Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  The youths in the group all leaned in, neglecting their tea as they hung on every word the imam spoke.

  Did no one else find it annoying that, after any prophet’s name, practicing Muslims had to say “peace be upon him?” Worse even than the constant stream of “amens” from middle-aged ladies at a Baptist church service. Joe took a matazeez cake. The boiled dough flattened between his fingers, sending up the delicious smell of seasoned meat.

  Imam Al-Ghamedi waved his hand across the seated youth. “The Muslims of our nation all drink alcohol behind the Aramco gates.”

  The Muslims of Saudi Arabia also could afford chairs. Joe rubbed at a crick in his back. The lumpy cushion compacted beneath him.

  “Their women flaunt their fancy jewelry and naked faces. We must bring back the caliphate, then, at last, we will no longer be oppressed by the wicked West.” The imam gestured, and his sleeve knocked a woven basket. The skillfully wrought piece rolled across the stained tiles, but not a single youth turned to the rotating red and yellow design. Instead, they stared at the imam, enraptured.

  “In America, even their women do lewd things, like prostitutes.” Kamal crossed his arms, brown chin firmly set. His skin appeared darker than the others in the room, perhaps some non-Arab blood flowing in his veins. “Their wicked movies show the life they live.”

  Joe snorted his tea. The tea cup rattled in his hand, and hot liquid seared across his fingers. Hollywood realistic? If only Americans truly did live the life of scripted movies. He’d be unfathomably rich and every time he got into a desperate situation a Blackhawk would veer from the sky for him.

  “What?” A college-aged youth sitting next to him turned. His gray hoodie hung on a lean frame.

  “Nothing.” Joe surreptitiously dabbed at the spilled tea on the Koran with the edge of his shirt before he could get stoned for the offense. He spread the slightly moist paper smoother. If Imam Al-Ghamedi suspected him, then his cover not just for this group, but also for his job at the embassy could be blown. He’d have Brian’s fury to deal with then. Joe’s concealed carry dug into his hip bone.

  “Where is Yousef?” The imam retrieved the basket. His thobe spread out about him as he lowered himself to a cushion.

  “He is not here. His sister dishonored the family.” Kamal spat on the tile.

  One bite into a raisin cake, the college youth twisted. “What did she do?”

  “Went out at night alone. Came upon a neighbor. Now, she is no longer pure.” Kamal clanked his brass tea cup against the tile.

  Joe swallowed. Did that mean a consensual encounter or rape? Obviously, to this group there was no difference.

  “We, the followers of true Islam, cherish women. Value them as beloved mothers and wives.” Imam Al-Ghamedi crossed his bare feet underneath him. “Yousef knows what he must do.”

  Kamal nodded. “A killing to restore the family’s honor. If his father does not step up to his responsibility, then Yousef must do it. I will tell him so.”

  The other youths nodded.

  This candidly they discussed murdering a friend’s sister? “Couldn’t the two of them just get married? Problem solved.” Joe stared at them. This was Saudi Arabia so even if the man was married already, that was no hindrance. Miserable fate, but at least the girl wouldn’t die.

  The imam glared at him. “That would not absolve the dishonor, nor turn away Allah’s wrath. You have much to learn.”

  “Oh.” Joe flipped a page of his Koran as all eyes bore into him. Surely he could think of some sura to dissuade them from their murderous intent? None came to mind. Even if he did trust the Saudi police to protect a woman against this kind of “family business,” he didn’t know the girl’s name.

  His fingers itched to yank out his concealed carry and hold it to the debauched imam’s head.

  Gray eyes narrowing, Imam Al-Ghamedi turned toward him. “You have a problem with my instruction?”

  What point would threatening the imam serve? He couldn’t save this girl. Joe released the breath he’d held. He had to focus or he’d end up dead himself rather than saving the four thousand people Abdullah targeted with his terrorist attack. Joe forced a thin smile. “No. Just surprised.”

  “Good.” The imam turned to the rest. “Saeed is already doing Allah’s work in America. Who else will join the fight? Give up this life of corrupt luxury and haram activities to join the fight in Yemen?”

