Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  She leaned back against the booth and smiled at him. “Bible concordances are illegal in Saudi Arabia so you’ve set an unfair task. Want to share a bowl of hummus with pitas?” Across the restaurant, one mutwa still glared, but she bumped her leg against Joe’s under the table. She needed a fake ID to survive another few weeks in this country.

  “There’s not a verse like that in the Bible.”

  “I’m sure there are verses just as horrid in the Bible.” She ran her finger up to the right corner of the menu. “This one?”

  “You can use my VPN and web search it. Actually use the Duck Duck Go search engine. Much more secure.” He extended his phone.

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Joe. You’re a great guy. Neither of us is going to change the other’s mind.” She smiled at him. She didn’t have a lot of red state friends, but she’d be proud to add Joe to that number.

  “Discussion changes minds.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Just look at the election coverage. How about we split a kabsa? My treat.” She pressed her thumbnail against the picture of rice, vegetables, and lamb.

  “I liked it better when you argued with me.” His expression glum, he glanced at the picture she pointed to.

  “I want to wrap up this dissertation before Muhammad gets back from his honeymoon. Then I can get out of the country while he’s gone.” She still had to email Dr. Benson a dissertation progress report tonight. How did one approach the topic of mutwas with cultural sensitivity?

  “My boss, he thinks you could help us learn some things.” Joe’s hair looked like desert sand, lighter even than his skin.

  “What things?” She lowered the menu.

  “Abdullah is money laundering U.S. dollars. He’s wanted by Interpol and my boss wants you to interrogate his wives about Abdullah’s financial activities in Yemen.” A hardness entered Joe’s face, his thick neck rigid. “I think you should go to the embassy now.”

  “I’ll just fly home on Mariam’s passport. Simpler, no getting you in trouble.” Kay reached into her purse for lip moisturizer. The guy had already risked enough for her coming into Muhammad’s house.

  “You can’t.”

  “Why?” Kay spread the lip balm. Her dry lips sucked in the moisture.

  “Your male relative has to sign the exit visa. Muhammad won’t agree.”

  With a smack, her lip balm clattered against the table. “You’re kidding me.” The cylinder bounced onto the floor to roll into the dust beneath the table legs.

  “Nope. He gets a text to his phone if you even try to leave the country by car or board a plane.” Joe had laid his hand flat on the table, but every other muscle in his frame bunched.

  “Wow.” She tugged her sagging jaw back up. She would have to take Joe up on the embassy thing. Also, when she emailed Dr. Benson her dissertation notes tonight, she’d ask him to priority mail her passport. It should get here in the next two weeks. “We should order. I’ve got to get back before Muhammad comes looking for me.” How did one culturally sensitively write about imprisoning a woman like an underage child?

  “If you want to do it, then meet me tomorrow at ten a.m. in the Salaam Mall for the details. I don’t recommend it though.”

  “Of course I’m doing it.” She rested her chin on her hand, elbow pressed up on the cold table and grinned at him through the shroud of black. “Do you think red state voters have all the patriotism?”

  “Most of it.” He didn’t even smile.

  “I’m just as supportive of the American values of law and order as you.” She touched a picture on the menu. “Can you tell the cashier this one? He was furious when I talked to him.”

  Rather than answering, Joe looked into her eyes. His mouth possessed a stiffness that mirrored the set of his shoulders. “Be careful. It’s more dangerous than you know.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Wednesday, October 5th, 10:05 a.m.

  “Abdullah. Welcome.” Muhammad motioned him onto the low couch by the glass coffee table.

  Abdullah’s woefully outdated thobe spread about his hairy legs. The man’s wiry beard looked like something a stinking Bedouin would sport and no cologne sweetened the man’s odor. He picked up a mango slice, untrimmed fingernail digging into the fruit.

  Muhammad suppressed a sigh. He never would understand the attraction to religious fervor. Fingers spread on the glass table top, Muhammad leaned closer. “I have it all arranged. Joe will come to the bachelor’s party. I will give him a drugged drink.”

  Abdullah raised his gaze, brown eyes stark. “Go on.”

  “I will take him out to my SUV. Your men will meet me five miles away from the campsite by the crossroads.” He’d waste an hour of his wild bachelor party night wandering through desert sands and endure Abdullah crashing his wedding, but such was life. He’d bribed a servant who worked for Alma’s father to describe Alma to him. Mariam had lied. His bride was stunning.

  “I and my men can come to the tent. Better yet, we’ll all attend your bachelor’s party.”

  “It is much too dangerous for you, my friend.” Muhammad only barely kept himself from leaping into the air, rending his clothes, and screaming. Abdullah had already ruined his wedding. He was not cancelling the Asian strippers, copious amounts of locally distilled siddique, or hookah that he’d already brought to the tents. Speaking of which, he better drug Joe at the start of the party, before he got way too drunk to drive.

  “Ok. I will take him to my place in the desert after, find out what he knows, then bury him in the desert sand.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Now could the man please leave? Muhammad glanced to the dark finish of the cherry sideboard behind him.

  “I need you to feed the CIA false information insinuating that the attack will happen in Denver during one of their lewd music concerts.”

  “Uh-huh.” Muhammad could hear that cherry sideboard calling out to him, begging him to swing open the door and reveal the sparkling DVD cases. He had a new movie to watch, PG-13, lots of action, and a bit of intrigue. The title was Dr. Strange.

