Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “I don’t know. We don’t talk about that stuff.” He turned away from her as if aggravated by her presence. Only moments ago he’d kissed her. What had changed?

  She laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your niece.”

  Silence blew across the dunes as the shadows crept up over one rill after another. Slowly, he turned back from where the desert wind swept everything toward the horizon, and focused on her. “I almost asked you to pray for her, before I remembered you don’t do that.” He stared glumly ahead. Behind the ATV, a cloud blew over the sun.

  Her voice felt scratchy. “I hear the foster system has some wonderful programs for at-risk youth.”

  “No, they don’t. New York County doesn’t even have a foster family for her. She’s getting marched from cafeteria to locked rooms like a juvenile delinquent.” Joe stood, increasing the distance between them. He kicked his foot into the all-pervasive sand.

  “She’s near New York City?”

  Joe nodded. His eyes looked haunted. He hit the pop lock button on the ATV.

  “I have a friend there. Christian family actually. Last time I checked, she and her husband were licensed foster parents. I bet they’d take your niece in. I’ll call them.”

  “Thank you.” Joe looked at her. Something shone in his eyes that she couldn’t read. “You do care about kids, despite your politics.”

  And he wasn’t a woman-hater, despite his politics. She felt the corners of her mouth twist up as she wondered how he’d take that “compliment.”

  “I’ve got to get back. I promised my boss I’d make up the hours I missed for the bachelor’s party.” He gave her half a smile.

  Poor guy, having a sister on drugs had to hurt. She reached for the passenger door handle. His hand closed over hers as he opened her door.

  Dark ages views or not, the guy was a gentleman. She brushed her hand against his forearm as she smiled at him.

  Fine, she’d lied to Samantha. She did have a thing for the guy standing in front of her.

  CHAPTER 16

  Thursday, October 6th, 10:05 p.m.

  The link analysis with nodes covered the corkboard behind his desk. Joe pressed his thumb against the note card that read October 22nd. A string connected the note card to another that said four thousand casualties.

  For that number of casualties, the attack must target a major city center. Joe moved his gaze up the corkboard to where he’d pinned a map of the United States. Would the terrorists target New York City or D.C. again like on 9/11?

  “How are you working the night shift? Weren’t you in here at eight a.m.?” Ruby’s voice cut through the air.

  More like six a.m. at the imam’s. “I’m fine.” Joe stifled a yawn and glanced to her. Ruby had the files he translated spread out in front of her, twelve web browsers open as she compared the English translation to other known information about terrorists.

  Gripping a Sharpie between thumb and forefinger, he wrote: possible means of attack—explosives, airplane, car bomb.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Analysis.” He shoved a pushpin through the note card, nailing it to the corkboard. Could one car bomb extinguish four thousand lives?

  “You look like you got that from Pinterest.” Ruby laughed. “Besides, analysis is my job. You’re supposed to be translating.”

  He’d already put in eight hours fulfilling his job requirements of translating the perfectly useless newspapers Brian wanted. Now, he intended to narrow down this terrorist attack even if it took him all night. Joe brought his eyebrows down as he concentrated on the next note card.

  “Your notecards are pink.”

  “My little sister sent them to me.” Tomorrow, when he met Abdullah, he needed some leads to pursue. If he could psychologically profile what type of target Abdullah would hit, he’d have a better shot. Every terrorist attack had significance down to the day, time, and location. Look at how September 11th had correlated with a millennia-old battle date.

  “Where were you this afternoon?” Tracy swiveled her office chair. She and Ruby worked the swing shift today.

  “Probably out with Kay. The girl he’s going to marry.” Ruby hit Power Off on her computer. With her foot, she swirled her chair.

  “Yeah, but Brian gave it the okay.” Joe grabbed another note card. He didn’t need Tracy asking more questions that might lead to discovering his unapproved visits with Imam Al-Ghamedi.

  Ruby extracted her CAC card from the computer and swung up her bag. “You’re supposed to turn red and say it’s just a crush, I’m not marrying her or anything.”

  “Maybe I will marry her.” Joe pressed the Sharpie against the note card. Did Abdullah have access to pilots or explosives?

