Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Is that nail polish?” Ex-convict pointed at her red nails.

  Another man wrenched her suitcase from her.

  Kay stood frozen, arm burning from his movement. Another man grabbed the suitcase zipper. The contents of her bag fell across the tile floor.

  Time crashed to a halt as she stared at an entire posse of men rummaging through her underwear.

  One long-bearded man held up a DVD, Overboard the 1980s classic with Kurt Russell. “Look, she has porn.”

  Kay lunged at the man. “That’s a chick-flick, not porn!”

  The man closed his vise-like grip around her suitcase handle.

  She shoved at his arm.

  “See, she touched a man. Now you know what kind of a prostitute she is.” Mr. Armani-suit pointed from the edge of the circle, a look of triumph on his dark features.

  The long-bearded man grabbed her elbow, his stinky chest shoved up against her breasts.

  “He touched me too!” Kay drove her foot into the man’s shin. Her head pounded as she fought for breath. All around her, strangers started to turn toward the commotion.

  A uniformed man walked into the men’s midst. “What’s going on here?” The security officer directed a cold look at the short-thobed man.

  At last. Kay knelt and started shoving her things back into the suitcase.

  “We are from the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. You cannot interfere.” A short-thobed man jutted out his wispy beard.

  “We have an international airport.” The security officer straightened his badge. “Didn’t Al-Saud deny the mutwa religious police permission to enter these airport grounds? You are giving our airport a bad name harassing a Western woman.”

  Western? Did her Arabic have an accent? Shoving down the adrenaline, Kay kept her voice calm. “I’m not Western. I’m a Saudi. Mariam Al-Khatani.” She extended her hand.

  The security officer shot a horrified look at her proffered hand. “I will take her to the unaccompanied female enclosure until her male relative collects her. Will that satisfy you, sirs?”

  Wait, Saudis didn’t shake hands with the opposite gender, she knew that. Face heating, Kay dropped her fingers. The gesture had come as natural as breathing.

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Armani-suit tilted his smug chin up. “Make sure to inform her mahram male relative of the gravity of her charges.”

  Kay wrinkled her nose. While normally she considered chivalry outdated, just now she’d welcome a male relative or mahram to sink a fist into the man’s conceited face. If only Uncle Muhammad were here.

  “This way.” The security officer led her down an impossibly long hallway.

  How was this necessary? She hadn’t done anything wrong.

  The man shoved open a metal door. “Wait there.” He stabbed his finger inside, as stern a look on his face as if disobeying would risk jail time.

  With a shiver, Kay entered. The metal door swung shut behind her, trapping her in a sparsely furnished room with no windows. A dozen or so women sat in the room, the majority of them Western from the look of their hair and clothes. Kay took a seat on a metal folding chair. The legs wobbled, jostling her already upset stomach.

  Summoning courage, Kay glanced to the women. “Why are we all here?”

  “You have to be if you don’t have a man with you on the airplane.” A young mom holding a baby sneezed, then coughed, then sneezed again. “What do they think I’m going to do before my husband shows up from the oil company? Go around stabbing knives into people?”

  Digging into her purse, Kay extended a tissue pack to the woman.

  A vent blew cold air and the greasy smell of French fries into the tiny room.

  Bang. Bang. The metal door handle turned from the outside. “Mariam Al-Khatani.” Another security official stood in the doorway, gaze averted from the no-longer-covered women. “Your uncle is here.”

  Would Uncle Muhammad recognize she wasn’t Mariam? Her head swam, her knees wobbly as she exited the room.

  The man who stood in the dark hallway looked not more than a decade older than she. He wore a shirt and jeans fit for a magazine cover and a watch that looked more expensive than some engagement rings. Shaven and sporting a crew cut, the man appeared more ready to model in L.A. than live in Saudi Arabia.

  Could this be Uncle Muhammad?

  With a clomping noise, four men rounded the corner. Their long beards reeked of body odor. The men started jabbering and yelling things.

  “Cover yourself, niece.” Muhammad pointed to her fallen headscarf. He stepped between her and the men.

  Oh, to throw her arms around him. A young and cool uncle like Muhammad would have been fun to play with as a child. Her only uncle had been too old to ever get down on the floor.

