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As Emma stepped forward, her mouth went dry. She forced herself to walk confidently out on the revetment and meet the foreign pilot. And when his gaze locked onto hers, she groaned. Shaheen drew closer, and Emma could appreciate the curious color of his eyes. They reminded her of the greenish-blue depths of the ocean around a Caribbean island. Not only that, his eyes were large, well-spaced, with thick lashes that enhanced the black pupils. She felt as if she could lose herself within them. Emma jerked her gaze away. What was going on? Her heart pounded as though she was on an adrenaline rush. But she wasn’t in danger. No, this was excitement at some unconscious level within her that she had never experienced. And that made Emma wary.
Shaheen unzipped his olive-green flight suit as he approached. Black hairs peeked out from beneath his dark-green T-shirt. He reached inside his flight suit.
And what he drew out made Emma’s jaw drop. Shaheen slowed and stopped about three feet in front of her. In his hand was a huge red rose, its petals flattened from being crushed inside his flight suit, but a rose, nevertheless.
Pressing his hand against his heart, Shaheen bowed slightly and murmured the ancient greeting that all people in the Muslim world shared. “As-salaam alaikum.” Peace to you from my heart to your heart. “Captain Emma Cantrell?” he asked, smiling as he lifted his head.
Paralyzed, Emma stared up at him. Shaheen held the drooping rose toward her. He’d obviously picked it just before the flight and carried it inside his suit to her. Emma could smell the spicy fragrance of the bedraggled flower. “I—yes,” she managed in a croak. Without thinking, she took his gift and responded, “As-salaam alaikum.” She clutched the rose in her right hand, noting that the thorns had been cut off so it would not prick her fingers.
Scrambling inwardly, Emma tried not to be impressed by this thoughtfulness. When she raised her head, she noticed Khalid’s masculine smile and twinkling eyes. “I’m Captain Emma Cantrell,” she said in a crisp tone. “Welcome to Camp Bravo.” God, she sounded like a teenager on her first date, her voice high and squeaky. Worse, he had the same kind of swaggering, super confidence that Brody had had. They could be twins. Her heart sank. Not this again.
“Thank you, Emma. Please,” he murmured in a low, husky tone, “call me Khalid once we get out of the military environment.”
She stood looking helplessly at the rose in her hand. “Why … I never expected this, Captain Shaheen.”
Officers simply didn’t give other officers flowers. Clearly, he was flirting with her.
Khalid’s hands relaxed on his hips, a typical aviator stance. “I went out to my rose garden this morning. I live in Kabul. It is the first rose of the season. I took my knife and cut it off knowing that I wanted you to have something beautiful from me to you.”
Emma swallowed hard. Aviators never wore jewelry of any kind. Not even a wedding ring. But this guy had to be married. He was just too charming. The confusion must have shown on her face.
“Rumi, the great Sufi mystic poet, said much about the beauty of a rose.” He then quoted her a passage that he’d memorized.
Emma was sure now he was flirting with her. Completely stunned by Khalid’s warmth, his utter masculinity and those gleaming blue eyes, Emma choked. “But … you’re married!” Well, that wasn’t exactly polite, was it? No, but the words flew out of her mouth. Emma took a step away from him. Khalid’s face was overcome with surprise, his straight, black brows rising. And then he laughed. His laughter was hearty, unfettered and rolled out of his powerful chest.
“I’m afraid I’m not married,” Khalid said and he held up his hands, smiling over her mistake.
Emma didn’t know what to do. She knew how she felt toward him—as if he were a conquering Afghan warlord who had just swept her off her feet, stolen her young, innocent heart and claimed her. His smile was so engaging her heart appreciated it by beating erratically. Brody Parker had wooed and wowed her the same way. Oh, God, it was the same situation all over again!