  Joe jumped to his feet. “I am ready to fight for Allah in Al-Qaeda. All I need is to talk to a leader about what my role will be.” An hour to talk to Abdullah without any middle man, that’s what he wanted. If he couldn’t save this poor girl, at least he’d avenge her.

  Imam Al-Ghamedi nodded, moving the wrinkled skin on his neck. “We will introduce you to a man next week.”

  Was the man Abdullah El-Amin? He could only hope so, because he had less than three weeks left before four thousand Americans would die at Abdullah’s hands.

  Wednesday, October 5th, 3:02 p.m.

  Elbows resting on her knees, Kay chewed the top of her pencil. Light streamed into the women’s sitting room, tasteful rugs and pottery spread about this place.

  How did she re-imagine what she’d seen? A way did exist. Dr. Benson had said so. Her dissertation depended on it. She shouldn’t have made that snide quip about Koranic suras in her dissertation outline. Joe was turning her into him.

  Sure Saudi Arabia’s culture was different than America, but it was beautiful. One just had to understand it. See Eastern culture through its own lens, not impose Western values upon it.

  “Mistress.” The housekeeper stood in front of her. Soundlessly the dark-skinned woman had approached, her slippers silent against the wood. She bowed over the tea set she held.

  “I really would love to know your name.” Kay jumped up and grabbed the other end of the tray. “And you don’t need to serve me all the time. I can get my own food.”

  The Filipino woman gave her a suspicious stare. “Abdullah El-Amin’s wives are here to see you, mistress.” Recapturing the tea tray, the woman set it on a table.

  Footsteps sounded. The door handle twisted from the outside. With a swish, a woman swept through the door. She shed her abaya with a flick of her shoulders and gestured to a woman and several children behind her.

  Heavy jewelry circled the first woman’s neck. Her black hair had a regal set. Behind her trailed a thin woman who looked about Kay’s age. A two-year-old boy clung to the younger woman’s skirt and her stomach showed the beginnings of another.

  The first woman ran an appraising gaze over Kay, fire flashing in her dark eyes. If Medusa had stepped through two thousand years of mythology to come to life in human form, she’d look exactly like this woman. Even the carpet cringed beneath the older woman’s feet, the end table slinking back against the couch to shiver in terror.

  “Abdullah’s wives, mistress.” With a little bow, the Filipino woman backed out the door.

  The second wife held a baby to her chest. A not quite school-aged girl with big eyes surveyed the scene from behind the toddlers. The woman kept her gaze down except for casting nervous glances at Abdullah’s first wife.

  Kay gulped. “Tea?” She gestured to the set that the housekeeper had brought.

  The first wife crossed her arms over her solid chest, cellulite touching cellulite. “You are the whore that will marry my husband.”

  “Um, I was thinking more like Sister Wives. Have you seen that TV show?” Kay raised her eyelashes in a hopeful expression. If the woman hated polygamy, she should start a Saudi Arabia women’s march like the ones she participated in at Harvard. Kay groaned. Now she knew she was spending too much time around Joe. Dr. Benson would label her a reactionary imperialist for elevating Western culture so.

  The toddlers scrambled on top of the couch, dirty shoes streaking the leather.

  The first wife tugged off her black gloves. She threw them on the table with the same air as a knight of old tossing down a gauntlet.

 
The two-year-old grabbed for the tea tray. Kay hauled it up, narrowly saving hot liquid and fine plates from the child.

  The boy shrieked.

  “Do not be cruel to him.” With a little cry, the second wife lunged for her wailing boy.

  “Um.” Kay shifted her feet on the carpet, the tray still balanced in her hands.

  Abdullah’s first wife grabbed Kay’s arm. The woman stared into her eyes, so close that she could smell the woman’s coffee-tainted breath. “You will not get a good house. You will not get provisions. He has the wife of his youth for a life partner. He has a second wife to provide more children. You are the third wife. You are just for sexual pleasure.”

  Sexual pleasure, Mrs. Abdullah El-Amin the First said that like pleasure was a bad thing. Not that she had any intention of marrying the dude. The irate first wife looked in her mid-thirties, which meant if Abdullah was the same age he’d be five or ten years older than his new betrothed i.e. her.

  Dropping Kay’s arm, the woman lowered herself into the couch, posture as regal as a queen.

