THE COMPLEX NAGEENAHshares with Sabera and her husband is only five minutes away.Three, when you have Daryl at the wheel.He careens to a halt in the parking lot with the sedan positioned to block the entrance/exit.In front of us is some kind of heavy-duty white SUV that appears outfitted for either a moon landing or deployment behind enemy lines.Military-grade indeed.
Just beyond the vehicle: two men in khaki cargo pants and polo shirts.One man is older, red-cheeked face, pale blue eyes.The other is younger with dark hair and an intense, burning gaze.Both sport standard buzz cuts and stand at rigid attention as they talk to Nageenah.
I notice another door cracked open down the way.The older brother and key witness, peering out at the scene.I try to judge from the boy’s expression if he recognizes the men.But he doesn’t appear frightened, just suspicious.
Daryl is already clambering out of the vehicle.I scramble to catch up.
“Try not to get blood on your shirt this time,” I mutter, and am rewarded by a slight hitch in Daryl’s step.So I wasn’t imagining things last night.If only that felt more reassuring.
The two men turn at our approach.They don’t seem particularly alarmed at seeing a hulking limo driver advance directly toward them, with a slightly built white woman scampering in his wake.
“You looking for the Ahmadis?”Daryl asks bluntly, posture definitely veering on the aggressive side.
“Sabera Ahmadi.”The older white guy, whose wavy brown hair is shaved to Brillo pad thickness, does the honors.“You a friend of hers?”
I notice his companion retreats back a few steps and to our right.Classic flanking maneuver.Clearly, they’re practicing some strategies of their own.Both take in Daryl’s parking job, exchange glances.They widen their stances, hands hanging loosely at their sides.Battle positions, everyone.
I don’t like what I’m seeing, but neither do I know what to do.There are too many players in this little drama, and I don’t understand the roles or motivations of any of them.
Once again, I peer down the row of apartments.Four doors down, the young boy meets my questioning gaze, then slowly shakes his head.
So these men are not from yesterday.But working with, operating on behalf of…?
“There’s been a recent incident,” Daryl is saying.“Folks are a little on edge.Might be best if you just state your business.”
“And you are?”
“Asked you first.”
“Actually, I believe I asked you first.”
The second man, starting to drift behind us.I plant myself squarely in front of him.
“Frankie Elkin,” I announce loudly.“Working with the Tucson PD.”I eye them up and down, then demand: “Rank and serial number.”
I’m not actually sure what that means outside of movie scenes, but the older one finally cracks a smile.I haven’t fooled him for a second, but amused is better than hostile, so at least we’re getting somewhere.
“Sanders Kurtz.Retired captain, Army.This is Tim Westwig, retired first sergeant, Army.We’re with No One Left Behind.”
A business card materializes in his hand.Daryl takes it.We both eye the logo blankly.
“We’re a private nonprofit dedicated to evacuating, resettling, and advocating on behalf of our Afghan and Iraqi interpreters,” Westwig rattles off.“We have not forgotten bonds forged nor promises made.”
I’m somewhat taken aback by the forcefulness of his tone.Behind him, Nageenah wears an expression that’s harder to interpret.It’s not distrust, per se.Maybe more like disillusionment.Then I clue in on the relevant piece of his statement.
“Wait a minute.Interpreters.You’re trying to bring the Afghans who worked with the US military to the States?”I remember from news accounts how many people were dismayed by America’s abrupt withdrawal from Afghanistan and the ensuing collapse of Kabul, which left many of the locals who served vulnerable to retribution.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s been four years,” Daryl begins in confusion.
I whack him on the arm.Timeline is not the relevant informationhere.“Sabera was a translator with the US Army?”I ask excitedly.Because that would make sense, given her language skills, not to mention possibly be relevant to what’s happening now.
But the retired captain is shaking his head.“Not Mrs.Ahmadi.”
“But then…” I’m terribly confused.
“We’re here at Mrs.Ahmadi’s request; she reached out to us about a month ago.She was aware her family supplied some assistance to the military efforts in Afghanistan.In particular, she was looking for information regarding her mother.”
