Yeah, sure, he’d pulled a trigger before. Launched multiple bullets into that car bomb that rolled up from Fotur, shot a Taliban fighter at pointblank range. Joe clenched his fingers, his thumbprints smudging into his phone. Never, though, had he abandoned his own source.
Swinging his backpack up on the desk, Joe opened his laptop to do his job, stop a terrorist attack. Red highlighting marked the line of Arabic where he’d stopped translating last night.
A spark of electricity drove all jetlag from his body. The next sentence of the AQAP document read. Estimated death toll, four thousand.
Sunday, October 2nd, 2:12 p.m.
Thick tapestry blocked all but a sliver of intense sunshine. Silk sheets slid across Kay’s bare shoulders.
Rubbing her eyes, she pulled her head off the down pillows.
A digital clock gave off a red glare from the side table. 2:15 p.m.
An older woman glided into the room. In her hands, she held a silver tray heaped high with pastries. A large teapot sent up steam.
Swinging her feet to the Persian rug, Kay took the other end of the tray. “Sorry I slept so late.”
The woman startled.
Kay held her breath. Had this woman known Mariam and now recognized her as an imposter?
“La taqlaq, do not worry. The ladies of the house always sleep until the afternoon.” The gnarled woman brushed off her help and set the tray of sweet cakes by her bedside.
Kay closed her fingers on the fried end of a pastry. The taste of honey, some kind of cinnamon-like spice, and a fruit she couldn’t identify melted in her mouth. This thing must have enough calories to sink an elephant, but oh how delicious.
The woman started dusting around lampshades.
“Where’s the closest gym?” Kay bit into another pastry. She had signed up for the Lion’s Club 5K in Oakham, Massachusetts, four weeks from this Saturday, and if she planned to eat like this, she certainly needed to train.
“You cannot go there.” Horror registered on the woman’s angular features. “There are men in bathing suits.”
“So?” Kay tilted her head. Who worked out in bathing suits? Or was the lady talking about the gym’s pool? She would like to go for a swim.
“Bathing suits,” the woman repeated, more than emphatically.
“Ok.” Kay grimaced. Surely Saudi Arabia lifted abaya rules for health purposes? “A woman’s gym perhaps?”
“You must ask Efendim Muhammad.” The woman dipped her head and moved backward.
Kay glanced on the ground where a black cloth that looked like an abaya lay in a heap. No sign of Mariam’s pink suitcase. “Do you know where my luggage is?”
“Your clothes were old, ugly.”
“Isn’t that the point of modesty?” Kay wrinkled her nose. The oversized thrift store clothes she’d filled that suitcase with possessed not one hint of fashion. Good thing Dr. Benson had taken her American passport if this was the amount of privacy she had to expect in Saudi Arabia.
“I have had the shopkeepers send new ones. Your uncle has said to choose what you wish and the rest will be sent back.” The woman swung open the closet door.
Kay gasped. An array of designer clothes in flashy colors and anything but modest hem lengths overflowed the closet. Was that an Abercrombie label? “Surely, I can’t actually wear this here?”
“These are the women’s quarters. Who would see you?”
“Oh . . .” Kay ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. “That makes it okay?” She picked up a white tank top with a ridiculously high price tag. Turning, Kay walked to the window and pulled up the heavy wooden blind slats. Flashy wedge sandals stared back at her from the impressively modern closet. Weren’t religious people supposed to oppose high heels?
“No!” With a shriek, the woman jumped at the blind. The wood slats crashed down. “That window leads to the street. Men will see you.”
Kay peered out a sliver in the tilted slats. “There’s not even a house on the other side of the road.”
“They come on their automobiles. Mistress, you must not.” The woman clenched her hand over Kay’s, the woman’s work-worn palms rough.
“I can’t open my own bedroom window?” Kay stared at her
“No, never, mistress.” Stepping back, the slight woman bowed her head.
So much for getting her daily allotment of vitamin D. Kay turned back to the depressingly darkened room. “What’s your name? And you can call me K—Mariam.”
The woman hopped, her smock bouncing around her loose pants. With a little bow, the nameless housekeeper left.