  Tracy whipped around, her clunky jewelry rattling. “You can’t just ask a girl to marry you without ever dating. That’s what creeps do.”

  “Why am I not allowed to know my own mind?” Joe pinned the note card to the corkboard. What about the West Coast? L.A., San Fran? Three major league games were scheduled for October 22nd as well as a parade and a nationally broadcast triathlon.

  “Abusive guys do that so the girl doesn’t have time to see their true colors.” Tracy slammed her purse on her desk and rested both elbows on her desk chair.

  “Oh.” He hadn’t considered that. He stopped, pushpin half indented into corkboard. “How long should one date a girl to make sure she knows you’re not a creep?” Mom always said three months max to avoid the temptations of the flesh, making her by far the most liberal member of their congregation growing up. The “Yummy T” leader had come up with some crazy “let’s go back to medieval betrothal and meet the girl at the wedding” idea.

  “A year. Minimum.” Tracy pressed her lips tight.

  Ruby laughed. “Look, a guy without commitment fears. Now I really wish you had said yes to my offer.” Her heels clicked against the tile as she walked through the self-locking doors. Only authorized personnel had access codes to this SCIF.

  He glanced to Tracy, considering. “I guess a year works. She needs time to convert too.”

  Tracy dug a pen out of her purse. Her eyes had a disapproving set. “I’ve been an Episcopalian my whole life. You can’t change people.”

  “Probably why your church is dying. Thousands converted at Jesus’ teaching.” Joe picked up another note card. A televised presidential debate was scheduled for October 22nd too, but that would have so much security a terrorist would never even make it into the hall.

  “Okay. People can change. But God has to change them.”

  “You’re right!” Why hadn’t he thought of that? No wonder his apologetics book pushing strategy had fallen short. Picking up a yellow notecard, he scribbled across it—pray a half hour a day for Kay’s conversion.

  Now Kay would surely respond to his calculated efforts and convert.

  CHAPTER 17

  Thursday, October 6th, 11:04 p.m.

  The hookers gyrated as the rock music pounded and alcohol sloshed in teacups. Hookah smoke enveloped the dozen men. Instead of enjoying the glorious bachelor’s party of his dreams, Muhammad stepped out of the tent to answer a phone call from a religious fanatic.

  The moon shone on the desert sands, a wind-blown dune blocking the view of the road beyond.

  Abdullah’s voice had an edge. “Where’s Joe?”

  “I don’t know. He’s late I guess.” Muhammad tried to hide the slur in his voice. About four hours and seven drinks ago he’d been concerned that Joe never arrived. Now, he didn’t care.

  “It’s eleven p.m. If he hasn’t shown up by now, he won’t. I’m coming.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Muhammad raised his hookah pipe to his lips. He puffed out a ring of smoke. The edges of the tent twinkled, like fairy stars. He should watch a movie about fairy stars.

  Sand flew up. A sleek white Jeep skidded to a halt. A man in a white thobe stepped out of the car. “I’m here.” Abdullah let his phone drop into his pocket.

 
; With one heart-wrenching jolt, Muhammad went sober.

  “What is this, you sinner? You have invited the stench of hell-fire.” Abdullah glared at the crowd of men, alcohol, and hookers.

  Muhammad squirmed underneath his loosened tie. If Abdullah reported him to the police, he’d go to jail.

  A friend of his in a Bespoke suit dropped his shot glass. The glass shattered against the ground, tiny slivers of glass scattering across sand grains. “The women, they tempted us to drink.”

  “Prostitutes.” Abdullah glared at the hookers. “I shall take them to the police. They will be arrested, beaten, and deported. And you—”

  Muhammad’s hookah pipe slid out of his hand. It landed with a thump by his polished shoes.

  “Go get sober before I marry your niece tomorrow. You will need all the good favor of marrying on the holy day to purge your soul of this sin.”

  The man acted as if he was the only one acquiring a wife tomorrow. Muhammad cast his gaze down, but his ears heated. Unlike Abdullah, he was getting married for the first time.

  “How will you bring Joe to me now?”

  Seriously, the guy was getting married tomorrow. Did he have to obsess on bloodthirsty thoughts every day of the year?

