Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  A male cough sounded behind her.

  Kay twisted.

  “What’s she look like?” Uncle Muhammad passed her a shiny gift bag. Tissue paper protruded from it. “This is for you.”

  “Who?” Kay dug into the bag. A perfume bottle sat in the tissue. She popped off the cap and sniffed. Beautiful. And man, did Saudis know how to spend money.

  “My betrothed, of course.” Eagerness hung in Muhammad’s eyes. He clenched one muscled hand against the other, but though his shoulders had the sturdy breadth of a thirty-five-year-old, his posture was as nervous as a fourteen-year-old kid.

  Alma was hot enough to draw stares in a non-veiled land. A wicked idea sparked in Kay’s mind. “I think she had some kind of illness in childhood. Her face is pocked.”

  “What!” Muhammad jerked back. His legs hit the table. Tea cups jostled. “Her father said she was beautiful. He has lied to me.”

  Kay shrugged. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. As a doting father, he probably doesn’t even notice that giant birthmark covering the right half of her face.”

  Muhammad’s solid jaw faltered. His dark eyes grew big as canyons, his posture so different than when he’d struck her.

  “Alma’s bald too. From an illness I think. A few wisps of hair straggle from her scalp, nothing more.” Rather than suppressing wicked laughter like she would have if pulling such a prank at Harvard, Kay fingered the pocket of her jeans. Would Muhammad hit her when he discovered the joke? She couldn’t let Alma marry a d.v. perp and live with this kind of fear for a lifetime.

  Muhammad dropped his head to his hands, fingers tangled in his dark hair. “I have to have sex with a monster.”

  “You don’t have to have sex with anyone.” Kay shoved her phone in her pocket. “Wait, is consent a thing in Saudi Arabia?”

  “What’s consent?” Uncle Muhammad stared at her with vacant eyes.

  Mental note for dissertation. Consent, not a thing in Saudi Arabia.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday, October 4th, 3:30 p.m.

  Joe shoved a tack in with his thumb, connecting another string in the push board plan above his desk. He and the other eleven guys in his Iraq O.D.A. always preferred tactile planning to computer charts. Just as being embedded in a culture put one’s fingers on the heart strings of a nation, so too the physical plans connected with one’s brain at a deeper level than laptop screens and Excel spreadsheets.

  “Ahem.” Brian coughed from the SCIF door.

  Joe looked up.

  “When you see Kay tonight, tell her that her fiancé is an international money launderer and she needs to interrogate his wives about anything pertaining to Yemen. We need this terrorist attack solved.”

  “What?” Joe pushed his chair back from the desk.

  “A cover story. I thought you created those all the time in your special ops life?” Brian brought one shoulder up and sneered. His designer shirt wrinkled.

  Socialist. He’d created way better cover stories than that. “If I ask Kay to spy on Abdullah, I need to make her fully aware of the dangers involved. She should know Abdullah’s a terrorist.” Perhaps if she knew, then she’d agree to give up this inane dissertation and come to the embassy.

  “I’m not telling national security secrets to some Harvard crusader who gets her kicks out of writing a paper about becoming a terrorist’s fake bride. She’s as likely to print them in the New York Times as help us.” Brian clenched one fist, showcasing his heavy Princeton class ring. Pompous Ivy League grad, they were all rich kids who thought pulling C’s at snooty schools then partying the rest of the time made them smarter than the rest of humanity.

  Not only was he a better analyst, he’d bet he could school Brian in any world history, geography, or science match up. Joe looked right into his boss’s eyes. “Kay needs to know.” The scent of jasmine and oranges had surrounded Kay this afternoon.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He yanked it out. Kay’s avatar appeared on the screen.

  “Answer it. Tell her what I said.” The hot air of Brian’s order blasted across his face.

  Joe hit accept.

  “As-Salamu Alaykum.” Kay’s voice crackled over the phone.

  Joe groaned. “Enough praises to Allah. I’m Christian and I’ve already translated 4,000 words of Arabic text today, so time for English.” Then again, if he spoke in Arabic, no one in this room would know what he said, including Brian Schmidt.

