Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  A TSA agent took the card and moved his gaze from Mariam’s passport to her face. He clunked his stamp on her ticket.

  Breath whooshed from Kay’s lungs. She heaved the suitcase on the moving runway.

  A red-haired TSA agent jerked his thumb left. “Ma’am, you’ve been randomly selected for a pat down.”

  Kay whipped around. In twenty-seven years of travel, she’d never endured a TSA pat down. This was another abuse of Muslim immigrants that she’d call attention to when she earned the Harvard position. Only she’d never write her dissertation now, because she’d miss her flight! Dr. Benson would kick her out of Harvard. Her air pipes narrowed.

  Sweat drenched her underclothes. An overweight woman strode out of a windowless cubicle. She ran her hands over Kay’s sides.

  What if they had a clearer passport photo of Mariam on file? Kay held her breath.

  The woman made a gruff noise. “You’re cleared to go.”

  Kay grabbed the handle of her suitcase and ran.

  All around her people stared, judging a woman wearing a head covering. She lunged onto the moving walkway.

  The tinny noise of a religious band exploded from her purse. Kay shoved aside cough drops and receipts.

  Uncle Muhammad flashed across the screen of Mariam’s phone. She hit answer. “As-salamu alaykum, Uncle Muhammad.”

  A rush of heated Arabic phrases poured through the phone. “And I don’t want to hear your crap about finishing your degree. I expect you on today’s plane,” Uncle Muhammad ended.

  “Tabaan, of course, Uncle. I am boarding the plane as we speak.” Kay scooted in front of gate fourteen.

  “Good. Abdullah El-Amin is waiting for you.” Muhammad’s sour voice whined through the phone. “The wedding should have happened months ago. You should be having children for Allah.”

  Ha, not likely with semi-permanent birth control, thanks to Harvard’s local Planned Parenthood. Kay maneuvered her roll-along luggage into the gate boarding area. “I am delighted, Uncle. I’m sure you picked a wonderful man for me.” She’d return to the U.S. long before any marrying happened, of course.

  Ignoring fellow passengers’ disconcerting stares and the scratchy feeling of the hijab over her ears, Kay walked onto the plane.

  Perhaps she could write a piece for Cultural Anthropology about Saudi Arabian betrothal customs. She was a bit over the bar and hookup scene, as that misadventure with Joe had definitely proved. A Middle Eastern betrothal could be just the spice of romance she needed to forget Felipe.

  She dug her fingernail into the suitcase handle, scratching plastic. Seven months ago, Felipe had gotten a job studying how to turn seaweed into edible products near Ocean City, Maryland. Kay swallowed down the lump in her throat. Call it PhD-stress-induced madness, but she’d wanted to believe in the call of the divine that Felipe mused about. Thought casting her ambitions to the wind and living life tide by tide would restore the something-missing feeling inside of her.

  The mystery of a seashore town had woven its magic over them. Then, on their one month anniversary of moving in, after a night of too many margaritas, she’d said “I love you” for the first time.

  Felipe had bolted like a scared rabbit, leaving the rent and utility bills for her. Kay cringed inside her black sweater.

  What if she hadn’t said it? Would they still be together? She gave herself a shake. Thank her lucky stars Mom had been able to get her back into Harvard. Now she had a Harvard professorship to earn. In the future when she dated, she’d keep it casual. None of this telling a guy she loved him only a few months after the first time he spent the night at her apartment.

  “. . . you’re betrothed. Understand?” Uncle Muhammad’s voice pounded against her ear. The phone cut out.

  Kay dropped the cell into her purse. Muhammad sounded angry. What if he hated her?

  The pilot’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “We are preparing for takeoff.”

  With a whir of motorized levers, the airplane’s doors sealed shut. The wheels churned and the airplane picked up speed. She dug her fingers into the armrest as the whir of motors grew louder. She’d meet this new “uncle” before another day passed.

  Saturday, Oct 1st 10:45 a.m.

  Muhammad Al-Khatani shifted on the Turkish settee. The yellow silk slipped beneath the robe-like shroud of his white thobe. Sweat built underneath the ghutra turban on his head. What he’d give for a spandex workout shirt, but one couldn’t visit Koranic holy man, Abdullah El-Amin, wearing “evil” western clothes. Muhammad groaned.