  “Only two more weeks until the Great Satan explodes in flames. I cannot afford for anything to go wrong. Kidnap Joe so I can interrogate him on what the CIA knows.”

  “I shall do all within my power, emir.” Muhammad inclined his head to acquiesce. Heck no, he wouldn’t. He was going on a honeymoon to Italy the next two weeks, not kidnapping Joe. Unlike Abdullah, he intended to actually enjoy being a newlywed.

  “Leave this place of sin and pray Allah grants forgiveness to your soul.” Abdullah glared at him. “You shall give more alms too.”

  Fine, he might as well head home now. Abdullah had ruined this party anyway. Muhammad yanked his keys out of his pocket. He clicked the Turn Engine On button.

  His Jaguar whirred into life. The drive home would take an hour.

  Thursday October 6th, 11:07 p.m.

  With a click, Kay turned the handle to a room she’d never entered. Darkness filled the big house, only a sliver of moonlight filtering through tiny cracks of curtain. Uncle Muhammad was gone until sunrise. The servants Muhammad employed wouldn’t return until the morrow. What better time to get some answers to those questions Joe mysteriously alluded to?

  A large bedroom spread out in front of her. Muhammad’s room? Kay’s sandals made a clapping sound against the tile. She fumbled for the light switch.

  A lavish bed sat on a Turkish carpet. A big screen TV hung in front of a tapestry. She crossed to the tall dresser. She tugged open another drawer. Her wedge sandal imprinted in the plush carpet. T-shirts, underwear, cufflinks, condoms.

  She tugged open the other drawer. Hidden underneath a pile of underwear, a DVD lay in a sleek green case with no identifying cover. Unfolding the flap, she let it slide out. Arabic words in purple Sharpie marked the DVD. PRIVATE.

  Did she really want to see what horrible pornographic film lay inside? The DVD could contain money laundering info. Grimacing, she slid the DVD into the slit beneath the TV.

  Taking up the remote, she hit the Power button. She tensed as she waited.

  The screen turned to color. Music started. What was about to show on that wall-sized TV?

  A dancing monkey appeared on screen. A boy clothed in rags ran from cartoon men swinging sabers. Disney’s Aladdin? Kay stared at the screen. Disney’s Aladdin necessitated being hid in the farthest corner of an underwear drawer?

  Sure, Jasmine wore a bikini in the film, but it was a Disney movie.

  With a sigh, she moved to Muhammad’s bathroom. The little noises of a quiet house creaked and scratched in the darkness. She flipped the light switch.

  Drip. Drip. Water plunked against the white and gold tile in the shower stall. Muhammad’s cologne and hair gel spread across the granite counter. A toothbrush stuck out at an angle from a tiled holder.

  This felt wrong. Kay pressed back against the doorframe. Dr. Benson would berate her for violating all codes of hospitality.

  Muhammad had hit her. How wrong could rifling through his stuff be? Taking a deep breath, she crossed into the bathroom. She slid open a drawer.

  Shampoos, body washes.

  Who kept criminal papers in a bathroom anyway? She was losing her mind.

  Underneath a blue bottle lay a piece of paper. She picked up the bottle.

  A map stared at her. The lines curved into a shape that resembled Yemen. Yes, that blue marked the Gulf of Aden. A slight film of a slick substance obscured the edges. She smoothed the paper. Little stars marked different places on a range of mountains. Could those be money laundering drop points? Kay’s heart pounded.

  Let Dr. Benson say what he may. If she could save the poor Yemeni people from money scams, she planned to take that opportunity. Adrenaline rushed through her.

  Yanking out her phone, she pushed Speed Dial. “Hey Joe. I think I found something.”

  “Like?” Joe sounded preoccupied.

  “I think it’s a map—”

  “Kay, we can’t talk on this line.” Joe sounded focused. “Be careful. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Muhammad’s gone until tomorrow morning at his bachelor’s party.” Kay slid open another drawer. An excited feeling pounded through her, like James Bond. “Where do you want to meet and talk then?”

  “Where’s safest for you? Remember to keep your American passport on your person at all times.”

  Speaking of which, Dr. Benson had never confirmed he’d mailed that passport. She needed to text him. Car keys lay in the drawer. Kay swooped them up. Time to assert some independence. She’d watched the driver punch in the code to enter the garage. “Dirriya Park in twenty minutes. I’ll be in a black SUV breaking your money laundering case wide open.” She clicked End Call.