Emma gripped the red rose until her fingers hurt. Should she give it back to him? Throw it away? This wasn’t military protocol between two officers. Emma furtively looked around her. Who had seen him do this? Had they seen her accept the gift? Things like this just weren’t done in the U.S. Army. Could she be more distressed?
“I can’t take this, Captain Shaheen.” She handed him the rose.
Holding up his hands, Khalid said, “Forgive me, Captain Cantrell. My father is Sufi and I was raised with Rumi. I see all of my life through this thirteenth-century poet and mystic’s eyes. I am forever quoting him, for Rumi guides my heart and my life. I hope you do not take offense to my gift. Among the Sufis we believe that love is the only vehicle to touch the face of God and become one with the source. My gift to you was merely an acknowledgment, heart-to-heart, that we are connected. And it is a gift that honors you as a person, to show that you are sacred to me and all of life. Please, do not be pained by the gift.”
Stubbornly, Emma gave him a long, steady stare. “It’s not acceptable military behavior, Captain. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
Khalid winced. He pressed his hand to his heart and held her gaze. “I will maintain correct military protocol with you, Captain. Please accept my deepest apology. I am honored that you have agreed to work with me.” He tucked the rose back into his flight suit.
Emma wasn’t sure about this terribly handsome Afghan standing in front of her, speaking with such candor. Her heart melted over the warmth dancing in the depths of his aquamarine eyes. Given the sincerity in his voice and face, she wondered obliquely if she’d read his intentions wrongly.
“Then we’re in agreement,” she said in a clipped tone.
“I volunteered for this mission to help the Afghan girls get an education.” Emma tried to convince herself that he was Brody Parker all over again, only even more charming and smooth than her lover in Peru had been. Emma wasn’t falling for it again. Her heart couldn’t take the hurt twice. Dallas’s words haunted her: This could be a queen-maker for your career. And more than anything, Emma wanted to get good remarks from Shaheen after she finished the six-month mission. Now, she felt as though she was literally walking the edge of sword that could cut her both ways. What had she just stepped into?
Chapter 2
Emma tensed. A range of emotions passed across Khalid’s rugged face. “Look,” she murmured, “I know that in different cultures, mistakes can be made.”
“No, no,” Khalid said, trying to muster a smile, but failing. “You need to understand the heart of our mission. By knowing what the foundation is, you can appreciate our fierce passion for our people.” He held her forest-green gaze. The noise on the tarmac surrounded them. He gestured for Emma to follow him into the Ops building where there would be a room where they could talk.
Emma followed Shaheen. More and more, this felt like doom to her. She was falling fast and she needed to focus on her work. Inside Ops, the captain found an empty room. They went in and closed the door. There was a rectangular table, reports scattered across it along with pens. Emma took a seat and he sat down opposite her after pouring them some coffee.
Taking the lead, Emma folded her hands and met his stare. “My CO told me you were a marked man. I want to know what that means since I’m putting my butt on the line here.”
“I have an ancient enemy,” Khalid began, “his name is Asad Malik. He was born in Pakistan, along the border in the state of Waziristan. Malik was very poor, and with the Taliban, who make a permanent home in that border state, he found his calling. My father’s family are Sufis. They know that education is the door to all fulfillment of a person’s dreams and goals. My father has considerable wealth, and he poured it into the border villages of our country a long time ago because the so-called central government of Afghanistan ignored them.”
Brows drawing downward, Khalid said, “Malik rose to become a very powerful Taliban leader. He is heartless and ruthless. He began attacking villages to which my father was trying to bring schools and education. There were many pitched battles over the years, and Malik swore to kill every member of my family.”
Emma gasped. Although she knew revenge ran deep, the admittance was still shocking. “What?”
Shrugging, Khalid said, “Malik is not a Sufi. He is a terrorist at the other end of the Muslim religion. Our beliefs swing from an eye-for-an-eye attitude to one of spiritual connection with Allah.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I am Sufi. Malik is stuck in a state of twisted hatred and revenge. It would not matter what religion he embraced, he would practice what he is, despite it. He has perverted the Koran for his own goals.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, every religion has its fanatics. In my year here in Afghanistan, I’ve lived among the Muslims and I find them incredibly generous and caring.
