A heaviness descended over him. If he helped a CIA source flee, he’d end up under internal review at least, if not in jail. Joe pressed his fingers into the steel water bottle, the metal indenting beneath his finger pads. He forced himself to release breath.
The CIA had made their decision about Mariam. He now had to focus on the lives he could save, like those endangered by Al Qaeda of the Arabian Peninsula’s terrorist activities. Joe yanked out a notepad. “Any new intelligence on Abdullah El-Amin’s next target?”
“We finished extracting a code from the porn video an Al-Qaeda courier was transporting to Abdullah’s base in Yemen.” On the other end of the line, Brian slurped down a swallow of liquid. “Crazy how much hardcore porn terrorists consume, then flip out if a woman’s caught wearing anything besides a garbage bag. I sent the code your way.”
With a groan, Joe clicked Refresh on the secure email server. “I’ll start working on decoding it tonight.” Again. His fluency in Arabic meant the embassy wanted him chained to a cubicle farm, translating and decoding. When he’d left the Green Berets in Iraq for the CIA, he thought he’d do more fieldwork, not less.
Static crackled on the phone. Brian coughed. “The internal review we did on Muhammad Al-Khatani after he betrothed his niece to a terrorist showed up nothing. Muhammad’s clean.”
“I agree the man’s no radical, but something about him still bothers me.” Joe shifted a paper on his desk. Muhammad was a money-sucking ingrate who’d do anything for financial gain, but he couldn’t care less about spreading Sharia law and conquering the West. Why then did Muhammad give him a bad feeling? He’d had the same feeling in Iraq before the asset he’d handled shot up the town of Fotur and his battle buddy lost his life.
“I said, the man’s clean.” Brian’s voice grated through the phone lines. “What I want you worrying about is the increasing buzz of Abdullah’s communications with Yemen. Something’s brewing.”
Like every time AQAP planned a new target, adrenaline rushed through Joe. Thus the race to discover the terrorists’ plan before they could kill began.
“See why I need the girl?”
Yes, they needed a closer link to Abdullah. Joe ran his thumb across the butt of his concealed carry. He’d planned this idea out. Brian just had to agree. Joe swallowed. “Instead of ruining Mariam’s life, what if I faked a conversion to Islam, then attended one of the radicalized Saudi imams’ Koran study groups? Get them to recommend me to Abdullah El-Amin as a potential recruit?”
Brian’s snort pierced the phone. “Don’t get any crazy ideas like what I heard went down in Iraq. When you work for the CIA, you follow orders.”
Joe’s every muscle tensed. Outside, a cloud moved over the sun, plunging the room into grayness. He’d followed orders in Iraq. If he’d refused orders, maybe his fellow sergeant, “Muddy Boots” Kaine would still live.
Joe yanked his notebook closer. His Green Beret buddy from Iraq, Zafir, had found him this contact. “I want the chance to talk to Abdullah face-to-face.”
“I just got this position and if you mess it up for me, I’m sending you to the review board. Understood?” Brian shouted through the line. “You can get jail time for disobeying orders.”
Joe rubbed his ear lobe. Not fieldwork then, but more newspapers to translate. Even that pointy-head Dr. Benson who Kay had mentioned could translate newspapers. He had the skills and training to operate in a field environment.
Earlier today, Kay had rolled her eyes at him as she walked away. She had the darkest eyes, like starlit night skies. Mom always said, as she ground her own wheat from their half acre lot turned garden, “Don’t do anything halfway. Either stay away from girls, they’ll lead you into sin, or go engagement ring shopping.” He wasn’t as conservative as that anymore, but he certainly didn’t plan on staying away from Kay.
“I’m not trying to be a drill sergeant.” Brian dropped his voice to a calmer level. “I have a position in Dubai, outside the embassy, embedded in the population. The chief of station in UAE owes me. You figure out this terrorist attack’s date and location allowing the Saudi Embassy to gain presidential recognition before the CIA releases their new budget, and I’ll get you the Dubai post.”
Fieldwork! Joe jolted upright. “Yes, sir.”
To discover the date and location, he’d definitely fake radicalization. Joe lowered the phone. What Brian didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Zafir had already helped him secure an invitation to the Koran study group that Imam Al-Ghamedi led.