Poor woman, she looked overworked. After getting dressed, Kay ventured out the bedroom door. Intricate Arabic art hung everywhere. One needlepoint displayed a stunning 3-D blaze of colors and shapes. She peeked into an empty room. A picture window spread out over a courtyard. A red-tipped thermometer dangled outside, the glass revealing a blisteringly high level of degrees, even in Celsius.
A blast of A/C sent a shiver through Kay.
In front of her, female voices rose. Kay turned the door handle. Three women, all darker skinned than Saudis, worked in a crowded kitchen.
“Good morning.” Kay let the door swing shut behind her. “Well, afternoon.”
The women startled then started chopping meat at a desperate pace.
“Tea?” The housekeeper she’d met earlier smiled and extended a gold-rimmed glass tea cup.
“Uh, thank you.” Kay took one sip. The sugar-steeped liquid coated her throat like a disease. “What about kale? Tofu?” Anything kinder to the waistline than pastries?
The women gave her blank stares.
Kay forced down one more sip of sugar with a side of tea and curved around the wide kitchen island.
“The male servants are outside the inner corridor. You will be safe up until the rose gate.” The housekeeper inclined her head.
“Safe?” Kay cocked one eyebrow.
The woman pointed to her tank top.
“Got it covered.” Kay held up the black folds of her abaya and moved to the hallway. A few doors down a songbird panel divided the house in half. The wooden painting split down the center, making two doors.
At the top, the tall panel turned into a lattice. Carved shapes and beautiful curlicues filled the space between it and the ceiling.
Unlike last night, this time she’d get it right. Glancing to the bronze-edged mirror hanging in the hallway, Kay slipped on her abaya. Hooks locked the fabric in place. She tied the head scarf tight, obscuring every strand of hair. With a nod, she smiled at her Saudi-style reflection. She needed to include a picture of herself in her dissertation notes.
Her pocket beeped. The anti-NSA signal app that Joe had coerced her into downloading flashed across the screen.
Hey, it’s Joe. Ready for the snowstorm this weekend?
His incessant texting bordered on harassment. She clicked the ignore button. The message receded along with three other unanswered Joe texts.
Her black robe swished around her legs. With the air-conditioning, this abaya didn’t even feel hot. Covering was an act of feminism really, forcing men to focus on women’s brains.
She pushed the painted doors. With a creak, they swung open.
White pillars rose high. An exercise center stood to the right, full of weights and equipment. Perhaps twenty feet away, two men sat at a low coffee table. Uncle Muhammad talked to a blond-haired Westerner.
“It has been too long since I saw you, my friend Joe.” Muhammad lifted a glass tea cup to his lips. His English was choppy, but not atrocious.
“Business has kept me away.” The blond-haired man turned and dipped pita bread into hummus.
A gasp blew from Kay’s lungs. That man seated not twenty feet from her was Joe! He had to be. Who else had those blue eyes? His voice she recognized too, that distinct, bold way he spoke. Uncle Muhammad had even called him “my friend Joe.”
With a shake of her head, she looked again. That man couldn’t be Joe. Only five
minutes ago, Joe had texted her from Harvard campus.
Gliding over the tiled floor, she moved behind a pillar and slid her hand into the deep pockets of the abaya. Her thumbs drummed the texting screen. Hey Joe. Call me.
One second. Two. Breathless, she stared at this Joe doppelganger. Was living in the land of Arabian Nights affecting her brain? Perhaps she was coming down with some kind of psychosis. Joe currently walked circles over Harvard cobblestone. He couldn’t be here.
Beep. The blond-haired man’s pocket buzzed. He glanced at Uncle Muhammad as he pulled out a phone.
A blue lightning bolt seared across the phone’s gray case. “Excuse me.” Holding the phone under the coffee table, Joe tapped his fingers against the screen.
Beep, a message appeared on hers. In a meeting. Call soon.
Kay stepped around the corner. “What kind of meetings do security guards have?” Additionally, what the blazes was security guard Joe doing in Saudia Arabia speaking to a wealthy businessman?
Ever so slightly, Joe startled.