They aren’t the terrorists that the world thinks. They believe in peace.”
“Yes, we are peaceful,” Khalid agreed. “It will only be through our daily life that we show the Muslim religion is not one of terrorism.”
“It’s a PR game,” Emma said. “And I agree with you, people are educated one person at a time. Religion doesn’t kill. It’s the individuals within any religion who choose to interpret it according to their own darkness and wounds.”
He gave her an intense look. “I have truly made the right decision in asking you to be a part of our mission. I like your free-thinking policy.”
Emma tried not to be swayed by his compliment and felt heat enter her cheeks. “I try never to judge a person. I let their actions speak louder than their words.” The intensity of his gaze made Emma feel as if she were unraveling as a woman—not as an officer—to this lion of a man. She mentally corrected herself once again: there were no lions in Afghanistan. Instead, Emma regarded him as the rare and elusive snow leopard that lived in the rugged mountains of this country.
“My death dance with Malik,” Khalid continued, “took on new dimensions two years ago. Malik stalks the border like the wolf that he is. He continually attacks and kills the villagers who try to better their lives in any way. It is how he stops my father’s generosity to lift the poor up and help them succeed. Malik does not care about such things.” Taking a deep breath, Khalid continued, his voice strained. “I fell in love with a beautiful teacher. Her name was Najela. I courted her for two years and I asked her to become my wife.”
Emma heard Khalid’s voice quaver and noticed how he fought unknown emotions, his hands opening and closing around the heavy ceramic mug in front of him. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to soothe away the grief she saw clearly etched in his face. But Emma said nothing. She allowed Khalid to get hold of himself so that he could continue his story.
“Najela and my sister Kinah were the best of friends. And why wouldn’t they be? They were both American-educated and trained in education. Najela graduated from Harvard and my sister from Princeton. They were working with my father to help set up village schools for boys and girls. I was away working for the U.S. Army and they were frequently up in this area while I flew Apaches in the southern region of my country.”
Emma steeled herself. She leaped ahead and figured out that Najela was dead. At Malik’s hands? She hoped not. Her heart cringed inside her chest. “Go on,” she urged him, her voice tense.
Nodding, Khalid swallowed hard, took a drink of his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then took a deep breath and released it. “I was on a mission with the U.S. Marines in the south when I got word that Malik had captured Najela in one of the villages.” His voice became low and strained. “By the time I was given orders to fly north to the village, Malik had repeatedly raped her and then he … slit her throat. I found her in a mud house that had been abandoned by the family who lived there. All I found … was her …” And he closed his eyes for a moment, reliving that nightmare afternoon.
“I—I’m so sorry,” Emma whispered, caught up in his anguish. Without thinking, she reached across the table and touched his hand. And when she realized what she’d done, Emma quickly pulled her hand back. No officer should be seen initiating such an intimate action with another officer. Turning her focus back to Khalid, she thought she saw tears in his blue eyes for just a second. And then, they were gone. Had she imagined them? Emma chastised herself for losing her standards.
“Malik hates anyone and anything who tries to improve upon the villagers’ lives,” Khalid continued, his voice rough. “As I said, he’s sworn vengeance against my family because of my father’s generosity to the villagers.”
Emma considered his heavily spoken words. “And is Malik out there right now? Will he be our enemy as you and Kinah set up this mission for those same villagers?” A cold chill worked its way up her spine as she saw his expression still and become unreadable.
“Yes, he is our nemesis. You need to know that this mission is dangerous so that you remain on guard. Your CO was correct in telling you I am a marked man. You will be marked too, Captain.”
