Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Be that as it may, my job’s to keep you alive. You anywhere in the vicinity of Abdullah, or speaking to his wife, is in direct opposition to the keeping you alive goal.”

  Kay rolled her gaze to the leaky roof. Were women allowed to fix their own roofs or was the possibility of a man seeing an inch of ankle when they mounted the structure too traumatizing? She groaned. “If you have such little confidence in me, I suggest you find a faster way to get us out of this misogynistic torture chamber. Now, your signature.” She tapped her finger against his notepad.

  “No.” He shoved the pen and notepad into his zippered jacket pocket.

  She froze. The faint tingle of a ringing noise sounded in her imagination. A surreal feeling swept over her, as the sands of time swirled back into the sixth century. “You didn’t just say that.”

  “Heck yeah, I said that.” He thrust his arms into the jacket sleeves.

  “By not signing, you’re condemning me to house arrest. You’re literally imprisoning me.” Her voice rose, the English syllables bouncing off the tin roof as her outrage blazed through the room. “If I get myself killed, it’s none of your business. You have zero authority over me.”

  “I’m in the intelligence community, not to mention ex-military, and you’re an American citizen. That gives me total authority to try to save your life.” Joe grabbed a canteen and slung it over his shoulder.

  Mouth gaping open, she stared at him.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours.” Joe Csontos, medieval style, controlling husband walked out the metal door.

  “You’re living in some fantasy where I’m a traditionalist,” Kay yelled after him.

  Hand on the door, he turned back. “You shouldn’t get mad at your husband. It’s haram.” Joe winked at her.

  “Give me that signature.” She advanced.

  Joe shoved the door shut behind him.

  Falling back, she slumped against the rusty nails of the corrugated metal walls. She shouldn’t have mocked those “God wants you to vote Republican” women who’d mixed faith and partisanship outside her apartment last month.

  The women had probably just gone crazy as a bat from marriage to men like Joe. The conservative, All-American male could drive anyone to heights of psychosis.

  As proven by the fact that she now sat confined in a ten-foot by fifteen-foot tin-roofed shack because the aforesaid All-American male refused to sign one stinking piece of paper.

  Friday, October 14th, 4:59 a.m.

  Last night—Joe felt his ears turn red. He’d seen the entirety of Kay’s tattoo. Words couldn’t describe how beautiful she’d looked. Around him terrorists and villagers alike prostrated for the mandatory prayers, and he half-heartedly imitated their motions.

  Kay would have slept with him last night. He felt blood prickle across his face again, heating it red.

  The singsong chant of the imam’s prayers rose and fell around him as hundreds of men prostrated and rose, prostrated and rose. Kay must like him, love him even, or she wouldn’t have offered that. She knew he was a Christian, so did her actions mean she considered converting? Her shirt had fallen open around her sun-kissed skin, every curve of hers ravishing.

  Focus. He pushed the image away. He needed to get them out of this terrorist camp before they died. Tracy said that Kay would never fall for him. Ha! The girl had literally propositioned him for sex, which he’d regrettably had to say no to, morals and all that. Still, it was a sign in her less-than-Christian way that she wanted a long-term relationship with him.

  The chants rose louder and Joe mindlessly repeated the dirges. A year was an eternity to wait to propose to her and take her up on that proposition. Did he truly have to wait a year like Tracy said just to prove he wasn’t rushing things? He sighed. If he had to wait an entire year to propose to Kay, he was dragging a pastor with a marriage license to the proposal site and leaving on the honeymoon ASAP. Oh, and he needed to convert her.

  The chants ended. With the flurry of an ending yoga class, men rolled up prayer rugs.

  “Joe, my friend.” Kamal clapped him on the back. A smile lit the kid’s thin face. “I shot a Kalashnikov yesterday.” His grin showed crooked teeth. Gunpowder streaked under his left ear.

  “Uh-huh.” Joe swept his gaze across the barren landscape.

  “Tomorrow we train with grenades.” Kamal looked giddy. “We will kill the kafirs infidels.”

  “Lovely.” Joe suppressed the urge to hurl this prayer rug at the kid.

  “Yesterday, I called my mother. She does not understand why I am here.”

  Adrenaline surged through Joe. “You have a phone?”