  “I’m standing in the next room over from my uncle. And you’re Alma, just so you know. We’re talking about getting married.” Kay switched from English to the language of Arabian Nights, the Arabic words even more mysteriously beautiful when pronounced by Kay’s lips. “Loved your nail polish, by the way. Gorgeous color. Can I borrow some for my wedding?”

  “You are not marrying any Saudi.” Joe felt his voice rise ten decibels. Especially not their target, the top terrorist in AQAP.

  “Why, Alma, you bought the tea set with red diamonds on it, you say?” A noise swished across the line, as if Kay moved into another room.

  “Kay, you’ve got to get to the embassy.” Joe rested his hand heavily on his desk.

  “Wait a sec, it’s Uncle again. You’ll make such a beautiful bride, Alma.” Kay sucked in breath. The sound of footsteps and a clatter before her breathing slowing to normal. She switched to English. “Sorry, Muhammad just came in the room for a minute. Also, I feel like a third grader hiding phone calls to a boy.”

  Joe glanced to Brian and switched to Arabic. “You still want to meet at the mall at 6:00 p.m.?” He’d convince her to go to the embassy then. He’d ask her if she’d seen anything at Muhammad’s house too. He needed more clues to stop this terrorist attack.

  Kay sucked in breath. “You know Arabic?”

  “Yeah. Mall?” Joe tapped his finger against the desk.

  “I would, but the driver’s sick.” Kay swallowed and started speaking faster. “How about you meet me at the Al Madhar coffee shop? A half mile from my house. Family section. Also, I had no idea you spoke Arabic.”

  “What if someone spots you coming from the house?”

  “Uncle Muhammad’s back.” Kay’s tone rose an octave. Click. She’d hung up.

  Mutwas haunted that area of town by the Al-Khatani house. This could go so poorly. On the other hand, if he stood her up she’d be an unaccompanied woman walking the streets and Saudi wasn’t half as safe as America.

  “What did she say?” Brian brought eyebrows so thin they looked plucked down toward his beady eyes.

  “She wants to meet tonight.” Joe ran his gaze over the stack of papers on his desk. As much as he’d like to see Kay, he’d put her in danger by meeting her.

  “Do it.” Brian clenched his fingers over a pen. “Tell her what I said.”

  Very well. Flipping to the signal app, Joe typed. Bring your U.S. passport. Everywhere. As long as she kept her U.S. passport on her, Kay wouldn’t get into too great legal trouble even if she was caught with him.

  Kay shifted on the leather chair. She scraped her nail against the hem of her abaya sleeve as she looked at the sidewalk underneath the red awning. No sign of Joe. The sun would set soon enough and so many men had stared at her, an unaccompanied woman, on the walk here that she hadn’t felt safe in broad daylight. Her stomach growled. Newly washed tile floor spread around her. The smell of Lysol hung in the air, the table surface still slick to the touch.

  The male cashier glanced at her. The cold A/C vent above whipped at the corner of her headscarf as her pulse increased. Joe would come?

  With a jangle of bells, the glass door creaked. A familiar blond-haired profile confronted her.

  Kay relaxed into the seat. Holding the tail of her scarf down, she waved at Joe. She wore no face veil today, just the headscarf, so he should recognize her by the scar that he’d helped bandage. He really had been a hero that night.

  Joe swung open the gate to the family section.

  The cashier stepped in front of Joe. “I
t is the family section. We don’t allow single men.”

  “My sister,” Joe said. He pointed to her. “She’s waiting for me.”

  “As if I’d believe that. She’s dressed like a Saudi.” The cashier rolled his eyes, his entire face visible because men weren’t forced to wear headscarves.

  Dropping the plastic laminated menu, Kay stood. “Joe, we look nothing alike,” she said in English. Better to abandon the restaurant idea than get in trouble with the owner.

  “Shut up.” The restaurant owner shot her a glare and spoke in Arabic.

  If a woman wore a dress, men were supposed to be chivalrous. Why had none of the Saudi men she’d encountered grasped this fact?

  “You are Western. Westerners do not bring their sisters to Saudi. I will call the mutwas.” The cashier took a step toward the men’s section. Men with long beards surrounded a metal table.

