“I have to finish my drink.”
“You’re drinking water, that thing our planet is made of. We flush millions of gallons per day down this city’s sewer system alone.” Even her chest turned red, the color spreading down past each unbuttoned pearl. If she started re-buttoning her shirt now, all she’d do is draw attention to the fact that she’d unbuttoned it a moment ago.
Her phone beeped. Digging into her jean pocket, she extracted it.
I have an appointment at 8 a.m. Bring over more details then.
~Dr. Benson
He liked it! His email hadn’t included a single snide comment. “That was my professor. I have work to do.” She bounded in front of Joe and thrust open the sliding door. She needed to write an entire dissertation proposal before dawn tomorrow. Then, maybe instead of getting rejected from Harvard in disgrace, she’d board a plane to Saudi Arabia. Could she perhaps even earn that Harvard professor slot and improve the lot of Muslim-American women?
Joe flashed a smile. “Can I get your phone number?”
After turning her down for sex, the guy still wanted her phone number? For what? To text her redneck political memes before the upcoming election? “Fine, 617-555-1212.”
“Great. I’ll text you mine.”
Why? Kay groaned and turned away.
CHAPTER 4
Thursday September 29th, 10:15 p.m.
The moon made patterns on the floor in the CIA sleep room. Joe clicked Code By Number and the deciphering program whirred into motion. He ran his gaze down the new jumble of Arabic words. Syntax-wise, none of them made sense.
Two more hours until he hopped that red-eye flight to Saudi. Osama bin Laden had chosen September 11th to correspond with the Ottomans’ 1683 siege of Vienna. Had Abdullah also picked a historical date for his terrorist attack? May 29th for the fall of Constantinople?
He looked to the darkened sky. Kay had touched his arm tonight and gotten so close to a full frontal hug. No side-hug intentions there. The pastor of the church he’d grown up at would have labeled Kay a Jezebel for eschewing side-hugs for full-on embraces with an unrelated man.
If he’d moved closer, would she have embraced him?
She’d smelled of perfume, her lips as red as the flowers the scent had come from.
He glanced to his phone where an unsent text to Kay sat.
She spoke Arabic, read Western literature, and for a moment when he brought up the Middle East and instead of changing the topic to pop culture, she’d engaged in heated debate, he felt normal. Growing up like he did, then going straight to Iraq for back-to-back deployments, he didn’t often feel normal.
Last time he’d talked to a girl he liked, they’d gotten half an hour into a conversation before he realized that when she raved about Hermes she meant a brand of cologne, not the messenger to the Mt. Olympus gods.
Kay’s dark eyes flashed when she was angry. Her black hair swung about her shoulders as she moved with as easy a grace as Chretien de Troyes’ twelfth-century Guinevere. She cared about the world and volunteered to help people too. How many women did that?
He clicked his mouse on another Arabic decoding algorithm. He shouldn’t think about Kay this way. She’d made it quite clear during that Bible study that she was not a Christian.
The Arabic words congealed into a sticky glob. Joe stared at his unsent text message to Kay. Why couldn’t Kay have been a Christian? Unlike almost everyone, she cared enough about the world outside America’s bubble to argue with him about other cultures.
Wait, Kay was a dedicated seeker if she attended Bible study. He straightened.
While God didn’t allow Christians to date unbelievers, he merely aimed at getting to know Kay and she was a seeker. Pursuing the get-to-know-you stage with a seeker fell into solid Biblical gray area. Reaching out, he pressed his thumb against the Send icon.
His laptop screen beeped. He glanced up. The Arabic words leaped out at him, the code decipherable.
No. It couldn’t be.
Grabbing the white landline, he dialed Saudi Arabia. “I deciphered the code.” Joe stared at the grim Arabic words that the desk lamp illuminated. “The terrorist attack will happen October 22nd, three weeks from Saturday.”
Brian’s disgruntled yawn penetrated the airwaves. “Three entire weeks away? Why couldn’t this have waited until morning’s light?”
Joe looked at the Arabic words again. No, he definitely hadn’t mistaken the message. “It’s on American soil.”