Eyes rounding, Emma sat up. “Aren’t you afraid, Captain Shaheen? He’s already killed one person you loved. You could be next.” Suddenly, Emma wanted nothing to harm this man who had a vision for the girls of his country. She could see his sincerity and the heart that he wore openly on his sleeve. Khalid was priceless in her world because few men could be so in touch with their emotions and share them as he just had with her. Brody had never opened up like this. Not ever. And it threw Emma.
Khalid said, “Rumi would say a real Sufi laughs at death. A Sufi is like an oyster—what strikes it does not harm the pearl within.”
Considering the saying from the thirteenth century, Emma grimaced. “Sorry, but I’m not in agreement with Rumi. I don’t feel I could be at peace if someone raped and then murdered my fiancée.”
“I understand,” Khalid said. “You have lived in our country where the threat to your life exists every day.” He opened his hand and gestured around the room. “Afghans have been at war with the Russians. Now, we have the Taliban. Do we want to live this way? No. Do we dream of a peaceful life? Yes. I don’t expect you, Captain Cantrell, to believe as we do. Najela was Sufi. I know in my heart of hearts that throughout her terrible last hours she felt compassion for Malik. He’s a man so filled with hatred and vengeance that I’m sure that her compassion only made him want to harm her even more.”
Shaking her head, Emma muttered, “Well, I sure wouldn’t be thinking peaceful and loving thoughts if that dude was doing that to me. I’d be looking for any way to protect myself and kill the bastard.”
Giving her a slight smile, Khalid nodded. “Sufis are misunderstood even by our other Muslim brethren. In fact, those who choose jihad and become terrorists hate us as much as they do the so-called infidels.”
“Which is why Malik hates you?” Emma wondered.
“He hates my family for many reasons and has sworn vengeance against each of us. In part, because we are Sufis and believe in tolerance and generosity toward others. The fact my father is worth billions of dollars makes Malik hate us because he was raised in poverty. He didn’t own a pair of shoes until he was eleven years old when the Taliban leader recruited him.”
Suddenly, there was a deafening explosion outside. The sound and reverberation slammed into the room. Instantly, they both dove for the deck, hands over their heads. Emma hissed a curse. Tiles from the ceiling fell around them as a second explosion shook Ops.
“It’s the Taliban,” she growled, getting to her feet. Automatically, she pulled the .45 pistol from her belt and ran to the door. Swinging it open, Ops looked like a beehive that had been overturned.
Shaheen was at her side, looking down at her. Emma’s face was set and her gaze aimed at the windows outside. He saw one of the helicopters burning, the black smoke roiling and bubbling skyward. “Do you get attacks often?”
Grimly, Emma moved toward the center of Ops. Pilots and crews were hurrying out the doors, armed and ready to fight. She knew from being here over a year that such attacks were sporadic. “No,” she snapped, moving with everyone else toward the doors. “Come on, we need to help the fire crews.”
Khalid didn’t know Camp Bravo as she did. He trotted across Ops and found himself outside with her. Emma’s eyes were searching the end of the runway and she pointed in that direction. “That’s one of the places they hit us. They sit in the brush beyond the runway and lob RPGs, rocket propelled grenades, this way.”
Khalid noted a squad of Special Forces speeding away in a Humvee, armed and ready for battle. He wanted to protect Emma. It was his natural reaction. Telling himself she was a warrior like him, he kept his thoughts and his hands to himself. She was all business now. Another crew rolled up in a fire engine and began spewing foam over the burning CH-47 transport helicopter, already a total loss.
Emma turned. She was glad she had her Kevlar jacket on because gunshots were suddenly being traded at the end of the runway. “Come on, this is under control.
No sense standing out here like targets.” She gestured toward Ops again.
Shaheen wasn’t so sure, for a minute longer, he watched the Special Forces from the Humvee spraying the bushes where the Taliban had been hiding. “Do they get inside the camp?” he asked as he followed her into Ops.