  “Joe.” Abdullah walked through the rows of men, prayer rugs, and assault weapons. “I have more questions to ask you.”

  Another day of interrogation. As soon as he endured that, he was getting his hands on Kamal’s phone and calling the embassy.

  CHAPTER 24

  Friday, October 14th, 5:05 a.m.

  The morning sun peeked over the hills beyond the open door. Kay slid the glove up past her wrist so even the breezy gusts tugging at her abaya couldn’t expose any skin. Based on the recent prayer call, all the men should be engaged in prayer. Though Joe still refused to sign any permission slips, she intended to see Alma.

  She flipped the three veils down and everything faded into darkness. With a clatter, the door swung shut behind her. Kay stepped around rocks and stumbled over hillocks. A few child-shaped shadows moved on the periphery of her vision. A concrete structure rose in front of her.

  Someone had written in chalk over the doorframe “Emir El-Amin.” Kay rapped her knuckles against the tin.

  No answer.

  Kay raised her arm and rapped harder. Her abaya sleeve fell down her wrist. Heart pounding, she yanked the sleeve back up.

  No answer. Kay looked right then left. Over the hill, some camo-clad youths moved closer. Kay pushed the door.

  The woman inside startled.

  “Alma!” Ripping off her veil, Kay ran to her and threw her arms around the teenager.

  Tears rimmed Alma’s red eyes. Her lower lip trembled.

  “How are you?” Kay squeezed the girl’s hand between both of hers.

  “How do you think I am trapped in this prison, subsisting on lentils from a camp stove? Your uncle had a two-story house.” Face white, Alma shoved the door shut.

  “My uncle was no prize.” The man had tried to honor-kill her. A few doorways opened in the cement block hallway. Abdullah had left for prayer, right?

  “Easy for you to say. You did this to me. Your immorality made Abdullah reject you and ask for me. You should be in my position.” Alma dabbed at tears with the end of her sleeve.

  Kay’s gut clenched. Poor Alma. “I’m so sorry.” She would rescue the girl.

  Alma waved her hand across the naked lightbulb, propane heater, and overturned plastic buckets. “This is where I’m supposed to live.” One carpet lay across a plywood floor. A barrel of water proved that this place too lacked any internal plumbing.

  “Is Abdullah home?” Kay scanned the hallway.

  Alma shook her head. “I cannot believe we are here. We deserve nice Saudi houses, comforts.”

  And to not be in a terrorist camp. No window brightened this concrete structure. Only a tiny grate high above brought in ventilation. A few vegetables lay on a metal table, the eggplants half diced. What about a cell phone?

  “Was Pakistan this third world, Mariam?” Alma slumped onto an overturned bucket, her dreary skirt ballooning out about her slender legs.

  If this compound had any kind of vehicle, Abdullah would have the key. Kay drew closer to Alma and lowered her voice. “I’m not actually Mariam. I’m from America. I was just pretending to be her for a PhD dissertation.”

  “You’re an American?” Alma stared at her.

  “Yes, but that’s not terribly important right now. We need to get free of this terrorist camp.” Kay fingered the handle of the vegetable knife. Did Abdullah have any
weapons lying about that she could steal?

  “I will have my father ask Abdullah to let me live in Saudi with his other two wives. Marriage will not be so miserable then.” Alma slumped her shoulders, rumpling the fabric of her blouse.

  “Yes, it will! You’re the third wife of a terrorist.” Kay grabbed Alma’s arm.

  “What am I supposed to do about it?”Alma’s hair fell back from her pale cheeks. “For a woman to get a divorce in Saudi is almost impossible. I’ll never get one in a camp in Yemen.”

  “Come to America. We’ll get you some kind of passport. Refugee status.” If only she had her phone and could start searching how to do that. Surely Joe had some State Department connections.

  “Leave the Kingdom?” Alma stiffened on her perch atop the tin bucket. “I don’t even speak English. I would be in poverty. I’d never see my family again.”

  “If you stay, you’ll have a terrorist in your bed.”

  Alma turned her glare to Kay. “That is your fault, is it not? My father wished me to marry your uncle.”