Dead silence. A quick sucking in of breath from an ocean away. Brian’s voice rose an octave. “This is going to be another 9/11.”
“Yeah.” Heaviness pressed against his chest as Joe scanned the message again.
“We have to stop this. You’ll redirect all your time to this attack.”
“Yes, sir.” Joe scrolled down the text. American lives lay in his hands and he had zero idea where the attack would happen.
“This should still your guilty conscience about marrying off the girl. Goodbye.” With a click, the phone line went dead.
On the table, Joe’s cell vibrated. Flight cancelled for repairs. You have been rescheduled.
Delayed? He had a meeting with Mariam’s uncle tomorrow in Saudi and a terrorist attack to stop. Yanking off his boots, he crashed onto the narrow cot made up with scratchy CIA-issue blankets.
He slammed his pounding head on the rubbery pillow.
It’s not as if he had the right to complain. Tomorrow, Mariam boarded a plane for a life sentence. The moment she stepped foot on Saudi soil, she’d have sealed her fate. In the Kingdom, a woman couldn’t even leave the house, let alone the country, without her male relative’s permission.
Friday, September 30th, 7:55 a.m.
Fall mums blossomed in perfectly mulched flower beds. Kay clenched her dissertation outline as her shoes made a clicking noise on the cobblestone path.
What if Dr. Benson’s request for an outline had been merely a sadistic move to drag out the pain before he expelled her from Harvard? Wind yanked at her slacks. If Dr. Benson didn’t like the papers she currently clamped in a death grip, she’d never graduate from, let alone teach at Harvard. She’d never have the opportunity to conduct research that would relieve the burden of prejudice from the backs of Muslim-American women.
A whistle sounded. A man in the crisp white shirt of a security guard rounded the bronze John Harvard statue.
Kay froze. The man swung a baton, his black hair windswept.
Not Joe. Thank goodness.
Last night. She shuddered. That expression on his face when he’d turned away . . . and asking for her phone number anyway? He must think she was loose. She wasn’t a slut.
She never had one-night-stands. Never.
Even the gusty wind couldn’t blow away the heat building on her face. Yanking open the glass door, she walked into Sever Hall.
A grandfather clock ticked importantly in the lobby. She forced a breath. If Dr. Benson accepted the dissertation idea, then in two more hours she needed to board a Boeing jet to Saudi Arabia. Two hours? Mom would flip if she heard this crazy, illegal scheme to fly under a fake passport.
Dry air flushed through Kay’s nose as she tried not to hyperventilate. She had her packed bags in her Prius. If she didn’t attempt this, she’d lose her last five years of graduate level work.
Breathe, just breathe. She stepped underneath the doorway, into the academic suite. The oak paneling closed in around her. No teachers’ aides in sight, only the quiet hum of the copying machine disturbed the deadness. She paused in front of Dr. Benson’s door. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
What if Dr. Benson considered it unethical to take on someone else’s identity? Maybe he’d called her here to arrest her? In her hands, she held the proof of attempted identity theft.
Her lungs burned. If she didn’t do this, she’d lose everything. She brought her knuckles against the door.
“Come in.”
She twisted the bronze handle.
/> Dr. Benson leaned back in his chair. He fingered a glossy new copy of the Inspire magazine. “This dissertation written at a middle school level too?”
The slick odor of Bath and Body Works’ peach flavor cream wafted from her moist hands. The silence boomed around her. She dropped her dissertation research on the desk. With a little plop of air, the papers fell against the boards. “I have a ticket to Saudi Arabia and intend to stay with a local businessman, Muhammad Al-Khatani, for a month. I will then write about the intrinsic prejudice of Western writers when reporting on Middle Eastern gender roles.”
Chair snapping to upright, Dr. Benson dropped his Inspire magazine. “That is remarkable, but how did you get a visa? Saudi doesn’t allow tourists.”
“I—” Kay bit her lip. What had she been thinking? He’d report her to the police. Maybe she should run now? At least Dr. Benson kicking her out of Harvard would only destroy all her dreams and her lifework, not land her in jail. Her knees trembled, her voice a squeak. “A friend gave me this.” She dropped Mariam’s passport on the thesis project.