“Not so far, but we’re always watching.” Settling the .45 back into the holster on her waist, she added, “We’re never safe here. Let’s get back to discussing the mission, shall we?” Emma stopped and poured herself another cup of black coffee from the urn at the side of the Ops desk. Khalid did the same and they returned to the meeting room.
There were several enlisted men in there. They’d already picked up the ceiling tiles that had dropped from the explosion, so Emma thanked them and, once more, she and Khalid were alone. They pulled their chairs to the table and sat down. Her heart pounded and she felt tense and on guard. As she sipped the coffee, she hoped it would soothe her jangled nerves.
“Will they attack more than once in a day?” Khalid wondered. He found himself drowning in her dark, forest-green eyes, fraught with care and concern. If he read her correctly, it was concern for his welfare. That touched and warmed his wounded heart. There was something ethereal about Emma. Was it how her mussed red hair curled slightly at her temples? Was it her huge green eyes fraught with compassion? Or those lips that reminded Khalid of a rose in full bloom? His inspiration to cut the first red rose of the year from his family’s garden hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. “Well, let me lay out some information to you on Operation Book Worm,” he said, returning to business.
Asad Malik crept away from the end of the runway with his men. Bullets were singing around them, but he knew from long experience that the Special Forces couldn’t see them and they were firing blindly into the thick brush. One day, when there was time, such brush would be cleaned away. He had ten men with him. They continued to work their way through the heavy brush, their AK-47s and grenade launchers in hand. Smiling to himself, he congratulated them in a whisper on destroying one of the helicopters. It was a good day!
Dressed in baggy brown trousers, a crisscross of wide leather straps containing bullets across his chest, Malik did not think this attack was done. No. He would wait, skulk through the brush with his men and wait on the other side. Malik knew this forward base was vital to the war effort by the infidel Americans. Until lately, he’d not had enough money to buy more grenades and bullets. Now, he had a new donor from Saudi Arabia who had given him millions to support the Taliban effort.
Grunting and breathing hard, Malik knelt, hidden. He waited for his ragtag group of nine other men to catch up with him. Most were barefoot, their clothes thin and threadbare. They were all skinny, their cheeks sunken, for coming here had been hard on them. Malik usually worked other areas, but this base was crucial to the American mission and he’d wanted to strike the head of the snake finally.
“Everyone all right?” he demanded roughly as they sat in a semicircle around him. “No wounds?”
“None, my lord,” one of the bearded men spoke up.
Malik grinned. “Good. Now, let’s sneak around the other side of the runway. Knowing the infidels, they’ll think this attack is over.”
There were soft, knowing chuckles from the men, all of whom nodded their accord to follow their charismatic and brave leader.
“Come!” Malik whispered harshly, lifting his hand and moving forward. “I want another helicopter,” he snickered.
Emma could see the burning intensity in Khalid’s blue eyes as they narrowed speculatively upon her. They’d just finished off their coffees and got down to the business at hand. She felt giddy and thrilled with his interest in her. Sure, he respected her as a professional, but she sensed something deeper. Sternly, she chided herself for thinking he was drawn to her.
And then her heart contracted. Was Khalid interested in her or was she imagining things? That couldn’t be. Khalid was the head of the mission and held power over her. His comments would eventually go into her career jacket. Maybe he was this charming with everyone. She couldn’t allow herself to get involved with this intriguing, romantic Afghan warrior. But why did he have to be so damn good-looking? She vowed to savor this rugged male pilot secretly; he’d never know it. She could hide her feelings. For now.
Khalid pulled out a map from one long pocket on his flight suit leg and spread it out before them. He stood up and, using a pen, said, “This is the route we’re going to follow. We’ll move from one village to another.” His index finger was on the map, tracing the small villages along the border with Pakistan. It bothered him that he was drawn to Emma, despite her military demeanor. Khalid refused to put another woman in the gunsights of Asad Malik. It would be too easy to become personal with red-haired, brazen Emma Cantrell.