  “That’s not better.” Kay threw up her hands. “Muhammad’s a domestic violence perpetrator in league with terrorists. Come to America. Pursue your education.”

  “No. Go, before Abdullah finds me helping you and kills me for it.” Alma stabbed her finger to the door.

  Wait, was that a phone next to the propane heater? “I need to make a call.” Kay grabbed the device. Password protected. No!

  “All his passwords are 1969. He’s too old to even enter the modern age. I was supposed to marry your young, hip uncle.” Alma leaned heavily on the metal table and turned her gloomy gaze to the half-diced vegetables.

  Kay punched in the passcode. What number should she dial? The phone shook in her trembling hands. She didn’t have the Saudi embassy or any CIA numbers memorized.

  “No!” Alma ripped the phone away from her. The girl’s face was ashen. “Abdullah monitors all the calls made. I’m not even allowed to call my mother. He will have me killed.”

  “Oh.” Kay bit her lip. Outside, the noise of marching feet sounded.

  “That’s him. Quick, go!” Alma pointed to the door.

  Leaping to the table, Kay peered out the grate. Abdullah marched up the hill. In front of the cinder block dwelling stretched a desolate path, no tree or shrub to hide her exit. Kay’s airways tightened.

  Alma wrung her hands. In just a week, her entire countenance had changed. Fear lingered in those dark-rimmed eyes rather than the light of life.

  The door handle twisted. The corrugated metal frame grated against cinder block.

  A curtain hung across a cinder block doorway further down the hall. Breaking into a run, Kay ducked through it.

  She jolted back. A woman sat on the floor. Scrape marks cut across the girl’s arms, fresh blood on her cheek. A fetter secured her ankle.

  Hand trembling, Kay sucked in breath. Would this woman betray her?

  The woman widened her brown eyes, her voice no louder than a zephyr. “You are hiding from Abdullah?”

  Kay nodded, the movement shaking off her headscarf.

  Outside, voices rose. Abdullah sounded angry. Alma mumbled something. Footsteps thudded down the hallway.

  Panic tingled through Kay. The dusty air choked her.

  “There.” The woman pointed to the frayed edge of a carpet across the room.

  Kay ran to it. The carpet was far too small to hide a person-sized lump.

  “Who’s here? I heard voices,” Abdullah yelled.

  “No one.” Alma’s voice quavered. “I was only speaking to the sabaya slave.”

  A cuffing noise. A female cry of pain. Abdullah’s grunt. “I told you not to enter that room.” Footsteps approached.

  “Pull it up,” the fair-skinned woman whispered.

  Kay scooted back the carpet. Beneath her feet, a small piece of plywood lay at an angle across the floor. The plywood shifted, revealing a coffin-shaped hole.

  From outside the room, brown fingers grabbed the edge of the curtain, the knuckles knobby and weathered.

  Kay jumped into the hole and threw the plywood over her. Would the carpet fully cover her?

  Darkness surrounded her. The splinter-filled plywood scraped her nose. Something started to crawl over her legs. A slimy substance oozed between her fingers. She pressed her nails into the dirt. The slime wiggled.

  Clap, clap. Heavy boots moved across the floor, the impact rattling against the plywood. Above the crack, she glimpsed a white thobe and hairy legs. The plywood shifted. Abdullah stood on top of her.

  He shouted. Something thudded. Was it the impact of a boot into soft flesh?

  The fair-skinned woman screamed.

  Crash. Abdullah pounded across the floor.

  From outside the room, Alma’s voice quavered in the still air. “May I please go back to Saudi?”

  Abdullah’s voice boomed against the concrete walls. “In eight days, my name will fill as many households as the heroic martyr Osama Bin-Laden. You should feel honored to live here.”

  Eight days? Kay fisted a handful of dirt. The grittiness dug into her nails.

  “Of course, my husband,” Alma said, “but the noble Koran says to provide for all wives equally. Should you not offer me a house comparable to the ones of your wives in Saudi Arabia?”

  Silence.

  A grunt that sounded like Abdullah’s. “Even presidents will shake in terror. Your house does not matter.”

  Presidents? Kay wrinkled her forehead. Dirt ground into her face. She couldn’t sneeze.

  The voices faded.