  Kay froze. Mutwas meant jail. She whipped around. No back doors in this restaurant. The windows didn’t open. The metal walls of the diner pinned her in on every side. Her blood pressure started rising to heart attack levels.

  In one stride, Joe cut off the cashier’s path to the mutwas. “I’m a Saudi citizen. My great-grandfather came here with the Brits. Inherited his blue eyes. Here, look.” Joe flicked out an ID.

  The restaurant owner glanced at the ID then glared at Joe. “There had better be no trouble with you and your sister.”

  With a shrug, Joe turned from the cashier. He walked toward her.

  She smiled at him and made room at the corner booth.

  In Saudi it wasn’t fake IDs for alcohol then, but fake IDs to talk to a woman. Kay willed her pounding heart to slow. “That was smooth. Did you get the practice sneaking out of Catholic school dorms to kiss girls?” She flicked her fingers against his, laughter in her eyes.

  “I didn’t go to Catholic school.” Joe laid his wallet on the table.

  “Don’t tell me your parents embraced the beast of public education, where they teach,” she paused with dramatic effect, “the scientific fact of evolution.” She grinned at him, then winked. He would have been super popular with the girls at aforesaid hypothetical Catholic school, always saving the day, a James Bond flair.

  Joe groaned and stuffed the ID back in his wallet. The worn leather contrasted with the shiny table surface. “Evolution’s a theory not a fact, and not a theory that holds up well under the scientific method either. Have you seen ICR’s research for a young earth?”

  She could argue, but honestly, she expected no less from a man who believed in an entirely unprovable god. Also, she’d rather enjoy his company than fight. She leaned against the vinyl of the booth’s back, the black of her abaya brushing up against his short-sleeve shirt. “Where did you go to school then?”

  The red of his tongue grazed his upper teeth as he looked at her. He took a breath. “I was homeschooled.”

  “You were homeschooled?” Kay jolted upright. The napkin fluttered out of her hand as her lips gaped. She stared at him. “You’re not just a Bible thumper. You’re a religious nut job.” She’d watched a TV show about homeschoolers once, a family with a couple dozen kids who ate artery-clogging food while avoiding all contact with the “evil” outside world.

  With a grunt, Joe picked up the menu and started scanning the pictures.

  “This is all like normal to you then, huh?” She waved her hand across the family section that a high wall separated from all unrelated men. “Isolation, segregation, freaky religious practices?” She ran her gaze over his gray T-shirt, across his solid chin, up to the clean lines of his buzz cut. She would not have taken him for a homeschooler.

  The menu dropped, metal edges clanging as Joe shoved away from her. He rested his elbows on the laminated surface, blue eyes stormy. “Oh yeah. My parents stationed mutwas on the pink and blue staircases for my twelve brothers and sisters.”

  She’d gone too far. The man had come to her rescue at great personal danger and spent considerable time educating her about the embassy and how to stay safe. “I’m sorry I said that. There’s a guy in my PhD program who was homeschooled.” The odd one with the deerstalker hat, still he had a pleasant temperament. “I know that you’re not actually some religious freak with twelve siblings.”

  With a shrug, he jerked the plastic menu back up. The metal corner of the menu hit his wallet. The billfold tumbled beneath the booth.

  Ducking beneath the table, she reached under her seat for his wallet. The plastic picture accordion fell out of the dog-eared leather. Only one photo resided in the wrinkled plastic, a photo of at least a dozen children pictured standing between a mom and dad. Joe stood in the center, already buff in what looked like a high school photo. Every person in the photo wore navy blue polo shirts with khaki skirts for the girls and khaki pants for the boys.

  She held up his wallet, the accordion sleeve dangling down to her elbow. “Are these your cousins?”

  He grabbed for the wallet.

  “I thought you were joking about the twelve siblings. You even dressed alike.” She moved her gaze from his blue eyes to his straight nose that led to his mouth, which faded into almost the same color as his skin. He looked so normal.

  His ears turned red as he reached for his wallet. “It’s an old picture.”

  She slid around the corner of the booth, his wallet in her hands. “Did your parents march you with a Von Trapp whistle?”

  “Give me my wallet.” He grabbed her arm.

