His tongue touched his teeth as the words his Green Beret buddies used to describe women bounced through his thoughts. With a groan, he shook his head. He couldn’t do it. After seventeen years of having “Do not lust after a woman” repeated like a broken record in his childhood home, he simply could not describe a woman as “hot,” even in his thoughts.
Kay punched his shoulder, her fist soft. “Then, I thought, we wouldn’t get through the first five minutes until my friends and yours exploded into a fight about politics and religion and everything that matters to either of us. We should be grateful for the mutwas, otherwise we’d be shouting into each other’s faces, vowing to never speak to the other idiot again.” She laughed, the sound like crystal.
Breaking crystal that fell in front of him, shattering into irreparable shards. She stood, separating the two of them.
If only he could wrap his fingers around her hand and pull her back to the seat, only they probably should leave this shop before the shopkeeper returned from prayer.
Hand on the metal grating, Kay twisted back. “Muhammad’s driver is waiting for me, but I didn’t learn anything else about the money laundering.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.” Tugging her head scarf up, she passed on.
No farewell handshake or embrace, one didn’t do that with a girl one liked in Saudi Arabia. She was wrong about them only getting along because of the mutwas. He and she, they’d be perfect together. If all went well, they’d have fifty years and a family together.
Kay ran toward the exit, her abaya fluttering around her lovely frame.
Or was she right?
Jumping to a stand, he shoved the metal grate aside and headed the other direction. Kay was wrong. The same way she was wrong about God, politics, and the Second Amendment. Also, why did she keep saying things stupid enough to belong on MSN?
The smell of fried potato fingers hit him. He shook his head, clearing it. He shouldn’t have even met Kay here tonight. He’d gained no new intelligence and put both of them at risk. Would telling Brian as much make him rescind his orders to have Kay spy and have him meet up with her in public places where they risked getting caught?
Of course not. Ah well, they both had U.S. passports. If they landed in jail one of these times, Brian would get the pleasurable task of wading through Saudi bureaucracy to bail them out.
Thursday, Oct 6th, 5:06 a.m.
The car bumped along the dark roadways. The scent of coffee rose from the CIA issue cup holder in this SUV. Joe turned right. If arriving in time for the first prayer of the day with Imam Al-Ghamedi’s Koran study group didn’t convince the man to introduce him to Abdullah, what would?
Beep. A text from Kay. Sorry to text you so early. Assuming your phone’s off so this won’t wake you. I need to talk to you about Muhammad.
He hit the brakes. Only the faint glow of city lights lit the empty road and dark horizon. Actually driving by your place now.
The stoplight turned. Dropping the phone onto the leather seat, he hit the gas. His phone buzzed.
He pressed the answer button. “Kay.”
A pickup truck motored down a cross street. Drapes hung over all the houses’ windows, but that was scarcely an anomaly.
“Hey, um.” Kay sounded nervous. “We could talk about this in person if you’re driving by. No one’s awake. I can slip out the back gate.”
An opportunity to see Kay. He was in. “See you in five.” Joe swung a left. He had a copy of C. S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity and Lee Strobel’s Case for Christ on the USB port in the glove compartment. By the time she got through the first ten chapters, she’d have converted in sackcloth and ashes.
“I’ll go out the back garden gate. There’s some kind of abandoned shed behind it. No one will see us in there.”
“Roger.” He slid the car to a stop a block down. Rocks and sand covered a vacant lot. Joe’s coffee churned in his stomach. If someone saw this car, they could track him down, and things wouldn’t go well when they found a Saudi woman with him. He shouldn’t meet Kay here.
Joe ran his gaze across the stone building and scattered palm trees. If worse came to worst, he’d just take her to the embassy. A fake Saudi uncle couldn’t harm a U.S. citizen no matter how haram the activities she engaged in. “Bring your U.S. passport with you.”
“Okay.” Kay’s voice sounded so clear, like church bells.
A concrete block building confronted him. The roof sagged, no glass in the high windows. Joe ducked under the low arch.
“Is it really true that men find veiled women infinitely more attractive?” Kay stood inside. The dusky light of pre-dawn barely illuminated her black-covered figure. She put one hand on her hip, black sack enveloping whatever pose she struck.