Soon as he got back to Saudi tomorrow, he’d start attending. Now to finish up decoding this AQAP message before Mariam’s Bible study tonight where he fully intended to get Kay’s phone number.
“And Joe.” The faraway sound of Brian’s voice radiated from the phone receiver lying on the desk.
“Yeah.” Joe ran his gaze over the Arabic code that Brian had sent him. A newspaper headline stared up at him from his desk. ISIS Releases Harrowing Guidelines for Life as Terrorist Bride. How could he live with himself if he let Mariam endure that? Sure, he’d warned her, but since she was his source, he had the responsibility to do more.
“I wasn’t joking when I said I’d send you to jail if you disobey my orders on Mariam.”
Thursday September 29th, 5:15 p.m.
“Here.” Kay grabbed Mariam’s pink alligator skin suitcase and hefted it over the final step to her third-floor apartment.
Forty-five minutes left to invent a thesis. Something between a groan and a gurgle slid through Kay’s windpipes. Why even try? She’d never come up with anything.
Sweat dribbled down Mariam’s temples. With a shove, she slammed the door shut.
Kay tugged the suitcase past her bookshelf, where Mutazilite Arabic literature squeezed so tight the spines bent, into the spare bedroom.
Notes for her rejected dissertation lay on the thin futon coverlet. Light filtered in through closed shades. Within forty-five minutes would she be a PhD dropout, the kind who scrambled for ramen-noodle pay at community colleges? She was a lousy friend for being this preoccupied now when Mariam clearly needed someone to talk to.
Mariam placed her Coach purse on the futon. “What do you think of Josiah? I think he has, how do you say it, crush on you? He is cute.”
“Cute? His idea of a first date is a Bible study.” Sure he looked like a body builder and had a face that could still a crowd of teenage girls faster than Justin Bieber, but she based her crushes on intellect. She groaned. Midwestern community college professors probably did date punk rednecks, as they graded papers stuck together with chewing gum and authored by gang members.
Dropping the suitcase, Kay flopped onto the futon. Her hair fell around her shoulders. No matter what she wrote to Dr. Benson, would he even read the idea before kicking her out of the program? Feet stomped in the apartment above, lending a rhythm to despair.
“You will pretend to like Josiah tonight, please?” Mariam tugged at the zipper of her purse and pulled out a handful of plastic. She shoved the plastic into Kay’s extended hand.
“Why do I need to pretend to like him?” Scooting to a sitting position, Kay stared at what Mariam had pushed at her. “Why are you handing me your passport, driver’s license, and cell phone?”
“You will shred them for me?” Mariam pressed her palms together, arms outstretched.
“Um . . . don’t you need these papers? This is a brand-new phone.” Kay blinked.
A strand of hair slapped across Mariam’s face as she shook her head. “Hamed and I, we are going to Canada. Tonight. You can have the phone for yourself.”
Kay stared at the trembling woman. “Canada?”
“As a Christian now, my uncle, he would behead me at Deera square.” The woman stood straight, speaking in as measured a voice as if her thoughts were coherent.
Did Saudis not read the Al-Baqarah sura, “Let there be no compulsion in religion?” Kay grimaced. “Don’t visit home then. You have your education to finish. You can’t run off to Canada
with your boyfriend. You’ll be barefoot and pregnant before the year’s out.” She’d narrowly avoided that fate with Felipe. Had a good scare.
“My visa expires in two days.”
“I told you I’d go with you to get an extension.” After she sent Dr. Benson an email. Kay stared at her cell. He’d said a paragraph dissertation idea delivered within the half hour. She had nothing.
“Josiah told me I will never get it.” A shiver ran through Mariam, extenuating her slender frame.
“What would a security guard know about immigration?” Kay hugged her knees to herself. A tear ran down her panty hose.
“You must let me do this! It is my right to choose.” Mariam grabbed her hand.
When the woman put it like that, what option did she have but to concede? Kay stared at the pile of plastic in her hand. Mariam’s visa photo portrayed an anonymous face shrouded in a black niqab, only her eyes showing. “Do you have enough money to last until you find work? Here.” Tugging open her purse zipper, Kay grabbed a handful of crisp hundreds. She’d meant to pay her rent with them, but Mariam would need funds to immigrate to a new land.