  She snatched his wallet with her other hand and held it out on the far side from him. “Tell me the pink and blue staircases are real too. Please.” She clasped her hand around his. “That would be so awesome.” Urban legend had it that some super conservative Christian colleges really did have such staircases.

  “We lived in a thousand-square-foot ranch. We didn’t even have staircases.” He reached over her for his wallet.

  She drew her knees up on the booth, separating him from her. Her abaya fell open over her jeans.

  He lunged for his wallet. With the movement, his chest touched her shoulders.

  A spark fizzed through her, her every hair standing on end in the wake of its electricity. She released the leather. He shoved the wallet back into his pocket and pulled back from her.

  If she scooted closer, her shoulder would brush his. What would he do if she ran her hand up his chest, tasted his kiss? If he spoke Arabic, then he knew darn well what she’d said about him in that mall. He’d quoted Ibn Qutaybah on the phone. Even PhD students didn’t have Ibn Qutaybah’s prolific works committed to memory.

  With a shake of her head, she envisioned that wallet photo again. Here he’d been trying to tell her religion was for normal people.

  “Who is this?” A loud voice spoke. Five men in short white thobes and long beards barreled toward the table. The mutwas glared at her.

  Everyone else in this tiny family section drew back into their seats. Kay shoved against the booth. “I—”

  “My sister.” Joe laid one hand on the table, palm open, but he held his shoulders rigid.

  Now that she thought of it, getting caught with a Saudi girl might not actually be good for his state department or whatever-he-did career. Kay fidgeted against the vinyl. She should tell him to stop meeting her.

  Not see him again? She felt safe with him. Sure she gave him grief over the religious crap, but he was the kind of guy one could trust.

  “Do you talk to your sister like that? I see how you were flirting.” A mutwa struck the table. The pages of his Koran ruffled under his arm. He wore no official badge or ID.

  “Um.” Joe swallowed, moving his Adam’s apple.

  “It’s not his fault.” Kay stood. She couldn’t let Joe take the fall for the meeting she’d arranged.

  “Shut up.” The mutwa slammed his Koran shut. “Do not attempt to seduce men by lifting your voice to them. I can see you are a prostitute. I will take you to jail.”

  Jail. Her voice died in her throat. How did one get out of Saudi
jail? Her hands trembled.

  How many years could the mutwa put her away for? Her heart thumped wildly. Joe had a U.S. passport. She didn’t.

  “All right, I lied.” Joe stood. “She’s my second wife. I just didn’t want my first wife to find out.”

  “Joe.” She clasped her hand over her mouth. The guy was blond-haired and blue-eyed, no resemblance to a Saudi. His Arabic was good though. He didn’t have a trace of an accent.

  “I have her ID.” Grabbing his wallet, Joe flipped out a plastic card. The card bore the picture of a woman in a full face veil, even her eyes shrouded.

  Of course he had an ID to back up a second wife tale. Resourceful as ever. Kay stifled her relief as she sank back against the booth. Joe was the kind of guy whose team you wanted to be on during the zombie apocalypse.

  The mutwa peered at the ID and scrunched his nose. The other mutwa hung his hooked nose over the first mutwa’s shoulder and looked at it too. The mutwa released the ID. It clattered against the table as the mutwas walked on.

  Sweat dribbled down her throat as she scooted closer to Joe and the safety he provided. She lowered her voice. “Where do you even get all these fake IDs? Your job?”

  “My boss doesn’t know I have these. I’d be in kind of big trouble if he did.” Joe grimaced.

  The boss was an idiot then, because Joe obviously had a flair for covert ops. Kay twisted up one corner of her mouth as laughter welled inside her. He would have done great at Catholic school.

  “Ready to admit that the teachings of Islam are messed up now that you’ve almost gone to jail twice and only escaped by pretending to be the adulterous second wife?”

  “King David had multiple wives and Christianity is patriarchal too.” Kay looked over Joe’s shoulder at the menu. The Almento steamed dough patties looked good. “All that wife submitting. I’m sure, depending on your interpretation, the Koran could be more liberating to women.”

  “You find me a verse in the Scripture that says ‘beat your wife lightly.’ ” Joe’s blue eyes flashed. He looked at her, all too consumed in this religious discussion. That was the problem with religion. It got people uptight, started arguments and wars.