With a tug, he flicked off her hijab. Her wet hair tumbled down around her face, the strands tangled as if kissed by some secret ocean breeze.
Her cheeks turned pink. “I would have brushed my hair if I thought anyone was going to see it.”
He fingered her hair, the strands as dark as midnight. “Definitely more beautiful without the hijab.” A reverence crept into his tone.
She tossed her hair. Light flashed in her mysterious eyes. “More sura breaking?”
“Guess you should cut my hand off.” He brushed his finger across the curve of her cheek.
“I probably should.” She brushed her palm over his, then slid it up over his arm. Gaze on him, she moved so close he could hear her breathe. “But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Not the sentiment you expressed in Cambridge.”
“Scarcely a testament to your charm.” With a laugh, she took a step back. “You’re the only man who’s treated me like a human being since I arrived.”
“Eliminate the competition. That is the cardinal rule of wooing.”
“Wooing? That’s like an eighteenth-century word.” She rolled her eyes, but she flicked her fingers against his chest.
He crossed one arm over the other. “We’re living in the seventh century. I’m being progressive.”
“Islam isn’t that bad.”
“You gonna have scars from that beating?” He pointed toward her cheek where pink skin formed beneath scabs. If only he could sink his fist into that villain’s face.
She dropped her gaze, dark eyelashes brushing against luminous skin. “I can’t let Alma endure this.”
“Muhammad’s more liberal than most. I doubt he’ll beat Alma if she follows the rules.”
Jerking her chin up, Kay pressed her hand against the scab, back taut. “You’re saying this scar is my fault? Victim-blaming much?”
“You are quite threatening to a man. Seem to believe in the radical notion that women are human.” He turned the corner of his mouth up.
Laughter sprang to her lips. “I could be wrong, but I think you just quoted Betty Friedan, my hero of the Feminine Mystique.” She bumped up against him, her black abaya blowing against his white dress shirt in the desert breeze.
“Cheris Kramarae actually. The quote’s often misattributed to Friedan.” He smiled back at her, though honestly Friedan was a socialist, worse even than Steinem.
The laughter left Kay’s face. She touched his left arm, her other hand clenched. “What you said about Abdullah scared me. I want to go to the embassy like you suggested.”
“Great.” He pointed out the shed to his car. “I’ll take you now.”
“No.” Her voice caught on the word, a lilt to rival songbirds in her tone. “In a few days. I have to rescue Alma from marriage to a terrorist.”
Muhammad wasn’t the terrorist, Abdullah was, but he’d already spilled more than enough classified info to her. “Come now.”
“I don’t leave a friend behind.”
That same sentiment bound the Green Berets in Iraq. Despite what Tracy said, Kay and he didn’t differ so very much after all.
CHAPTER 15
Thursday, October 6th, 6:35 a.m.
Outside the lo
w window, glimmers began to light the horizon. About a dozen youths surrounded Joe on the tile floor.
“My grandfather says jihad is in our souls.” A nervous kid twitched his nose. His hair hung in strings around his gold-rimmed glasses.
Kamal leaned his head back on the cushioned wall. “That’s what my father says, but he is wicked. He drinks alcohol. He does not make my mother respect him. The other wife and Mother, they fight, all the time.” A glimmer of hurt shone in the youth’s eyes. The boy touched his ear as if attempting to block out the pain of parental fighting.
Marrying two women, and the boy’s dad expected it to go well? Joe looked at the wannabe terrorist. What must it have been like with King Solomon and his thousand wives? He’d never pitied the children of polygamy quite so much.
Imam Al-Ghamedi stood and gestured through the air. “Has not Allah made us equal? Yet the rich, they become richer and oppress Allah’s people. Inequality rises from Shayton.”
Knees crossed, Joe settled into the cushion. These jihadists would so fit into the Occupy Wall Street marches.
His phone buzzed. Look naked face, aren’t I wicked? An image popped on his screen. Kay’s tank top revealed tanned arms.
With a gulp, Joe slid the phone into his pocket. He didn’t even want to know what Imam Al-Ghamedi would think of that text.