Taking up the plastic, Dr. Benson turned it between his thin fingers. A smile ghosted across that normally down-turned mouth. “I’m truly impressed.”
Impressed? Kay bit her lip to keep from grinning. “You’ll accept my dissertation, Dr. Benson?”
“Hey, you might not be calling me that much longer.” Dr. Benson rested his corduroy elbow patches on the leather arms of his office chair. “Do a good job on this and I’ll choose you as my new colleague, to the tune of a fancy salary.”
“That would be . . .” her head swam, “more than I could even dare to hope for.” She saw herself now, wearing the thick robes of one who had completed a PhD, leading the undergrad students in procession on commencement, Mom and Dad looking down proudly from their front row seats. She’d use the new position to write journal articles that changed the way America viewed Muslims, make life better for women like her friends at the refugee center.
Technically, the dean selected new professors, but of course Dr. Benson would raise hell and threaten to leave for Yale if the dean didn’t follow his every whim.
Crossing around the desk, Dr. Benson took her hand. “Best wishes in the Kingdom, and remember. Don’t judge their culture by American standards. You’re not religious, are you?”
“Umm . . .” A daze surrounded her. To go from Harvard reject to favored grad student in one day? For once, she’d done something right. “No.”
“Good. I had one student who wrote some hogwash about Jesus being the one true god and Muhammad a blasphemer who derailed gender equality. I expect more well-evidenced claims from you.” Dr. Benson placed her dissertation in her hands.
“I won’t disappoint you.” She lifted her gaze to his. The moment seemed surreal. Earlier this year when she’d returned in disgrace from her Felipe insanity, she’d never have dreamed she’d be standing here. She was redeemed, not only in the eyes of Dr. Benson, but if she earned this teaching post, she’d make her parents proud too.
“Give me your American passport.”
“What?” She reached in her quilted handbag and touched the neatly sewed pages of the passport. Wouldn’t she need it?
Dr. Benson closed his cold fingers over hers and pried the passport from her. “I want you to fully integrate in the culture.”
She squirmed.
“Good travels, Ms. Bianchi.” Dr. Benson stuffed her passport into the pocket of his corduroy sports jacket. He raised his hand.
“Thank you.” Heart beating against her sweater, she crossed back out of the academic suite. She had Mariam’s passport; she didn’t actually need her American one, did she?
A Middle Eastern man wearing the green polo shirt of the lawn maintenance employees approached Benson’s office. The man’s name tag read Saeed Khan.
Kay leaned her head against the wall as her brain pounded. The fluorescent lights in the low hallway cast a fuzzy glow.
She lifted her gaze to the chair rail molding that decorated this ancient hall.
For four hundred years professors had walked these halls. In a few months, she could join that number. A heady feeling overwhelmed her.
“Hey, Kay.” A male voice said from the left.
She jumped.
Only a pace away from her, stood Joe, strong arms crossed against his chest. “How’s your class going with this Benson?”
He’d turned her down just last night as if he were too good for her and now he wanted to act like they were best buds? “PhD students don’t have classes, but yes, Dr. Benson’s understanding of Middle Eastern thought is beyond compare. When we were reading the Inspire magazine—”
Joe stiffened. “Benson passes out Al Qaeda’s Inspire magazines?”
She tried to fake a smile even as she squirmed inside her D. Fanni jacket. Oh, to throw her hands up over her face. No, she could act like an adult about last night for a few more moments before she flew halfway around the world and never saw him again. “Not usually. We focus on the Arabs’ literature, not their politics.” Medieval Arabic literature was her specialty. Kay circled around him, her heels clipping the hardwood floor.
Joe followed her. “Want to get coffee?” He held the door open for her and nodded to a gelato and coffee bar on the other side of Harvard Yard.
Kay glanced at him. “I have to hop a plane.”
“Nice. Where to?”
Did Joe suspect her of breaking international law with Mariam’s passport? Did security guards report that sort of thing to the cops? She gulped. “Vermont. To see a friend.”