“For the next six months,” he said, straightening and moving his shoulders as if to shrug off the tension gathered in them, “you will be with me and Kinah, and you will surely be well-educated into our Sufi world. We believe that all religions have a good message for the spirit. My father, who was born in Kabul, comes from a long line of Sufis. My mother, who is a medical doctor from Ireland, continues to this day to be a Presbyterian missionary. She came to this country after she finished her residency in Dublin, Ireland. Her father is an elder in their tradition. And her entire family has been missionaries here in Afghanistan for nearly a hundred years.”
Surprised, Emma’s brows rose with that information. “Then … you’re half-Afghan and half-Irish?” Maybe that accounted for those dancing blue eyes that always had a bit of devilry lurking in their depths.
“I am,” he said with pride. “I am a good example that east meeting west can actually get along.”
“Your religions are so different.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Khalid said, turning the map over. “The Sufis have no quarrel with any other religion in this world. We accept people as they are and respect their beliefs.”
“Too bad that all religions can’t hold the same ideas,” Emma said. She was thinking of the evil Asad Malik.
“That’s why,” Khalid explained, “the jihadists who are twisted and out of touch with true Muslim traditions, hate Sufis and will kill them on sight. The terrorists among those who profess to be Muslim are threatened by the enlightened ways of the Sufi people.”
Emma sat back. “And so you have no trouble being half-Christian and half-Muslim?”
Chuckling, Khalid shook his head. He spread a second map on to the table. It showed close-ups of some of the more major villages along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. “Absolutely none. Sufis honor and respect every religious tradition on the face of our Earth. We believe all paths lead through the heart to the Creator, no matter what name you call him or her.”
Emma watched as he traced a red line around certain areas. “What are those?” she demanded.
“This is Malik’s territory, where he and the Taliban are constantly attacking the villagers.”
Emma got up and leaned over, their heads inches apart as she studied the map. “This guy is big. I know I’ve heard his name.”
“Yes, he’s north of your base camp.”
Emma straightened. “Like you said, we’ll be alert.”
“Agreed,” Khalid said. He picked up the papers, neatly folded them once more and tucked them away in the leg of his flight suit. “So, Captain Cantrell, are you ready to fly back to Bagram Air Force Base with me? We have much to do and there’s so much to show you about our mission.”
Surprised, Emma watched as Khalid stood, lean, strong, his broad shoulders thrown back with unconscious pride. “Bagram? I thought we’d be working here, out of Camp Bravo?”
“Oh, we will,” Khalid assured her. “I’m inviting you to have dinner with me tonight at my family’s villa in Kabul. You may stay overnight. As you know, there are male and female sections to each home. I have had our housekeeper prepare you a room in the women’s part of the house. After we have a wonderful dinner, I will take you to my office and show you Operation Book Worm. I think you will appreciate what I’ll show you. Then, you can grasp even more of the mission and its priorities.”
Shocked by the offer, Emma sat staring up at him. “But …”
“This is a work invitation, Captain Cantrell. I’m an excellent host. It’s easier for me to show you what we will be doing at our villa where it is all stored, than to try and lug it piecemeal back and forth to this camp.”
Emma considered the unexpected invitation and her vivid imagination took off. What would it be like to be with this Afghan warrior? And truly, that’s what Khalid was. She knew he professed compassion and love for others, but her body was not reacting to him in that way. No, she felt a hunger and drive to know Khalid on a much more personal level. How was she going to keep this fact a secret? Looking deeply into his eyes, Emma realized that this wasn’t at all personal to Khalid; it was merely a formality to offer her dinner. After all, Emma knew from experience that all Afghans, rich or poor, would automatically invite her to their home for dinner. It was a custom and way of life in Afghanistan.
“Of course I’ll go with you, Captain Shaheen. I look forward to it.”
Khalid brightened. “Excellent. If there is anything you need to pack in your flight bag before we take off, why not go get it now. I’ll meet you back at Ops.”
