the outstretched hand. “You think this makes up for murdering my family? once again stealing our home? You call this freedom? How are you any better than the Taliban or the Russians?”
    A rifle butt slammed him again to his knees. The blow scattered not only the olive-colored volume but the envelope and its other contents. The folded note fell into a