  Stopping crime, she could see why Joe got a thrill out of that. She flipped the map over in her hand. The name Saeed embossed the page in tiny black ink. Wait, if Abdullah was a terrorist, perhaps this didn’t only involve the money laundering, but also terrorism.

  Her breathing came faster even as she felt a smile curve her lips. Tonight she’d fly through the streets of Riyadh to save America. Who said that Saudi Arabian women were disempowered?

  Thursday Oct 6th, 11:17 p.m.

  Worst bachelor’s party ever. Muhammad screeched around the corner next to his house. Thanks to Abdullah’s pressure, he had to give four thousand riyals of alms to atone for his indiscretion. Only, Abdullah had insisted he give those alms to the Al Qaeda mujahideen instead of the poor, which was a strangely self-interested twist for a proclaimed religious fanatic.

  Muhammad puffed out air, making mist against his dashboard. His wedding would cost twice as much, and suck, thanks to Abdullah’s double wedding scheme, and he hadn’t even kidnapped Joe. Muhammad turned the radio up. The beat made the car shake, a satisfying slam of musical beats pumping against the leather seats.

  Ahead, the tall shadows of his house loomed high, illuminated by the faint glow of street lights.

  His SUV pulled out of the garage. A person shrouded in black drove it.

  One of his servants was stealing his car!

  Yanking his Jaguar out of neutral, Muhammad pressed the gas to the floor board. Hunkering down in the seat, he sped around the corner where the SUV had turned. He hit the Bluetooth on his car. “Yes, Riyadh police, I want to report a car stolen. License plate 3CB7-XXX.”

  With a yank to the steering wheel, Muhammad swerved right.

  He’d catch the thief in the act and the thief would have one less hand by morning’s light, per the prophet’s dictates, peace be upon him.

  Thursday, October 6th, 11:25 p.m.

  Fingers on the cold handle, Kay pushed the SUV’s door open. The cold night air blew around her as she stepped onto the curb. Darkness enveloped her, the wind flapping her abaya against her. No human form bro
ke the darkness. She darted her gaze back and forth in the abandoned stillness. If only she had a can of mace.

  Her heels clicked against flat stones as she proceeded. A shadowy playground stood between a square walkway. The wind whistled over the plastic slide. Joe would show, right? She hadn’t actually waited for his confirmation.

  The thrill of spy movies had addled her senses. Why had she woken the guy up at 11:00 p.m.?

  Behind the swings, a shadow moved. She jumped.

  A familiar silhouette moved through the darkness, his gait unmistakable. Joe. She ran forward.

  Palm fronds waved majestically overhead, casting dark shadows around their feet. She reached under her abaya for the folded paper. Maybe the map was nothing and she’d dragged him out here and broken Saudi driving laws on a whim. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Hey.” He grinned. “You’re solving my entire case, I hear.” He touched her hand.

  Heat crept up her neck. “Yeah, maybe not.” She held out the map. Dr. Benson had warned her correctly not to play James Bond. She had to get Uncle Muhammad’s room straightened before he returned in the morning. She could be sleeping right now.

  Joe tugged on gloves before touching the paper. Holding up his cellphone, Joe read the map by the blue light glow. His camera icon whirred. He glanced to her. “You could have just texted me this picture through signal.”

  “You said I had to meet you.”

  Peeling off his gloves, Joe handed the paper back to her. “I didn’t know it was a picture.”

  “Sorry.” Her heart sank. From the look on Joe’s face, the paper was nothing. She’d interrupted his sleep merely to fancy herself some spy. What she should be doing tonight was working on her dissertation since Alma wouldn’t speak to her.

  “My fault, not yours.” He smiled that easy smile that made the world seem right. That smile had comforted her four days ago when he’d brought her mango-lassi after Muhammad had struck her.

  She leaned against a palm tree. Tugging off the hijab, she let the evening wind blow back her hair. Clothed up to the neck and wrists and she still felt deliciously immodest. “Now this is the Saudi Arabia I envisioned. The way things were when the prophet Muhammad walked this land.”