Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “What?” Brian whipped toward Joe.

  “She’s not Saudi. She’s a friend of Mariam’s from Harvard. She snuck in here with Mariam’s passport on the deluded idea of researching for her doctorate.” Minimizing the browser screen, Joe pushed his chair back. “I was just going to speak with you about how to get her out.”

  Brian stared. “Where’s Mariam?”

  “Quebec? Montreal? Not really sure. Nowhere near Saudi Arabia.” Joe rested his hand on the desk. “What’s the protocol for getting around exit visa requirements?”

  “You mean we don’t have a spy?” Brian turned purple. “I had a security detail on Mariam. Is her uncle up in arms?”

  “He doesn’t know Mariam’s gone. He thinks this American PhD student, Kay Bianchi, is his niece.” Joe clenched and flexed his left hand. A way had to exist around that exit visa requirement. Had to. If a way existed, then why would the U.S. state department website warn American women who married Saudi men that the embassy had no way to get an American woman out of country?

  “Excellent. Share the information with this Kay. When she marries Abdullah El-Amin we’ll have an even more reliable spy than Mariam.” Brian turned toward the door.

  “You can’t let Kay marry a terrorist!” Joe launched himself out of his seat.

  Brian coughed. “It’s not as if she can get out of the country without an exit visa anyway, something I’m sure neither her uncle nor this new husband will give her. The CIA might as well use her to stop terrorist attacks.”

  “You’ll find a way to make her an exit visa. She’s an American citizen.” Joe’s voice bounced off the metal cupboards that ran along the top of each cubicle. He had to rescue her. Could he find a smuggler to get Kay out?

  Brian sighed. “I suppose her parents could make some bad PR if we don’t get your illegal girlfriend home.”

  Joe clenched his jaw. Brian acted as if bad PR was the only reason he opposed the morally reprehensible idea. Before this week ended, he intended to bring Kay to the embassy and have her wave her American passport around until Brian came up with some kind of solution.

  Ruby placed her elbow on his desk and leaned over her arm. “You forgot the ‘and she’s not my girlfriend part.’ ” Her eyes had a mirth-filled light as if she intended to embarrass him.

  Embarrassed about what? He planned on Kay being his girlfriend, only he had to convert her to Christianity first. His Green Beret buddies could mock his deciding seventy-two hours after he met a girl that he wanted a serious relationship all they wished. But that was seventy-one hours longer than they took to decide to risk contracting HIV or embarking on a lifetime of child-rearing with a stranger, so who really was the fast mover?

  Joe raised his voice before Brian could exit the door. “Since we don’t have a spy, will you let me visit a radical imam and feign interest in terrorism as I suggested?” He had the meeting set up for this evening. Best way to stop this terrorism plot and earn his post in Dubai. Official permission would make things go easier though if the embassy ever found out.

  “No. Bring that up one more time and I’m turning you into internal review just for asking.” Brian launched a glare across the tepid air.

  Guess he better not get caught.

  Monday, Oct 3rd, 11:15 a.m.

  Ow. Kay stared in the hallway mirror. The left side of her face even looked painful. She’d woken up this morning to an unlocked door.

  Her stomach growled as sunlight poured through the painted panels that shut off the men’s side of the house. A shiver ran through her. She’d not venture through those doors again today. Though how could she see Saudi Arabia and write her dissertation if she didn’t? She couldn’t let one vile man ruin an entire country for her.

  The panel creaked. Muhammad, the man who had struck her, stood in the doorway. Kay shoved back against the wall.

  “Mariam.” Muhammad motioned through the doors to the dining table piled high with food and piping hot tea. “Come, eat.”

  Kay glanced at her bare shoulders and skin-tight jeans.

  “La taqlaq, do not worry about covering. We have no guests this morning.” With an easy smile, Muhammad motioned into the room.

  Stomach churning, Kay dragged one foot after another as she forced herself to follow the d.v. perp.

  Muhammad pulled out a chair for her. “Please, sit. I do not want there to be ill-will between us.”

  Gaze on the baklava, Kay sat. She lifted a glass toward her parched mouth and muttered into the tea. “Maybe, I don’t know, try not to leave bruises all over your niece’s body if you want goodwill.”

  “You are my brother’s only child.” Muhammad took the seat across from her. Bending across the white tablecloth, he touched her hand.