  Kay set the tray down within the first wife’s reach. She needed to get a peek at this Abdullah for her dissertation. “Let me get more tea.” Stepping around the glaring first wife and between several children, Kay pushed open the door. Perhaps Muhammad and Abdullah discussed their illegal money laundering. After all Joe had done for her, she’d like to win him some favor with his boss by discovering new intelligence.

  “I hope you choke on the tea and it spills and burns that pretty little face of yours.” The first wife’s words carried across the room.

  Mental note for dissertation. Sister wives, not a thing in Saudi Arabia. Kay moved down the hallway, past the mirrors, to the painted doors that separated the women’s quarters from the rest of the house.

  Holding her breath, she pushed one door slightly open.

  Not fifteen feet away from her, a man sat at a breakfast table by Muhammad.

  He tugged something out of his pocket and extended it. The man’s beard reached to his gray chest hair, which showed above the deep collar of his thobe. Gray didn’t just salt and pepper his hair; it streaked it.

  Muhammad expected her to marry a flipping fifty-something? Becoming the third wife of a fifty-year-old criminal was a far cry from an Arabian night adventure. Kay strained her ears.

  “This USB holds the location for everything.” Abdullah’s voice had a greasy quality, the words slipping out of his crooked teeth as he shoved a honeyed baklava in.

  Location for what? A counterfeit cash drop? If this was Mariam’s expectation of normal, no wonder the girl happily settled for a loser like Hamed. A shiver ran through Kay. Good thing she’d be long back in America before the wedding.

  No, Kay gave herself a shake. She couldn’t judge Eastern culture by Western values. Sure, she wouldn’t want to marry some fifty-year-old, but Abdullah’s first and second wives looked happy enough. Abdullah was a deeply religious man, likely a kind husband and father, unlike Muhammad. She’d write as much in her dissertation.

  If Abdullah was so religious, why would he stoop to participating in criminal activities? What if she couldn’t find a way to culturally sensitively approach polygamy? Her stomach heaved. Dr. Benson would never accept a dissertation that callously elevated Western monogamy over Eastern polygamy.

  What if Joe was right about Saudi culture? Joe couldn’t be right. If Joe was right, she’d fail her PhD.

  CHAPTER 14

  Wednesday, October 5th, 3:25 p.m.

  Nothing. One big, fat nothing. The computer pixels blinked before Joe’s eyes. Hours he’d spent translating and he was no closer to pinpointing a location for this October 22nd terrorist attack than before.

  Brian Schmidt’s stiff shadow fell across pages of Arabic translation. His boss glowered over his shoulder. “You tell the girl?”

  Joe swiveled toward his boss. “Yes.” He’d told her, though he feared the consequences if she did start investigating. Kay needed to get out of Muhammad’s house.

  “Translate this.” Brian slammed a heavy folder on his desk.

  “I’m still finishing the thirty pages of intercepted Al Qaeda transmissions you gave me.” He’d stayed up to midnight last night translating and was back at it at six a.m.

  “And?” Brian’s red tie hung straight down his chest.

  “The name Saeed keeps coming up, but no last name or matches on our known list of Al Qaeda operatives.” Imam Al-Ghamedi had spoken of a Saeed too. Could he be the same man? Joe kept his expression guardedly blank. He had to get the imam to introduce him to Abdullah. Muhammad had given him nothing of late.

  “Keep translating.” Brian shoved the overflowing folder closer.

  Flipping open the folder cover, Joe thumbed through the stack. “These are local newspapers.”

  “Your point?” Brian raised his thin shoulders, wrinkling perfectly pressed fabric.

  “You’re not going to stop a terrorist attack by translating newspapers. Let me do fieldwork.”

  “You can talk to that PhD student and continue to interrogate Muhammad. Otherwise, you translate newspapers.” Brian turned and slammed the SCIF door behind him.

  The man was utterly incompetent. Joe gestured through the air and bit back infantry style language.

  A chair creaked, and Tracy rolled past an empty cubicle to his desk. The smell of afternoon coffee and its accompanying coffee break hovered over an empty room.

  “I should be telling Brian this, not you, but I have a son your age.” Tracy lowered her voice. “I know you’ve been doing unauthorized work.”