  How much longer would the business oligarch force him to wait just to emphasize that Abdullah was the social superior? Ah for the wasta and power to do as he chose. Muhammad nudged the polished coffee table with his toe.

  A female scream penetrated the curtain from the direction of the women’s sitting room where Abdullah no doubt met with his second wife, whose house this was.

  Muhammad snorted. He couldn’t even get enough influence for an invitation to Abdullah’s main house where his first wife resided. He sank into the settee as the TV crackled across from him. An old man read the Koran, his voice chant-like even with the set muted.

  Another riveting episode of Saudi Arabian public broadcasting. Muhammad raised his gaze to the high ceiling. Ah for some “evil” western shows to watch, like that latest murder mystery on the USA network. He had two illegally accessed episodes downloaded off his VPN waiting for him at home.

  Behind the earth tones curtain, a woman yelled. “I want to wear nail polish.”

  A smashing sound. Silence.

  Muhammad groaned. Abdullah truly was a fanatic. He hoped his betrothed, Alma liked nail polish and womanly things and didn’t quote the Koran at him when he snuck a glass of Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch. He only had a few more touches to put on his wedding before the big day next week.

  The curtain parted. Abdullah circled around a high pillar, his short thobe sweeping across his exposed ankles. Gray streaked his long beard, making the man look ready to join the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice as they spoke. Abdullah nodded. “As-salamu alaykum, my friend.”

  Muhammad’s tennis shoes indented the luxurious carpet as he stood. Inclining his head, he made a slight bow and hurried through all the traditional greetings. “And my niece will arrive from America tomorrow morning, inshAllah.”

  “Finally.” Abdullah motioned a Filipino to bring the tea set. “I thought I’d have a bride six months ago. You are not the only family who wishes a marriage alliance with the El-Amin’s.”

  Taking an egg-shaped cup from the dark-skinned servant, Muhammad sipped the sweet goodness of tea. His niece had as stubborn a streak as his insane brother who’d run off to Pakistan for a woman before he died. “I have sent Mariam a ticket. She is now on the airplane.” At least he hoped she’d done as she said and not lied to him—again. He was her mahram, her closest male relative, which made him her guardian under Saudi law. She ought to obey him.

  “She has defied your orders for six months. She does not sound like a faithful Muslim.” Abdullah picked up a date and dipped it into al-haysa sauce. “I am not sure I want to marry this woman.”

  “She is a very faithful Muslim. Please Abdullah, you have promised me before Allah that you will make this match. You cannot break your word.” Muhammad sat straight, more pleading in his voice than he’d ever choose to put there if he had power and watsa. Marrying his niece to Abdullah would significantly improve his standing in the business community. He might even get that computer contract based out of Austin, Texas.

  If his bid won, he’d go to America for a year or two after he married. Watch all the movies he wanted. Smoke hookah. The religious police had gotten Riyadh to outlaw hookah! Even the prophet, peace be upon him, smoked hookah.

  “As Allah the All-Merciful wills, I shall marry her.” Abdullah reclined his head against the looped up gauze hanging down from garish curtains. “How much have you told this American CIA agent, Joe
Csontos?”

  “Only what you asked me to. I promise, in the name of Allah.” Muhammad’s palms moistened. The ornate cushions of the ludicrously outdated couch compacted beneath him. Playing double agent is how he’d first established his connection with Abdullah and convinced the man to marry his niece.

  “Two nights ago, emissaries of the Great Satan detained one of our AQAP couriers.” Abdullah rested his sticky fingers on the tea tray. “I need the American abducted so I can discover what the CIA knows, praise is to Allah in all circumstances.”

  Muhammad stared at the crystal vase full of fake flowers that rested on the glued wood border of the coffee table. He’d only gotten into the informant business for the money. He didn’t care to risk his life over it. Then last year he’d come up with the idea that he could make twice as much money if he became a double agent.

  The idea had sounded bright at the time. Al’ama, may blindness strike him. Now he was a slave to every whim of Abdullah’s. “Many thanks for entrusting me with this mission.” Muhammad wet his throat with tea and launched into the five minute spiel of pleasantries required by custom before declining a request. “But I am marrying next week, inshAllah. I have much to do to prepare the wedding ceremony.”