  As his skin brushed hers, Kay stiffened.

  “You have spent too many years in America though.” Removing his hand, Muhammad grabbed for a slice of cake. “My brother should not have sent a daughter. American education is for a son. You will have to relearn. Abdullah is not nearly as tolerant and liberal a Muslim as I.”

  “You flipping calling yourself tolerant?” She jerked her head up and stared at Muhammad’s cake-filled mouth. “My head aches from where you hit me.” Fear sliced through her. That same hand that Muhammad currently cupped a tea glass in had cracked a lampshade across her cheek only hours before.

  “Have some wine.” Tipping his chair back, Muhammad yanked a decanter out of the mahogany shelves behind him.

  How could he act like nothing had happened? Kay clenched her hand on the table lip. “I thought the Koran said not to drink.”

  “Shh…” Muhammad pressed his finger to his mouth. “Time enough for that when you’re married to Abdullah. Drink and tell me stories of my brother.” Muhammad shoved a shot glass of some kind of sweet-smelling liquor at her and rested his elbows on the table.

  “Um.” She curled her hand around the shot glass. Her fingers made foggy imprints on the cold cup. Had Mariam ever said anything about her family?

  “When I was a young boy, your father took me to the desert. He let me race his camel. Set up a tent. We smoked shisha over the campfire as we told tales of the jinn. He was my hero, your father.” A pensive look came to Muhammad’s face as he spoke, painting the picture of a brother more than a decade his senior.

  A surreal feeling twisted around Kay. Muhammad exuded a charming air as he rattled off tale after tale of high jinx with his idolized older brother.

  “I was devastated when he left for Pakistan to marry his second wife. Fool government forcing direct approval from the King to bring a foreigner into the Kingdom as wife. If you didn’t still have your citizenship, I’d have a mess on my hands trying to get approval for your wedding.”

  Marriage, right. She set down the shot glass, the burn of untasted alcohol still on her lips. “When am I supposed to marry this guy?” She needed to buy her plane ticket long before that date. First though, she needed to see Saudi Arabia. She refused to buy into radio talk show hosts style prejudice and let one bad human being ruin an entire culture for her.

  “Does it matter? You are marrying him. No defiance.” Muhammad narrowed his eyes.

  A sinking feeling started in the pit of her stomach. No wonder Mariam hadn’t wished to come home. “When?” Her voice shook. She’d have to cancel the dissertation and call Joe about that trip to the embassy. Dr. Benson would fail her.

  “Next year. Now shut up.”

  Air whooshed from her chest. She slumped into the stuffed chair as her breath blew over the silver teapot. She should meet her betrothed though so she could include that in her dissertation.

  Muhammad stood. “Off to work.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Have a good day, niece.”

  Rather than recoiling from his touch, she felt a frantic feeling sweep over her. With him gone, she’d be alone in all of Saudi Arabia. Why did she become this distressed to be parted from her fake uncle? The man had beat her. Now though they chatted like friends. He was one of two people in
this entire city that she knew. Was this what Stockholm syndrome felt like? “Where’s the closest gym. Can I borrow a car?” What rules should she know about going out?

  “You can’t go to the gym and expose yourself. Gyms are for men.”

  “I need to, though.” Her voice weakened. She had a heart calcifying from fat deposits as she ate baklava.

  Muhammad glared at her.

  She shut up.

  “You will go visit my betrothed. I will tell the driver that you will be ready in a half hour.” Uncle Muhammad picked up a briefcase.

  “Who’s your fiancée? How shall I recognize her?” She sounded whiney even to herself, but he was shipping her off to some stranger’s house. Did violent men reside at that house too? She grabbed for her cell. Dead battery.

  “I have not seen her yet.”

  Kay blinked. “You’re kidding me.”

  Red rose up Muhammad’s tanned cheeks, as innocent a blush as a young boy. “Okay, yes I did sneak a glance at her outside the house, but she was wearing the niqab. She has lovely eyes.” He clutched his hand to his heart. “Deep as the stars.”

  Kay stared at the formerly confident man.

  “Her father is ultra conservative. He wouldn’t even allow her to unveil for the engagement ceremony. So, you know,” a boyish smile turned up Muhammad’s mouth. “If you could snap a picture while you’re there. . .”