Kamal pointed to gold-rimmed glasses kid. “He texted a girl at the mall.”
“That is haram forbidden.” Imam Al-Ghamedi stared firmly at the boy. “Allah will send you to hell for that.”
The boy cringed, gaze directed downward. Talk about a messed up view of God. If only he could tell the boy about grace, but that was certainly haram.
“We must start the caliphate.” Imam Al-Ghamedi raised his voice, a franticness in his ever escalating hand motions. “All will be equal again. Peace will reign. We will defeat our enemies. Allah will once again receive the homage he deserves. No longer will the wicked Americans lead people astray with their haram actions and lewd images.”
Outside the window, dawn’s light extended its fingers toward low-lying clouds. A few streets away, the prayer bell rang. All the youths headed outside to a rusted hose faucet.
Joe’s phone beeped. “Sorry.” He stuffed it deeper into his jean pocket. Not even going to check what kind of haram image Kay had sent him.
A foot behind Kamal, Joe brought the rusty water over himself for the ritual washing. If God had forgiven Namaan for bowing to the idol, surely he got a pass for trying to save lives? Maybe?
Imam Al-Ghamedi spread prayer rugs on the pebble strewn ground. The rocks dug into Joe’s knees as he knelt and bowed and prostrated himself along with the rest, repeating the mindless dirges. How did one connect to a god who didn’t care?
The chants ended, the hum of insects replacing the droning of rote pleas. The imam stood over him, an appraising look in his eyes.
Joe moved to his feet. His heart pounded. Had someone recognized him from the embassy?
“You are a faithful Muslim.” Imam Al-Ghamedi nodded, bobbing his beard against his hollow chest. “I will send a good word for you to AQAP.”
Al-Qaeda of the Arabian Peninsula. He was in! Joe kept his breathing steady. “When do I meet their leader?”
The imam’s wiry beard hairs parted as he cracked a smile. “How about tomorrow? Nine a.m.?”
Joe jolted alert. Would the leader be Abdullah?
Meeting Abdullah would help him stop this terrorist attack and save four thousand lives. Then again, with how closely the U.S. tracked Abdullah, if he met Abdullah, word could leak back to Brian Schmidt.
Thursday, October 6th, 7:59 a.m.
Muhammad rolled up the prayer rug next to Abdullah’s. The mosque’s high walls rose around him. A feeling of peace washed over him, like always. He should make time to pray more. Seriously, though, who wanted to get up before dawn? Making the second prayer of the day was exhausting enough.
Grabbing Muhammad’s arm, Abdullah shoved him through a narrow door. An imam stood within.
“Imam Al-Ghamedi.” Abdullah made a slight bow. “May I use this room to speak to my friend?”
“Of course. You are a mujahideen, a holy warrior for Allah.” The imam inclined his head. “I have someone for you to meet tomorrow.”
Abdullah nodded. “Who?”
The imam held a Koran underneath his arm, his white thobe contrasting with the black leather binding. “He has come to my Koran studies, would not give his name, but I discovered it. He is a CIA agent. We could get much good information from him.”
Abdullah made a scoffing noise. “I don’t trust CIA conversions. Too many spies. Kill him next chance you get.”
“You know best, mujahideen.” The imam walked out, leaving Muhammad alone with this radical.
Abdullah’s robes flung out as he twisted toward Muhammad. “Joe. You will kidnap him tonight in the desert.”
Would the man truly ruin his bachelor’s party? A sigh slid through Muhammad’s chest. “Yes, just as I told you.”
“I have not yet laid eyes on your niece. Today, we will meet in preparation for our wedding.” Abdullah brushed dust off his thobe.
No! If Abdullah told Mariam the wedding would occur tomorrow, who knew what antics Mariam would pull. Muhammad’s voice squeaked, his breathing increasing. “It is haram for you to meet her.”
“A showing. It is done. It is halal allowed.” Abdullah puffed his chest out, elevating gray chest hairs.
He hadn’t gotten to see his bride and he was a thousand times more liberal than Abdullah. More to the point, if Abdullah sat alone with Mariam pre-wedding, who knew what mischief Mariam might cause? Muhammad fingered his watch. “How about I text you a naked face picture?”