  “Your niece has broken the law of Allah and insulted Emir Kalb.” The foremost mutwa swaggered forward, shaggy beard swaying.

  “I’ll take care of it. You’re not needed.” Muhammad turned from the mutwa and glared at her headscarf. He jerked his chin.

  The cloth had fallen back a few inches, revealing one strand of hair. Kay tugged at the fabric, trying to make it tighter. How did Muslim women get these things to stay on?

  “Explain that to the judge in the morning.” The robed man moved toward her. Only Uncle Muhammad’s body separated her from these men who had already spilled her suitcase and assaulted her.

  Her intestines twisted around each other.

  Thud, thud, the four men tightened their circle around her.

  A cold feeling ran down Kay’s spine. The narrow space prevented any escape. She looked to her pretend uncle.

  Sweat beaded on Uncle Muhammad’s forehead. He shook his head and thrust some money into the foremost mutwa’s hand. “Abdullah El-Amin is my friend. Want me to make a phone call?”

  “You know Abdullah El-Amin?” All of the mutwa took sharp steps back.

  Uncle Muhammed motioned to her and she followed him through the space the mutwas had made down the hallway.

  Oh, to throw her arms around his neck. “It is so good to see you.” She smiled at him.

  His dark eyes set off his bronzed skin, scarcely the wispy-bearded, bespectacled Koran scholar she’d expected in an uncle. Slowing his pace for a moment, Uncle Muhammad looked back at her. “You are much changed.”

  No! She clenched the handle to Mariam’s suitcase. Its one wheel wobbled, ready to break off. Had Muhammad noticed?

  “You are like the immodest American women now.”

  “Immodest?” Her eyes bulged. This blouse hid even her wrists. She glanced to the right. Sure, black triangles of women moved around the periphery of her vision, even their noses covered by face veils, but surely she was covered enough? Sweat condensed on her cheekbones.

  “I will not tolerate you embarrassing me again.” Muhammad advanced to the automatic sliding doors that led to the parking lot.

  Embarrassed him? She’d just been assaulted by five men and then shoved in a jail cell until he arrived. A blast of hot desert air bombarded her.

  She glanced behind her to the airport doors. She had cash and a Saudi passport. She could still walk back into that airport and buy a ticket to Massachusetts.

  “Come.” Uncle Muhammad strode down the ramp, long strides eating the distance.

  If she turned back now, Dr. Benson would kick her out of the program and she’d never earn a PhD from Harvard, never have the opportunity to improve the lives of the Muslim women at the refugee center. Grabbing the suitcase handle, Kay swung it up. Her long skirt tangled around her legs. The suitcase tore at her strained shoulder.

  Muhammad glanced back. “Where’s your abaya?”

  Abaya, that was some kind of robe, right? “Um . . .” Kay swallowed. Her emphasis was medieval Islamic literature, not modern customs and Rumi’s poetry didn’t speak much about women’s clothing. She lowered her suitcase to the ground.

  “Stupid Americans,” Muhammad said under his breath. “Get in the car quickly. Aba
yas are the law. At least in Riyadh.”

  Her suitcase wheels skittered over the pavement as she followed Uncle Muhammad through long lines of cars. Her phone buzzed.

  Joe’s text popped up. Do you have a forwarding address for Mariam’s fiancé, Hamed? He left Cambridge.

  A shiny Hyundai SUV squeezed in among other vehicles. Heat radiated from the pavement, warming her ankles, even as the evening breeze turned cooler. Kay shivered as she walked to the passenger side and waited for Muhammad to open the door. That’s what men did when women wore dresses, right?

  With a grunt, Uncle Muhammad jerked open his door and scrambled in.

  Guess that was a “no” to the opening door thing. She closed her fingers around the slick handle.

  Uncle Muhammad rolled the window down a crack and jerked his chin toward the seat behind. “Backseat.” His shoulders tensed, his tone displeased.

  She bit her lip. What had she done wrong? She’d not even spent an hour in this foreign land yet.

  The back row of leather seats still exuded new car smell. She slid into the tinted window SUV and pulled out her phone. The familiar glow of the LCD screen calmed her unsteady hands.