  “I will marry soon too, if Allah wills. Your niece better not be Americanized.” Abdullah slammed his tea cup on the inlaid wood.

  Well, if she was, Mariam would soon get un-Americanized, married to a religious fanatic like Abdullah. Suppressing a sigh, Muhammad plopped a third cube of sugar in his tea. The cinnamon roll-shaped armrests dug into him on either side. “It is different for you. This is your third wife. I want to make my only wedding special, mashAllah.”

  He’d planned out the caterers, bought all the glassware, reserved the hall in Bahrain for a week from today, and he had no desire to risk his life kidnapping a CIA agent between times.

  “Let us hold a double wedding then, all praise to Allah the Inspirer of Faith.” Abdullah placed his hand on the Koran at the side table, expression devout.

  No! The tea he’d swallowed heated to a sizzling boil inside his gut. If he had some religious fundamentalist at his wedding, he couldn’t play music. No wedding photos either. Of course the men and women would split into separate wedding parties as was customary, but he’d chosen Bahrain because he intended to bend some of the other rules. He’d make a wedding video, spend more than the allotted ten minutes at the ceremony with his bride before returning to the men’s celebration, and he definitely intended to go to the movie theater on his honeymoon.

  “It is settled then, and Allah the Forgiving wills it. Make certain to serve watermelon. The prophet, peace be upon him, greatly enjoyed watermelon. I will choose the imam and we shall have a double wedding. Now you will have time to capture Joe for me.” Abdullah gestured over the table with his sun-darkened fingers.

  “I’ve never abducted anyone.” Voice small, Muhammad kept his chin down. Curse these religious fundamentalists and their jihadist plots. Once the man married his niece though, he would have the watsa to get the royal family, the Al Saud’s, recognition and obtain more contacts for his business, making him a much wealthier man. Muhammad squirmed on the traditional fabric of the couch. If he lived to that day.

  “I will send you my guest list. You choose the caterers.” Abdullah rested his hands on his knees. His white thobe rode up farther, exposing the wiry hair on his legs.

  Muhammad suppressed the desire to drop his head into his hands. He could only hope Abdullah planned to pick up his half of the wedding price tag.

  “You will deliver Joe to my tent in the desert before the wedding.” Abdullah stood, bony feet sinking into the carpet.

  Would his niece go for a wedding in a week’s time? He was her mahram and a woman should obey her male guardian. Muhammad chewed on his lower lip. He’d only just pressured Mariam into agreeing she’d marry the man at all. Before today, she hadn’t even answered his phone calls. He didn’t care to deal with a tantrum-ing niece for a week. He’d tell Mariam nothing, bring her to Bahrain, then sign the wedding license and dump her at the wedding reception.

  After that, his niece would be Abdullah’s problem.

  CHAPTER 6

  Local time, Saturday, Oct 1st, 6:45 p.m.

  A gust of turbulence wiggled the small plane. Kay pulled her legs up to her chest in the window seat. After her connecting flight in Jordan, she’d boarded this plane.

  A gruff cough came from the squashed middle seat. The coughing man, who wore an Armani suit, glared at her.

  The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “We are now entering Saudi airspace.”

  In minutes, she’d touch down in a foreign world to meet a complete stranger. Goose pimples rose on her arms, shoving up each hair.

  Her phone beeped. Another message from Joe. She glanced at the Wi-Fi powered app. The black words blazed across the screen as bold as that lightning bolt on Joe’s phone cover. Have you ever read the Mutazilite literature?

  His blond-haired avatar stared back at her, his eyes as blue as ocean depths. A hot feeling rose across her neck. What must he think of her?

  Mr. Armani-suit man stabbed a finger across the aisle. “Switch with him.”

  “Excuse me?” She twisted away from the breathtaking view of the Saudi desert.

  Mr. Armani-suit was one shade darker than Caucasian and his voice held the musical swell of a native Arabic speaker. “Him.” The man pointed across the aisle to a man squeezed between two women.