“Thank you. You are kind friend.” Mariam took the bills.
“Do you want me to text your family? Tell them not to worry?”
Mariam made a scoffing sound. “No one in Saudi will care. My mother has died. My father married second wife in Pakistan. The king would not give permission for him to marry a foreigner so my father lived in Pakistan until he met death. None of my Saudi relatives have seen me since I was ten years old.”
Ten years old? This uncle wouldn’t even recognize Mariam. A shadow of a dissertation idea flitted through Kay’s mind. She glanced at the passport photo again. Mariam’s nose tilted up at the end just like hers. The brown of Mariam’s Arabian skin matched the shade she’d inherited from Grandpa Bianchi’s Italian ancestry. Kay’s head pounded wildly. A numb feeling spread through her tingling arms.
“Yet Uncle Muhammad as my closest male relative has the legal right to order me to marry.” Mariam snorted.
Tilting her head, Kay ran her gaze across Mariam’s face. Unlike hers, Mariam’s hair had no highlights. No, she was being ridiculous. A sigh passed through Kay’s lips. The Saudi relatives would surely have gotten Christmas, well Ramadan, pictures each year, and seen Mariam’s social media accounts. She could never pull off the switch. “I suppose you send them pictures though? Do video chats?” Kay dropped her gaze to the tear line running up her toe, ruining her panty hose forever. In twenty-five minutes, Dr. Benson would kick her out of Harvard. She should resign herself to the fact.
A laugh bubbled up from Mariam’s lips. “And show him my uncovered head and the Bible in my hands? How do they say it in America, ‘not on my life.’ ”
Hope soared through Kay’s veins. She gripped Mariam’s passport between sweating fingers. Dr. Benson said a good dissertation project would be indigenous, studying the Middle Eastern culture at its very source, not projecting Western values, but living inside Eastern ones. All she needed was an airline ticket.
A sliver of doubt pierced Kay. Impersonate a foreign citizen? Enter a foreign country and live with people she’d never met? Besides, she needed a dissertation in twenty minutes. One probably had to buy a ticket to Saudi Arabia months in advance.
“Here is my plane ticket. Destroy it with the rest, yes?” Mariam held out an envelope.
Kay stared at the crisply folded plane ticket. The ticket said seat 6C. Her arm trembled. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to move home in disgrace come tomorrow morning. “You’re sure you won’t change your mind?”
Mariam nodded. “Tonight, I leave.”
Kay closed her fingers on the envelope, her hand moist against the spectacular dissertation project that would beat anything Sandra contrived. She hoped Mariam’s trip to Canada went well. She should focus on her friend’s major life event.
Technically, she defied U.S. law by traveling under this passport. What if Mariam’s family didn’t like her? Anxiety pressed at her larynx. Her heart boomed against her ribcage. This was insane.
Fisting her hand, Kay clenched her jaw. If she passed up this opportunity, she’d lose her last chance at a Harvard PhD. Fingers trembling, she opened her phone’s email and typed in Dr. Benson’s name.
New dissertation idea: Travel to Saudi Arabia tomorrow morning to live with a foreign exchange student’s relatives for a month while gaining firsthand experience on gender norms in Middle Eastern society.
A heavy feeling started in her fingers, the puffy pink futon pillow clammy beneath her grasp. If Dr. Benson accepted her idea, she’d get on a plane to Saudi Arabia tomorrow morning. A rushing sound roared through her ears, like the Atlantic’s waves that beat swimmers beneath its all-powerful surf.
“Remember, Josiah is coming to the Bible study I scheduled at your house. You must distract him.” Mariam grabbed her hand.
“You scheduled what at my house?” Kay yanked her fingers away.
“The CIA is watching my apartment waiting for my visa to expire. I invited my Bible study friends here because it is many times easier for me to put my stuff into Hamed’s car here.”
Harvard hallways bugged, the CIA trailing her every move, Mariam had obviously watched too many spy movies. Kay shook her head and tried to banish the buzzing in her ears. Against her will, her gaze glued to her phone, waiting for the beep that would signal that Dr. Benson had replied. “Can I help you pack your car?” She’d eaten weird foods for cultural politeness, hosted refugees for months at a time, but attend a Bible study?