  Joe stiffened, back pressing against the polyester fiber of the office chair. Brian would send him to the review board for meeting with Imam Al-Ghamedi. He could lose his job, and certainly get taken off this terrorist case. “I’ve been meeting Kay as Brian ordered.”

  “You were somewhere Brian didn’t want you to be when we video chatted that day. You can’t lose your job for Kay.” Tracy laid her hand on his shoulder. Red nail polish shone bright on work-worn hands, a motherly concern in her voice.

  “Nothing’s going on.” Joe removed Tracy’s hand and met her apprising gaze. Tracy had no proof that he was meeting Imam Al-Ghamedi and he needed to keep it that way.

  “This isn’t some fairy tale where you rescue the lady and ride off into the sunset. Kay stands against everything you are. She doesn’t even like the military.”

  “Who said Kay’s anti-military?” Joe shoved his office chair back. He was having a hard enough time converting her without also needing to teach her basic patriotism. Why didn’t she want to discuss religion with him? She’d debated the philosophy of tenth-century poet Al-Mutanabbi’s aggressive style versus Al-Ma’ari’s bleak approach to life with him for forty-five minutes on the phone, but one mention of a higher power and she changed the topic. At least if she mocked the idea of a divine deity, he could argue her into the truth.

  Tracy placed her hand on his desk. “You’re incompatible.”

  “She’s a woman, I’m a man. If I wanted someone identical to me, I’d have married my battle buddy.” Joe planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart on the floor. The “Yummy T” group extolled the virtues of finding a like-minded wife, same cultural background, same church denomination, same King James Bible in her hands. He believed love was bigger than that.

  “You’re going to tank your career and you won’t get a girlfriend out of it either.” Tracy tapped her fingernail against his translation folder.

  To this day, Mom flipped out to hear the word “girlfriend.” She believed in marrying within three months of chaperoned getting-to-know a girl. He’d left that way of life behind, though honestly his co-workers who stayed engaged years still annoyed him. Have those co-workers grow some morals and stop living together, then see if they so self-righteously preached the virtues of waiting years to wed.

  His pocket buzzed. Kay’s number flashed on the screen. “One sec.”

  “Hey, Joe. Abdullah came o
ver, and I tried to listen to his conversation with Muhammad.”

  “This isn’t a secure line. We need to meet in person.” Joe glanced to the clock above.

  “I couldn’t hear anything.” Kay coughed, even the hacking sound beautiful. “I almost searched Muhammad’s room, but I’m scared of what he’d do if he found me.”

  If only he could sink his fist into Muhammad’s face. Joe gripped the phone. He needed to get Kay to the embassy before Muhammad hit her again. “Kay, don’t place yourself in danger for this mission.”

  “Uh-huh.” The phone crackled. “Grr, got to go. Abdullah’s first wife is here and she hates me.”

  “Probably because you’re supposed to be marrying her husband.” In the background, Joe made out two women’s voices. “Back to what you said at the restaurant, Intelligent Design scientists have found multiple evidences of a young earth.” He’d printed out ten different scientific research studies created by ICR for her. “Deep sea sedimentation, soft tissue in fossils, a rapidly decaying magnetic field—”

  “I told you we shouldn’t talk about God anymore. We’ll only argue. Bye, Joe.” Click. Kay hung up.

  A sigh slid through Joe. How was he supposed to convert her if she wouldn’t even discuss the scientific evidence for Christianity? Also, who idolized Gloria Steinem? The woman was a socialist. He slammed back in his chair.

  Tracy touched his desk. Her hand had wrinkle lines between her rings. “You like the girl, huh?”

  Joe shrugged and swung his backpack onto the desk. Why did Kay repeat that illogical Ivy League gibberish about atheism, evolution, and socialist politicians? She needed to go to a brainwashing deprogramming camp.

  “You’re not some knight from days of old, and this PhD student is certainly no damsel in distress.” Tracy tapped her long fingernails on his armrest.

  “She’s stuck in Saudi Arabia, engaged to be married to a terrorist. I don’t know what’s more ‘in distress’ than that.” Joe moved his chair right, away from Tracy. Muhammad would wed his fiancée in two days’ time. If only he could convince Kay to go to the embassy this afternoon and skip the dangers staying another hour in this country entailed.