“Mariam.” Uncle Muhammad jerked to a stand, his jean hems falling over his crocodile leather shoes. “What are you doing here?”
Breaking international law to hop a flight to Saudi Arabia and impersonate his niece for selfish gain. Stepping around Muhammad, past the coffee table, she dropped on the sofa cushion next to Joe. “I’m Mariam Al-Khatani, Muhammad’s niece. And your name is?”
She didn’t extend her hand. Respecting Saudi customs and all that. Unless Harvard had started an exchange security guard program with Saudi Arabia, Joe had lied to her.
Joe jerked a foot down the black leather couch, horror registering on every pore of his light skin.
She grabbed his wrist. “Who are you? Some kind of international money launderer?” Had he asked her to download apps to steal her bank account info? Maybe he was an assassin hired by the mob. Her heart rate increased.
“Mariam!” The name came out like a high-pitched yell. Uncle Muhammad jolted to his feet and looked ready to barrel between the two of them.
Before he could, Joe lurched over the sofa edge away from her grip. He ran his gaze over her black abaya.
“You have insulted my guest, dishonored our home.” Muhammad’s bellow filled the open space.
Oh that’s right. Hospitality was an important part of Middle Eastern culture. Even if the guest in question had a high probability of being wanted by Interpol. Surely Muhammad couldn’t be this angry just over her touching Joe’s wrist, could he? She’d only bent gender roles a little.
The spot between her shoulder blades tingled. She forced herself to take a breath. Assassins stabbing people between their shoulder blades was something that happened to heroines in movies, not her. More than likely security guard Joe had a perfectly reasonable explanation for appearing in this house.
Despite her reassuring self-talk, chills ran up and down her fabric covered arms. “I am sorry, Uncle Muhammad. I could go get your guest some sweet cakes?”
That sounded submissive enough, didn’t it? Getting to her feet, Kay tried to make her roiling stomach calm as she sized up Joe. Wait, Mariam had mentioned the CIA and Joe in the same breath. What if Joe worked for the U.S. government in some capacity?
“You do not touch men! What has America done to you? Go to your room.” The words barreled from Uncle Muhammad’s throat with the force of a semi-truck.
Seriously, she was twenty-seven years old. “Ana as’fi, I am sorry I offended you, Uncle. Please tell me how I have erred so I no longer strain your gracious patience.” Kay imitated the housekeeper’s slight bow and motioned to the chair her uncle had risen from. She’d taken a mediation elective junior year of undergrad. Time to put that skill set into practice.
“Go to your room.” Uncle Muhammad’s skin reddened from his white dress shirt to his curly black hair. He stabbed one thick finger toward the doorway.
“Fine.” She moved back to the painted door. No wonder Mariam hadn’t wanted to live with this uncle.
As her flip-flops slapped across the tile entrance, Kay heard Joe start some delusional line of protest about never having spoken to her before. She needed to apologize to Mariam for calling her paranoid. The U.S. government truly must be watching her every move if they’d tracked her to Saudi Arabia. Why, though?
Hand on the paneled door that led to the women’s quarters, Kay looked back. She felt like a disciplined puppy slinking off with its tail between its legs. Not a good feeling. Dr. Benson would scarcely approve of her resisting Middle Eastern culture by returning to the room though.
“It was nothing. As a guest, I’m not offended.” Joe’s voice drifted across the expanse of tile. He stood still, desperation tingeing his syllables. He must truly fear that she’d expose his cover to Muhammad. Perhaps she should? Who knew what wickedness the U.S. government had plotted against the Al-Khatanis. Back in Cambridge, Mariam had certainly seemed afraid.
Uncle Muhammad cursed and rotated toward her. Kay stepped through the paneled door. It clapped shut behind her, shutting her in the women’s quarters.
The curse rang in her ears. Had her supposed uncle from this beautiful culture of poetry and Arabian Nights directed the expletive at her?
CHAPTER 8
Sunday, October 2nd, 5:05 p.m.
Head pounding, Kay leaned over her crossed legs. The bed’s turquoise coverlet spread around her. Her throat felt scratchy as she drew her pen across the ragged notebook page. A little lamp, its shade made out of filigreed lace, lent light to the room as the sun sank.