“Have fun. Stay safe.” The cell on Joe’s belt buzzed. He reached for it and walked left.
Safe? She swallowed the rising panic and gave herself a shake. She’d probably be safer in Saudi Arabia than in the U.S. She fixated on the maroon mums.
At least Saudi Arabia didn’t have racism. She’d just read in the winter issue of Al Qaeda’s Inspire magazine that black males in the U.S. were exponentially more likely to be arrested than whites.
The wind whipped at her wool-blend jacket as she walked. Hands sweating, she clicked Speed Dial on her phone. “Hey, Mom. I’m headed to the Middle East. Dissertation stuff. Totally safe and university approved. I’m forwarding my mail to your address.”
“When will you be back?” Mom sounded tired, as if she’d spent all morning grading midterms. “We got three tickets for the presidential nominees’ debate on October 22nd at your university.” At least Mom wasn’t asking a million questions and sending her packing list suggestions. Weird. Midterms really must have Mom stressed.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll make sure I’m back by then. See you.” Dropping her cell into her purse, Kay clicked the pop lock on her key chain. Her Prius beeped.
She needed to drop a food packet off for the refugees and leave her apartment key at the center. The center had a list of refugees needing a place to stay. One of those families could use her apartment while she was off having Arabian Nights adventures, complete with a dashing Middle Eastern fiancé.
Pushing back the heart-racing anxiety, Kay summoned a smile. Let Joe Csontos, security guard, the man who’d mortifyingly rejected her last night, try to compete with that.
CHAPTER 5
Friday, September 30th, 9:15 a.m.
Black cloth slid around Kay’s arms, enveloping her. She fumbled with the buttons of the oversized blouse which gave her the appearance of at least an extra ten pounds. With a sigh, she shoved the last strands of her highlighted hair beneath the hijab she’d found in Mariam’s things.
Ta, da, de, dah. Kay’s pocket buzzed into life.
What, by the electronically linked avatar, must be Joe’s number flashed on the screen. A heat wave of embarrassment swept over her. Sorry I disappeared. Work phone call.
Did he recall that he’d rejected her? Click, clack, she tapped her thumbs against the screen. Driving to the airport. Can’t text. Besides, she never wanted to endure the embarrassment of talking to him again.
Beep. I can call instead of text.
Wham. She shoved her foot on the brake and hurtled to a halt before the eighth stoplight. Cell phone while driving, also illegal. Wait, was that a Connecticut law?
Sorry. Forgot we were in a nanny state. Have a good flight.
Nanny state! She loved New England. As the light turned green, she shoved hard on the gas and even harder against the dial button next to Joe’s number. “Massachusetts is not a nanny state!”
“Hi, Kay.” Joe sounded like he was smiling. “I thought you were driving.”
“I am driving.” She spun the wheel and lurched right around a tractor trailer. She hit the brakes. With a squeal, her Prius shot out of the way of the gas hog switching lanes.
“You know in that Islamic culture you love so much, women aren’t allowed to drive.”
“There weren’t cars when the Koran was written. It was the sixth century.” Kay swerved left onto Airport Drive below the magnificent yellows and reds of fall foliage and tried to forget that in mere hours she’d be six thousand miles away.
Joe’s voice pounded into her ear, intensifying the sick feeling washing over her.
The guy needed to go find a girlfriend who adored the Sean Hannity show and stop talking to her. Kay took the parking tag from the kiosk, slid underneath the yellow gate, and skidded into the long-term airport parking where the Kurdish family would pick her car up. Two and a half hours of familiarity until the international flight took off.
She glanced at her watch. Wait, her car clock was an hour slow. “Good-bye, Joe.”
Her maxi-skirt tangled around her legs as she rushed toward the glass doors. The wheeled luggage threatened to rip her arm off as the chill wind tore her hijab from its pins.
At the security line in Logan International Airport, she gripped Mariam’s passport. Sweat moistened the cover.
Kay’s heart pounded. If tampering with a smoke detector on a plane came with a five thousand dollar fine, how many years of prison did impersonating someone for an international flight carry?
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 5