  A dark-skinned man in a turban who looked like he hailed from India entered the room. Trim as a light pole, the man bowed at the waist. “Efendim Muhammad.”

  Uncle Muhammad waved his hand at the man. “Driver, take my niece to my betrothed’s house.”

  “I have an international license.” Kay shifted her feet. She’d feel like some spoiled penthouse woman getting driven around the city.

  “Not in Saudi Arabia you don’t. Women driving, mixing with men, it’s immoral.” Muhammad took a sharp step closer and lowered his voice. “If Alma wants to learn, I’ll teach her on our honeymoon. Tell her that for me, yes?”

  The driver motioned her to the garages because according to Saudi morals being alone in a car with a male driver involved less mixing with men than driving herself? With a wondering shake of her head, Kay followed him.

  Uncle Muhammad shoved a white envelope in her hand. “Here. Afterward, buy yourself a wedding dress.”

  Traditional gifts. Meeting the extended family that Saudis cherished so deeply. Sharing Saudi foods as she discussed stories about loved ones with Mariam’s uncle. This morning was all that she’d ever hoped for her dissertation experience to be.

  Bending, Kay grabbed her hijab. Even the black head scarf didn’t cover the bloody scab on her cheek where that same uncle had hit her.

  Monday, Oct 3rd, 12:22 p.m.

  The renovated brick buildings of the Dir’iyah section of Riyadh towered tall around Joe. He ducked under a square archway.

  A teenager holding a vellum Koran beneath crossed arms blocked the way, and spoke Sura 3:32 in rapid Arabic.

  Gaze on the youth, Joe repeated the password Zafir had gotten him. “Behold Allah is great. Behold Allah is magnificent, surely all the earth shall bow before him.” Zafir was expecting his second son this month. He’d invited Joe to the baby’s head shaving, an Islamic tradition, only he’d never make it to New Jersey in time.

  The kid didn’t look armed, but walking into a radical imam’s sleeper cell ranked among one of the more dangerous things one could do in life.

  “I’m Kamal.” The kid extended his hand. His white thobe hung on a skinny frame, but he only lacked an inch of Joe’s height.

  Joe shook his hand and followed the boy into an inner room. Cushions scattered around the stone floor. High slits in the tall walls brought in the only light. A man with a checkered turban sat cross-legged in the center. His gray-peppered beard jutted out in wiry curls down to his exposed chest hair.

  The bearded man rose. Zafir had said the imam’s surname was Al-Ghamedi.

  “Welcome guest,” the imam said. “Please, introduce yourself to us.” He waved his hand across the circle. Wrinkles indented his hands, the skin charred dark by the desert sun.

  “Joe.” He stepped into the circle. “Prefer not to give my last name. I’m here on a work visa. You understand.” If he played this right, he’d get his post in Dubai.

  The imam’s long beard swayed as he nodded. “You have come to us on excellent recommendations. We shall respect your privacy.”

  This opportunity was pure gold. Any Green Beret commander would have jumped at the chance to send him, but not CIA-stickler Brian Schmidt. Death by PowerPoint didn’t even begin to describe the torture of sitting in an office meeting run by a socialist like Brian. The guy was probably a Democrat.

  “Shukran, thank you.” Joe took a seat. The pillow gave in underneath his weight. “The Al-Saud, he’d revoke my visa, no second thoughts. Doesn’t understand the true intent of Islam.”

  “You are right.” Imam Al-Ghamedi looked around the dozen men sitting on cushions at his feet.

  Men scarcely described them. Only one’s attempt at facial hair had grown past the peach fuzz stage. As they introduced themselves, two teens’ voices turned to boyish squeaks.

  “Tell me, brothers,” Imam Al-Ghamedi raised his right hand, “how has the Kingdom betrayed the right and true principles of our esteemed prophet, peace be upon him?”

  Kamal stood. His fine hair hung down to his eyebrows. His skin looked pale compared to the charcoal black of his hair. “Revered Imam, the Al-Sauds drink alcohol, they abandon the poor, they create unjust laws to line their pockets while impoverishing us. All these things Muhammad, peace be upon him, has taught against in the Holy Koran.”

  The skinny kid made terrorism sound good, some kind of Thomas More utopia.