Dissertation note #7: Host duties are taken much more seriously in Middle Eastern culture, than in Western culture.
What kind of uncle screamed at his niece? Tears welled in Kay’s eyes. She swallowed them down as she fought back the urge to buy the next plane ticket home. She had a dissertation to write about the beauty of Middle Eastern culture and a professor post to earn at Harvard University. Just now though, she felt too hungry and miserable to pursue dreams.
Why did Uncle Muhammad barring her from that room irk her so much? She didn’t even want to converse with Joe. Separate but parallel gender institutions was a beautiful characteristic of Middle Eastern culture.
Rapid footsteps sounded.
With the grate of hinges, her door flung open. Uncle Muhammad stood in her doorway.
A flash of adrenaline shot through her as she jolted to her feet.
Uncle Muhammad clenched his fist. “Woman, you have disgraced my honor. My brother never should have let you go to America.”
Kay shoved the dissertation paper into her pocket. The ruled paper crumpled loudly. Only two paces parted her and this stranger.
Silence pulsed through the shadows around her.
Muhammad closed the two paces to one. He only stood a few inches taller than her, but his biceps bulged. A trickle of sweat dribbled down his solid neck. Two hundred and fifty pound barbells had filled that exercise center she’d passed.
He grabbed her wrist.
Panic flashed through her. “Stop.” She jerked against him.
His strong fingers dug into her arm.
What was this? Her chest tightened. She started to wheeze. Even her own voice sounded worlds away. “I’m sorry for anything I did. I forgot. It wasn’t on purpose. Let go of me, okay?”
“You did not forget. You defied me.” Uncle Muhammad’s glare melted his brown eyes into molten anger. “You embarrassed me in front of a guest.” Though wrath filled his every syllable, he loosened his grip.
Kay’s breathing quieted in response. Seriously though, her uncle needed to start emulating his prophet’s peace and love. “Joe’s an American. I’m sure he’s used to encountering a woman, but I’m sorry and I’ll do better next time.” She touched Muhammad’s shoulder as she pried her wrist away. The muscles of his arm felt like rock.
Muhammad jerked to his full height. “You mock me.”
She blinked. “No, I don’t. I was agreeing with you.”
With
the force of a sledgehammer, he struck his dark hand against her cheek. The power of the blow flung her back. She stumbled and grabbed the edge of her bed. Her foot twisted beneath her. Her mouth went limp as she stared at the raging man.
“When I talk to you, you listen. You do not rebel.” He clenched the bedpost with one hand as he stood over her, glaring down.
“You just hit me.” Her lower lip trembled. “That’s domestic violence.” Thrusting away from him, she shoved herself to a stand and caught up the lamp, barricading herself with the three-foot-high object.
With an explosion of force, the lamp cord strained and broke. Muhammad wrenched the lamp from her and slammed it against her.
Glass shattered. She fell against the bed, shards of the lightbulb scattering around her.
Breath coming in gasps, she crawled over the mattress and threw herself to the other side. The width of the bed separated her from this monster. His body blocked the only exit to the room.
“You will spend tonight memorizing five hadiths and remembering your heritage. Islam, the word means submission. You are a Saudi, not a degenerate American.” Muhammad unclenched his fists and walked to the door, the anger sliding off his shoulders to puddle with the shattered glass.
Her voice caught in her throat. Her whole body shook as she stared at his retreating back. “I love Saudi Arabia. I love your culture. How could you do this?” She clenched her throbbing cheek. Red blood smeared across her hand. Tears streamed down her face, the taste of them mingling with blood.
A discomforted expression played across Muhammad’s face. Gaze averted, he forced a shrug. “It was nothing. You deserved much more. You should see what Abdullah does after you marry him.”
Liar. No one could be as hateful as he, her own uncle. Kay took a choking breath. Blood trickled onto her clothes. She needed a doctor.
“When you wed Abdullah next week, then you will see how kind and tolerant I have been.”
“Next week!” Her knees went weak. She grabbed the bedpost. She needed to buy a ticket to America, tonight.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 8