  She would spend an entire month with the man driving this SUV. Tears formed in her eyes. She’d imagined loving aunties, and My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding Style affection, not curt words and accusation.

  Uncle Muhammad hit the gas. High-rise buildings, towering palms, and sand sped past. A pounding started in her head as a sour taste rose from her stomach. Her lips felt chapped.

  “This cannot happen again, Mariam.” Uncle Muhammad glared at her through the rearview mirror. “Your betrothed is a conservative man.”

  Why did he have to rage so? Uncle Muhammad swerved around a corner. Her knees bumped against the car door. Pressing against the door, she curled her arms tight against her chest. Her phone beeped. Joe, again. Also, what’s your dissertation on?

  Differences between Middle Eastern and Western culture. Kay forced herself to take in breath. She just needed something to drink and eat. Everything would work out. She clenched the door handle as Uncle Muhammad took another curve at racetrack speed.

  Beep. Joe. You should switch over to the signal app. It’s more secure.

  Secure from WHOM? Was he one of those the-NSA-is-watching-me people? Paranoia about the NSA caused less climate damage than buying a F-350 Super Cab with a lift job anyway. She sighed.

  Joe. Here’s the link.

  Thanks. I’ll download it. She sunk her head into the leather and stared at her uncle’s profile. He had such a hard look in his eyes. Surely the arrival of a beloved niece should give rise to more affection?

  Beep. Joe. Do you ever Skype? FaceTime?

  Kay groaned. Why? She’d turn off her phone, only it was her sole connection with a familiar face.

  Joe. We should video chat.

  Only two reasons to endure the constant static and Wi-Fi interruptions of video chat.

  A. One was madly in love.

  B. To see the other person naked.

  What impression had she given him the other day?

  A stress headache pounded against her temples. Look, Joe. Her fingernails made a clacking noise against the screen. I don’t know what you thought after the other night, but I honestly don’t have time to talk to you. I’ve got a dissertation to write.

  No response.

  “When do I go on my first date with my betrothed, Uncle Muhammad?” Kay tucked her heels underneath her on the bench seat and the cold window pressed against her cheek. She hoped she didn’t break the betrothed’s heart. Poor kid. In this conservative of a culture, he’d probably never even had a girlfriend before.

  “Date!” Uncle Muhammad slammed on the brakes as the car screeched to a halt inches from the stoplight. “We are not wicked Americans. You won’t date him until after the wedding.”

  “Okay?” Kay craned her whiplashed neck and looked with trepidation at the bustling streets ahead, a traffic accident just waiting to happen.

  “You offended Emir Kalb, a personal friend of the Al-Sauds. Do you know how many months you have set my business progress back?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her black sweater settled around her limbs, the blast of the car’s air-conditioning shifting the cloth as the sun set over the western desert. Nothing in sight as far as the eye could see except harsh metal skyscrapers set against harsher arid barrenness.

  She looked at the stranger driving the SUV whom she’d live with for the next month. Kay swallowed hard.

  CHAPTER 7

  Saturday, Oct 1st, 7:45 p.m.

  The office chair dug into Joe’s shoulders. Despite the late hour, two CIA contractors still sat in this cubicle overlooking the embassy grounds here in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

  He scrolled back over his conversation with Kay. She knew what he’d referenced when he mentioned Sufis. No one got references to Sufis. Her messaging profile popped on the screen, her dark lashes brushing up against olive skin, a burst of light like Saturn’s orbs emanating from her smile. Had Kay read Rumi’s verse about music and the heavens?

  “Shouldn’t you have the night off? You only landed a couple hours ago.” In the cubicle to the left, Tracy brought a cup of coffee to her lips. She was a CIA contractor, not a govvy.

  Outside the industrial windows, the moon rose over mile after mile of sand. “I’m fine.” Joe blinked jetlagged eyes. Tomorrow, he’d meet Muhammad Al-Khatani to see what new intelligence the man had gathered from Abdullah.