“Very well.”
Muhammad breathed a sigh of relief. All he had to do was finagle this business of kidnapping Joe, then he could enjoy his bachelor’s party, and tomorrow he’d rid himself of his problem child niece and gain a beautiful bride. Life was good.
Thursday, October 6th, 3:30 p.m.
Only one more day until Alma’s wedding and far from convincing the girl to run away, she’d just spurred Alma into hanging up on her. Kay’s shoulders slumped as she scrolled through the JSTOR database. She owed Dr. Benson a draft dissertation by Saturday morning, but by then Alma would have bound herself for life to a terrorist. Muhammad had already left for his bachelor’s party.
The doorbell rang. Kay walked to the door. She peered through the peephole.
Joe stood outside. She cast a nervous glance behind her. With Muhammad gone, she’d given all the servants the day off.
The street stood empty, no passing car or watchful neighbor to report that she’d let an unrelated male in the house. She swung the door open.
Jerking back, Joe stared at her uncovered hair. “You know you’re not supposed to greet a male guest.”
“Yeah, yeah, I have the scar to prove it, but Muhammad’s not home.” She beckoned him in and slammed the door shut, hiding her naked face from any passing pedestrian.
Joe looked around the empty house. “I got off work early to see him before going to his bachelor’s party.”
“Bachelor’s party?” Kay let laughter into her eyes. “Now that doesn’t sound like something a good homeschooled boy would attend.”
“It’s Saudi Arabia. I’ve gone to company brunches more erotic than the traditional Saudi bachelor’s party.” Joe lowered his eyebrows.
“Really?” Kay kicked the carpet fringe. “Also, I’m bored to tears. The malls close early for the holy day and there’s nothing to do.”
“Harvard’s brightest mind turns shopaholic?” He grinned at her.
“Don’t you dare say that to me. You can travel the streets at will. You don’t have to wear a garbage bag.” She flung herself on Muhammad’s leather couch. With the servants on leave, she didn’t have a driver either.
“I thought you loved Middle Eastern culture.” A teasing glint lit Joe’s blue eyes as he stood on t
he other side of the coffee table, feet spread. Did he conceal a gun underneath that puke-colored polo?
“I haven’t gotten to experience any in this isolation chamber women live in.” Kay touched her scabbed cheek
“What if I took you to see some?” He pointed to the door, despite that he’d already blown off work for her multiple times this week. “Come to the desert with me. I can rent a camel.”
“Rent a camel? Can you do that?” Kay sprang off the couch. “And yes!” Maybe they’d have a chance to search for the constellations that Omar Khayyam had written about. She’d texted back and forth with Joe about Omar Khayyam all afternoon. Joe was a fascinating conversationalist.
Five minutes later, she snuck out a back alley, niqab pulled over her face. With the air of a thief, she leaped into the passenger seat of Joe’s car and envied his Saudi driver’s license.
A hot breeze blew through the open car windows as Joe drove through crowded marketplaces and winding back roads, and she soaked in the culture of Saudi Arabia. An eerie stillness pervaded all, no music livening the marketplaces.
The metropolis gave way to sandy roads and limitless sky. Joe parked the car in a sand-blown parking lot. A wrinkled Bedouin haggled with him in Arabic before producing a camel. Shemagh wrapped around his mouth, Joe approached the animal.
The hairy beast knelt in the sand. Kay stared at its patchy snout. “Do we just like jump on it?”
“I think so.” Joe took a step closer. Grabbing the camel’s reins, he slid one leg over the high saddle that curved across the dromedary’s hump. “There’s a trail ride the Bedouin said he’d lead us on.”
Shoving one foot in the stirrup, Kay launched herself over the camel’s hump. Her abaya fluttered in the wind. The camel jerked to its back legs, throwing her into Joe. She clasped both arms around his chest as the camel jerked to its front legs.
Joe grabbed the reins in a death grip.
The camel broke into a sprint. Joe’s right leg came loose as the camel’s jerking run threw him sideways. Joe hauled on the reins like a rock climber and regained his balance. She clung to the saddle handle as her body bounced here and there, the gait more jarring than any old-school roller coaster.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 17