“No. Hamed will pack. Here. We shall study this verse.” Mariam shoved an open Bible into her hands.
Her attending the Bible study would make Joe think she was interested in him, just what she needed to make this horrid day even more awkward. Sighing, Kay glanced at the thin page. Not only did she not date security guards, she never dated members of the religious right.
CHAPTER 3
Thursday, September 29th, 7:24 p.m.
After spending two hours helping Mariam chart a driving route and book an extended stay hotel room, Kay sank into her red stuffed glider. Once again, she refreshed her email. No reply from Dr. Benson.
All around her, the invasion of Bible thumpers captured seats on her apartment furniture. This many people still bought the medieval rag of supernatural interference in the world of men? Science had already clarified all the natural phenomenon that medieval priests created a higher power to explain. Kay shoved down the irritation. Many religious people were sweet. She had a philanthropic Christian friend in New York State who took in foster kids.
The smell of something homemade wafted from the kitchen. Mariam popped up from her cross-legged perch on a cushion. “My mango chicken chutney is done.” She nodded to the Pakistani-born construction worker lounging in Kay’s bean bag chair. “Hamed, may I serve you?”
Hamed nodded, bobbing his thin black beard. Kay sighed and pulled her feet up under her. She liked Hamed, but he still lived in about the eleventh century as far as gender roles. Probably came from too much Bible study.
It’s not as if marrying Hamed would solve Mariam’s visa difficulties either. Hamed had overstayed his legal visa months ago. Her phone beeped. She jerked upright. Her elbow knocked her phone and she dived over the armrest.
Just a Facebook notification. No word from Dr. Benson.
With a groan, Kay yanked the llama wool afghan Mom had crocheted over her pencil skirt.
Mariam rose again, Hamed’s water glass in her hand. More than likely this guy Mariam’s uncle betrothed her to had a better awareness of women’s rights than Hamed. Shocking really how backward America still was on women’s rights. Five years of volunteering to babysit domestic violence victims’ kids at the local women’s shelter had taught her that.
More people jostled into her apartment to read an outdated book of stories. Insanity. Sure the idea of a deity bringing meaning to the universe was attractive, but still. A wistful fe
eling twisted around her heart. Felipe had read the Vedas and spoken of connecting with the divine. Her irrational desire to discover some supernatural meaning in life was half the reason she’d fallen for him.
Ding. The doorbell rang. Once again, her aluminum screen door swung open. Joe the security guard walked in.
With a groan, Kay grabbed her V-8 juice can and took the last swallow. She plopped the can on the cheese curl dust on her plate. Now he’d think she’d taken him up on his offer of a first date at a Bible study.
The hardback chair beside her shifted. Joe thumped his weight down three inches from her.
Elbow indenting the armrest, she turned her back to him.
“The food is ready. Please come and partake.” Mariam’s voice pinged off the beige walls and slid across the Ethan Allen dining table. She’d cooked for all these people? What a sweet friend.
Wait, mango chicken chutney? Had Mariam used up the entire basket of fruit she’d just bought? Kay stifled a groan and looked to the door.
Joe rested one elbow on the armrest of her glider. “Looks and smells like the Middle East in here.”
Tilting her glider back, she rested her gaze on him. She sighed. “The tapestries are Iranian. The coffee table’s from Egypt. I wanted an authentic Middle Eastern style living room.”
“You didn’t want it that authentic.” His blue eyes held a glint of mirth. His gray T-shirt looked like Walmart-make, no matter how well he filled it out. The faintest hint of a five o’clock shadow crept up his cheekbones, light hair almost invisible against lighter skin.
“What?” She rested her fingers on the woven fabric of the armrest, not three inches from where he’d placed his hand.
“You’ve got a Gloria Steinem quote on the wall, far too much women’s rights for a Middle Eastern sitting room.”
She jammed back in the glider, the movement knocking his hand off. “A common Western myth. Merely because a woman chooses to wear a head covering does not make her oppressed. The East allowed women in their government long before the U.S.” The nativist lie that Western culture was superior to all others is what had created the disaster of nineteenth century imperialistic expansion.
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