  He could picture Kay, sitting at a Harvard desk, studying Sufi poetry, her dark hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned over a dusty book, her life so tranquil. Protecting the right of Americans like Kay to live in peace was the reason he’d joined the Green Berets, then the CIA.

  Tracy laughed. Her clunky earrings accented her graying hair, but you’d never know the woman was in her fifties to see her on night shift. “Who are you texting? You look like you’re in a different universe than the rest of us.”

  “He’s texting a girl.” Ruby, a twenty-something green-badger who used to work at Raytheon, shoved her high heel and flung her chair across the little room. Her elbow brushed him as she stuck her head over his chair arm. “Look, it says Kay. He is texting a girl.”

  “Do you like her?” Tracy plopped her coffee on a coaster.

  “Of course he likes her. Mr. Serious-minded doesn’t do casual.” Ruby flipped her red hair over her shoulder.

  Joe felt his ears heat. “That’s not true.” Okay, maybe a little true. Why waste time, energy, and money on a girl one couldn’t see oneself having a future with? He didn’t take intentional dating to insane levels though.

  Growing up, the Sunday school teacher of the YMTUSTVA (Young Men Taking Up the Sword of Truth to Vanquish Apollyon, or “Yummy T” group as the other teenagers had affectionately referred to it) said: “Procreation is the divine purpose of marriage. Never say ‘I love you’ to a girl before you slip a wedding band on her finger.”

  Then the teacher had done the masking tape exercise where you had to stick a piece of tape, which represented your soul, to different surfaces, which represented girls. The tape losing its stickiness represented you squandering your emotional purity. He wasn’t nearly as conservative as that anymore. Also, whoever thought up that atrocious acronym, or the class itself, needed their head examined.

  “You turned me down for a ‘casual’ date.” Ruby clamped her elbows on his desk. The fluorescent lights made strange patterns on her hair.

  “We’re co-workers. It would have been awkward.” Joe pulled his encrypted audio recording port out of the backpack. His Green Beret buddies had also mocked him for not taking a girl on a date unless he had serious intentions. Of course, they had the child support checks and STDs to prove all the casual dates they’d taken girls on, so who really was the dumb one?

  “Here, the analysis of all the terrorist attacks which AQAP ordered in the last six months, per Brian’s orders. I did all this while you were
texting your girlfriend.” Ruby shoved a stack of papers at him.

  “She’s not my girlfriend.” The teacher of the “Yummy T” group called a woman one was in a romantic relationship with a courtive instead of a girlfriend, because the term girlfriend was apparently a four letter word. He winced to think what Ruby would say if she knew that. He’d never told any of his co-workers that he was homeschooled, or the second oldest of thirteen siblings.

  Brian stuck his nose around the aluminum edge of the cubicle. His tie hung loose around his unbuttoned collar. “Our phone track shows Mariam touched down on Saudi soil.”

  Wretched Mariam, in not so many months she’d be locked into the torture of marriage to a terrorist. Did Abdullah believe in the Koranic teaching of purdah, the jailing of a wife inside the confines of four walls, her house more a tomb than a dwelling?

  “Any info on the location of this attack?” Brian rested one hand on Joe’s desk.

  “I’m talking to Muhammad Al-Khatani tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Speak to Mariam too. The reason we forced her back here is to prevent this terrorist attack.” Brian set his coffee mug two inches from Joe’s desktop. The neon orange words “Best Boss Ever” glared from the mug. “I want the rest of that translation before you leave tonight.” Brian turned and headed out of the SCIF.

  The metal door clicked shut behind him, his odiferous coffee still on Joe’s desk. “At least Mariam can find comfort that her death sentence saved lives,” Joe said under his breath. Also, a Saudi man would beat his female relative before he’d even consider letting her have a tete-a-tete with an unrelated male. How exactly did Brian plan on him speaking to Mariam?

  “Stinks about the niece.” Ruby tilted her chair back, the tip of a pencil eraser between her lips. “We all read her file. Sweet thing, straight ‘A’ student. She was first in line for a green card before the CIA got involved.”

  “You shouldn’t take it so hard, Joe.” Tracy pushed graying hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you’ve killed in hand-to-hand combat a dozen times before. I’m the one that should lose sleep over this girl.”