  Kay pushed the plywood aside. She brushed off small crawling things and turned to the girl. “What is your name?”

  “Rosna.” Blood ran from the woman’s nose. Her light-brown hair hung in disheveled locks.

  Kneeling, Kay took her third veil and wiped it against the blood. She glanced to the fetter, no key in sight. Kay shook the metal. The links clicked. “Is there a file anywhere?”

  “Go quickly,” Rosna hissed. She pointed to the window above them. “He will find you.”

  “But Rosna.” She had to free the woman. Had anyone even brought her water in this suffocating heat?

  The woman pointed to the heavy fabric that blew back and forth over a hole in the cinder block. “The bars are broken. Leave.”

  Voices moved closer again.

  The rusted bars creaked. Shoving them open, Kay somersaulted out the window. The dirt rose up beneath her. She tumbled down the incline, her abaya tangling around her. She spotted her own bare ankles. Terror tore through her. Jumping to her feet, she tugged on her gloves and ran.

  Rocks bruised her bare feet, cactus spikes piercing her skin as she barreled down the hill. She stumbled over the uneven ground as the three veils flapped back and forth over her face, her abaya sleeves billowing. Sweat stuck her clothes to her. The veils sucked in around her nose, not allowing her oxygen. She struggled for breath. Her skirt twisted around her knees.

  As the ground leveled, Kay slowed her pace, heaving for breath. A few village houses dotted the valley, some signs of agriculture mixing with grenades and guns.

  Dust-covered boys and girls played in the streets. Not a woman in sight.

  Explosions sounded from over a hill. Gray smoke puffed up. Was it a military exercise? Village men walked the narrow streets. Kay turned right. A winding path led up to Joe’s and her shack.

  A man with an AK-47 stepped in front of her.

  Through the blurriness of three veils, she made out that he wore camo rather than more traditional garb.

  “You should not be out without a mahram.”

  The many levels of cloth covering her ears blurred the man’s voice. She kept walking.

  He grabbed her, his nails digging into her abaya. “Answer me, woman.”

  She screamed.

  The veils twisted around her face. He dragged her forward. The dirt scraped against her ankles.

  “Let me go. I have permission to go out.”
She struggled against him.

  The man shoved her into some kind of shed. A woman entered, or at least she assumed the black-garbed person was of the female sex, though the woman looked as large as any man.

  The woman ripped off her face veil. “What’s your name?”

  “K…er Mariam Al-Khatani. I mean Mariam Csontos?” Kay shoved the headscarf off. Her bloody feet stained the dirt. If only she had shoes. “I was just going home.”

  “Do you have a paper from your mahram?”

  “Yes.” She pressed back against the corner of the hut.

  Rather than asking for the non-existent paper, the woman started yelling. Another woman entered. This woman held an AK-47.

  Time passed. A half hour, two hours. More? The hours blurred together as she sat cross-legged in the hut. Once, a black-clad figure brought her rice and some kind of juice.

  The patch of light from the screen-covered grate above faded as the sky darkened. The door flung open. A black-clad woman wielding an AK-47 marched in. Another black-clad woman grabbed her arm. “Cover.”

  “What’s happening?” Kay tugged black across her nose and mouth, suffocating herself, and dropped the weight of three veils across her face.

  The woman grunted and pointed to the door.

  Dread pounded through Kay as she followed. The darkness of evening surrounded her. Cold wind blew at her robes and the gun barrel dug into her back.

  They moved up a tiny path. That was her house.

  The woman kicked the metal door. With a groan, it gave way. The woman shoved her inside. The door slammed shut behind her and the footsteps faded.

  No beatings or death threats? They’d taken her home? Kay let out a sigh of relief and tore off her veils and abaya.

  Picking up their one pot, she poured lentils into it and fumbled with the propane heater. Her breathing slowed as she tidied up the house and washed her bruised feet.

  Clank. Something hit the door and it gave way. Joe carried another water barrel in his arms. He kicked the door closed behind him. Joe looked straight at her. “You can’t ever do that again.”

  “You heard about my excursion?” She let out a sigh that slid over the boiling lentils. She gave the lentils a stir, floating their green bodies through the foamy water. Al Qaeda might as well label their houses prisons, because that’s what they were if you were female.