  Kay pressed against the curving plane wall, giving herself as much room as possible from the rude stranger. “No.”

  A satisfied feeling spread across her shrouded body. Muslim advocates had it right. Wearing more clothing didn’t make one a doormat.

  Every single person in American and European airports had stared at her for the last twenty-five hours of international travel. Kay shivered, the burns from those stares still embedded in her skin. If she could earn the Harvard teaching post, she’d use that power to combat prejudice so Muslim-American women wouldn’t have to endure the stigma and stares.

  Mr. Armani-suit stood to his full height, red seatbelt light notwithstanding. “Attendant, this is immoral. I refuse to sit by a woman.”

  He’d been sitting next to her for hours, and suddenly now he found it immoral?

  A female airline attendant touched the seat back and leaned over Mr. Armani-suit. “If you could come this way, ma’am.”

  Mr. Armani-suit eyeballed the straining buttons on the woman’s blouse.

  Sitting by a woman was immoral, but ogling one wasn’t? “There aren’t even any empty seats.” Kay’s hijab-covered skin scratched against the chair. Turbulence swayed the gray wings in front of her.

  The stewardess lowered her voice. “He owns significant stock in the airlines, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind . . .” She gestured to the back.

  Kay’s stomach twisted around the airline pretzels that had counted as dinner. The overhead vent piped cold air against her face as the leather seat lent an uneasy feeling to her every movement.

  Betty Friedan never would have kowtowed to a bully. Kay forced her voice to sound confident. “You’ll have a significant lawsuit on your hands if you make me move from the seat I lawfully purchased.”

  Mr. Armani-suit gave a disgruntled snort. Removing her hand from the shared arm rest, Kay stuck her ear buds into her phone jack.

  Soon, the plane swerved into its downward descent. Her ears popped. Outside the window, the desert sand rose up around them, the yellow grains appearing almost brown by fading sunlight.

  With the clash of landing gear, the plane bounced to a halt at Riyadh International Airport. Passengers leaped up. Mr. Armani-suit tore open the overhead bin. With a clank of moving metal, the airplane door swiveled open. Kay grabbed her suitcase and the rush of people swept her out.

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Kay sucked in air. The dryness scratched against her throat. Long lines straggled around her, filling the terminal. A neon
Arabic calendar flashed on the screen, the dates reminiscent of the Middle Ages.

  She’d made it to Saudi Arabia. Would her pretend relatives embrace her and treat her to Eastern hospitality? What if they recognized she wasn’t Mariam? A shiver, half excitement, half dread ran underneath Kay’s black sweater.

  Her phone vibrated against her thigh. Her stomach churned, the foreign voices and sights pounding into her consciousness. Joe’s profile pic appeared on her phone screen. In the midst of the swirling sea of people, Kay punched in her unlock code.

  Ever seen the Sufi whirling dervish dance? It’s spectacular.

  Kay groaned. The movement of her jaw dislodged a hijab pin. How did a security guard even know about the dance Rumi had developed? Last year. Times Square.

  “That is the one.” Bearded men in short thobes shot out from the crowd. The men surrounded her on every side.

  Kay stared.

  The fluorescent lights glared down on the men’s shaggy facial hair. They looked to Mr. Armani-suit. “We will take care of it.”

  A man, who looked like he’d recently spent time in prison, took a menacing step closer.

  “You see how immodest she is.” Mr. Armani-suit made a self-righteous face.

  Kay glanced at the frumpy black blouse that enshrouded her. “There’s a woman wearing blue jeans over there. Why is that woman not in trouble and I am?” Kay pointed to a blonde-haired woman and shoved a fallen strand of hair back under her loosened hijab.

  “Cover yourself.” Released-convict man threw a black cloak with armholes at her.

  The fabric hit her and slid to the ground. “Stalker.” She turned to the right, dragging her suitcase behind her. Her headscarf slipped, but it still covered more than any Mennonite woman’s. Michelle Obama had met the Saudi royalty without covering her hair.

  “You are exposing your naked face.” Ex-convict’s voice went shrill.

  Turning back, Kay touched her cheek. “It’s just my face. It’s not naked.” How would Uncle Muhammad even find her in this sea of black-clad women?