  Imam Al-Ghamedi stood and raised his hands, gaze fixed on heaven. “How shalt we bring back the caliphate as our sacred prophet, peace be upon him, has commanded and restore the umma of the Muslim brethren?” His voice rose in a chant as he held himself trancelike, eyes rolled up above.

  The boys jumped to their feet. “War. Martyrdom. Becoming a mujahideen, a fighter for Allah.” They yelled each word like an Army cadence.

  Okay, a bit less sympathy for the brain-washed kids. Joe shoved himself to his feet and mustered an enthusiastic voice as he followed suit. Since when did dying in a war of aggression equal martyrdom? Christian martyrs died at the stake as they prayed blessings on their persecutors, like Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna.

  Kamal clenched his hand. “Last month, my cousin joined ISIS. He is already fighting for justice and the restoration of the common people while I am stuck here begging for my daily bread under the oppression of the greedy Al-Sauds.”

  “Islamic State.” The imam spat, his spittle landing on the stone tile that he’d probably make some hapless female relative clean later today. “They are dirty hooligans. Al-Qaeda is the true successor of Muhammad’s teaching.”

  “ISIS has a caliphate.” Kamal tucked his thumbs in his trousers. “Surely Allah would not have poured out success on them if they did not have his favor.”

  Imam Al-Ghamedi lunged across the circle and struck the boy on the face. The youth lurched back. “You will apologize and you will pay twice the mandatory alms to me next week.”

  Kamal lowered his gaze.

  Wonder how much money that fat-cat imam collected from his followers while decrying the abuses of the Al-Sauds? Joe studied the rising welt on Kamal’s right cheek. Had the kid even graduated high school yet?

  “Now for the collection.” Imam Al-Ghamedi took out a bronze bowl. “All the monies go to help our brothers in Yemen fighting the Great Satan, America, overseas.”

  “They are murderers, the Americans.” A man with a burgeoning beard threw his paper riyals in the bowl. His book bag said Saudi Electronic University. “They murder Muslims and no one holds them accountable. No longer, praise be to Allah.”

  “We, the Muslim umma, will rise up and shake off the chai
ns of their persecution.” Jaw set, Kamal clashed his coins into the bowl. The boy rotated on the cushion. He smiled, showing crooked front teeth, and extended the bowl toward Joe. “Here, my brother.”

  Crossing Brian he’d do, but he drew the line at donating to Al-Qaeda. Joe stood. “Have to run, sorry. Work meeting.”

  Imam Al-Ghamedi nodded as he spread a sheet filled with Arabic words across his lap. “We welcome you to return.”

  “I will.” Joe walked out of the brick dwelling to the narrow street outside. Now to enter all the names he’d learned into his computer and see if any matched up with known terrorist suspects.

  “Beethoven’s 9th” symphony exploded from his back jean pocket. Request for video call, Tracy. He fumbled for the disconnect button.

  Tracy’s face popped on the screen. She glanced left and right at the narrow alley around him. “Where are you?”

  Stupid technology. Joe sidestepped right so she could only see a concrete wall. “Has the embassy had word from Kay? I’ve tried to call her all morning.” What if she was hurt? He couldn’t get into her house in broad daylight.

  “Hey, try not to stress.” Tracy plopped her black purse on her computer desk. “Ruby and I are going to have lunch at the mall. Want to come?”

  “I have work to do, sorry.” Joe flipped out his notebook. At tomorrow’s meeting, he needed to discover just how closely Imam Al-Ghamedi worked with Abdullah.

  “Give it a rest, Joe, and go to the mall. You’ll get Kay back to America in a couple weeks. Besides, we need a male to drive the car. Listen to Mom.” Tracy pressed her vividly painted mouth together, highlighting the wrinkle lines on her cheeks.

  Joe laughed. “Fine, I’ll come. And for the record, you are nothing like my mom.” A childhood image of his mom flashed through his mind. She wore a calico jumper, held two babies, and directed math exercises with one hand as she tossed bread in the oven.

  Even now, Mom would freak at just the pictures Tracy had on her desk. That Hawaii photo with her husband that Tracy displayed prominently, practically porn in Mom’s eyes. Mom would label Tracy’s quasi-religious serenity prayer at least psychobabble theology, if not full-blown blasphemy.