Free Farishta by Patricia McArdle

uncovered less than a year and a half ago when President Karzai authorized the locks to be broken, but the trunks were not unlocked until last spring.”
    A waiter arrived and set out steaming plates of tandoori chicken, grilled lamb, Afghan flat bread, yogurt, and bowls of scented rice. Jeef apologized for having monopolized the conversation, while Plawner, his British counterpart, and the political counselor immediately shifted the conversation back to the endlessly frustrating business of reconstructing Afghanistan.
    Jeef sensed that I wanted to hear more about the Bactrian gold and the excavation near Mazār-i-Sharīf. He tilted his head toward the three men who were already deep into a discussion about the poppy eradication program and added so that only I could hear, “Angela, I promise you that Fazli and I will invite you to the museum for a private showing the next time you are in Kabul. And, of course, you are most welcome to visit my dig near Balkh this spring.”
    Fazli nodded in agreement, and the three of us turned our attention to the meal spread before us.
    “Miss Morgan, when will you be going up to Mazār? ” asked the British DCM as he poured himself another glass of wine.
    “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, weather permitting. I’ve reserved a seat on your C-130,” I replied.
    “What good fortune. You’ll be there for the New Year’s Eve celebration,” he said. “That should cheer the lads up a bit.
    “Were you able to meet Richard Carrington while you were in London?” he asked. “I know he was looking forward to meeting you.”
    I shook my head. “I met your desk officer, Mr. Smythe, but Richard was on holiday.” I didn’t mention my encounter with Major Davies.
    Although I was only passing through Kabul, I had received a relatively warm welcome from my peers at the embassy. At the PRT in Mazār, as an American and a woman, I would be doubly the outsider. If the other British soldiers there were anything like Davies, I wasn’t going to have an easy go of it.

TEN
    December 30, 2004
    As unhappy as I was about leaving Kabul for Mazār, I had mentally steeled myself for the morning flight, and was sitting with my two suitcases, my helmet, my sleeping bag, and my Kevlar vest in front of the admin trailer an hour before our convoy was scheduled to depart for the airport.
    When my driver didn’t arrive at the appointed time, I called the motor pool and was informed by an apologetic Afghan dispatcher that no one was going to the airport since Jalalabad Road had been declared off-limits due to an IED threat. The following morning, my driver and I sat for two hours in a line of vehicles waiting to exit the compound, but the embassy’s security gate could not be opened due to a short circuit in the wiring. By the time the gate was repaired, I had missed that flight as well and had resigned myself to spending New Year’s Eve alone in Kabul. My anxiety had reduced itself to a quiet despair as I returned again to the hooch, which I’d had to myself since my arrival.
    A tall, wiry redhead wearing tight-fitting black body armor and baggy cargo pants was unlocking my door. She had a black pistol strapped to her hip and an enormous black assault rifle slung over her shoulder.
    “Hi, hon, are we sharing? ” she asked with a smile. She identified herself as Sally Dietrich, a DEA agent, who was in-country to train the Afghan police drug interdiction forces. “We’re not deploying until January the second, so I’m planning to ring in the New Year at the embassy bar tonight. Want to join me and my team? I’m the only girl in the group, so I’m sure the boys would love your company.”
    Sally was an old-timer. This was her fifth short-term deployment to Afghanistan, and she knew her way around the compound. She tossed her weapons and duffel bag onto one of the cots and headed off to eat lunch. The last thing I wanted to do was spend New Year’s Eve in a room of complete strangers whom I would most