  “Tell your niece to pack warm clothes in her bridal bags. I have a jet headed to Yemen right after the wedding Friday night.”

  “Yemen?” Muhammad dropped the mango slice. It hit the Turkish rug with a splat. Juice sprayed.

  Abdullah nodded. “She will live in Yemen and I will visit her there.”

  The stickiness of fruit juice oozed from Muhammad’s hand onto his ten-thousand-dollar couch. His heart pounded. “Do you have a house? The Koran says you must treat all wives equally.” Abdullah couldn’t throw Mariam into a dirty shack with no water.

  “I need a wife in Yemen.” Abdullah took up a glass tea cup, with as little concern as if his base in the Yemen mountains wasn’t a makeshift contraption completely unsuitable for the gentler sex. “What do you expect me to be, celibate?”

  “You already have a wife there. I heard a woman’s voice on the phone.” Muhammad felt his pulse bulging in his veins. With Abdullah’s watsa he couldn’t confront him, but Yemen? That dung heap of an Al Qaeda camp in Yemen wasn’t fit for a pig, let alone Mariam. Also, what about a honeymoon? Did the man have no romantic tendencies? He had two weeks on the beaches of Italy planned for Alma and him after their wedding night. A bride needed time to become acquainted with her husband.

  Muhammad glanced to the mirror overhanging the buffet behind him. He needed to wrap Alma’s bridal present, a gold necklace with made-to-match pearl earrings. Green emeralds swam in the gold casing. He’d give it to her on their wedding night, a gift for the mother of his children, the woman he’d spend a lifetime with.

  “She is not my wife. She is a Yazidi, sold here from a mujahideen in Iraq, a slave, not a marriageable Muslim girl.”

  Back to the unsightly present with religious fanatic Abdullah El-Amin. No matter how many times the man quoted Koran verses about slaves, the whole slave thing made him want to puke. “As you say.” Muhammad bent his gaze. The slick feeling of guilt churned around
the honey in his stomach. Mariam deserved a fine house, the chance to select beautiful furniture, decorate lavishly, and invite her women friends to tea. What kind of uncle was he, consigning her to a leaky tin roof and cinder block hut?

  “This afternoon I will bring my old wives to meet my new wife.”

  A flood of apprehension washed away Muhammad’s guilt. His hands went so cold they didn’t even feel sticky anymore. “I’m sure your wives are very busy with only two more days until they must pack the children up for Bahrain. Would your wives not prefer to meet my niece at the wedding?” After it was no longer his problem that his niece was an Americanized harridan.

  “No, we come tomorrow. May Allah’s peace be with you.” Abdullah extended his hand.

  Suppressing a groan, Muhammad took Abdullah’s hand, then pressed his hand to his heart in the sign of sincerity. Now he not only had mango juice streaked across his couch, but also smeared on his best dress shirt. Abdullah would never notice the juice stains on his own filthy, sun-wrinkled hands.

  Perhaps the harsh conditions of Yemen would tame Mariam’s rebellious streak. The marriage might be good for her, connect her with Allah, put her on the path to jannah. Save her soul even, because the way she acted now she was more than likely to be one of the unlucky Muslims Allah consigned to hell for not measuring up.

  As Abdullah walked out the door, Muhammad tugged open a cabinet drawer. He closed his fingers on the Dr. Strange DVD. The case slid through his moist palm. If he’d known Abdullah planned to house Mariam in Yemen, he’d not have agreed to the match.

  Too late now. With Abdullah’s watsa, he couldn’t risk jerking away the man’s bride only forty-eight hours before the wedding.

  Wednesday, October 5th, 10:35 a.m.

  A brown door confronted Joe. A stick figure design of a mosque steeple and a man decorated the door. Arabic letters spelled “men’s prayer room.” He swallowed.

  If word got back to Abdullah that Kay had asked questions about Yemen, her life could be at risk. Did that make Brian Schmidt modify his orders? Of course not. At least she had her American passport and the fake uncle she lived with worked on the right side, catching terrorists.

  Slipping past him, Kay slid her fingers around the door handle. Her shoulder blade brushed against his chest, a smell reminiscent of morning dew and spring flowers penetrating her abaya.

  “I think this is a bad idea.” Joe rotated toward the winding hallway of the Salaam Mall. No one stood in the corridor.

  “Two hours until the zuhr prayer. Who would catch us? Besides, this headscarf is strangling me.” Kay pushed the brown door. The heavy hinges creaked. Rich carpet covered the dark space, brown chair molding and can lights decorating the ceiling. The large room stretched out, empty.

  A footstep sounded in the hall.

  “Quick, that’s the mutwas.” Kay ducked in the room.

  Around the corner of the long hallway, Joe saw the flash of robes of the two mutwas who’d made them dodge in and out of shops for the last hour.

  He walked into the prayer room. Sunlight glimmered through a gap in the curtain that hung over a single window. The latch raised and the window only stood three feet above ground level. Joe shoved the window all the way open. He grabbed a shelf full of Korans and jerked it across the door, making a barrier. “Ok, but at the first sound of noise, jump out the window.”

  Releasing the Velcro strap of her hijab, Kay let the black cloth fall away from her. The highlights in her hair shimmered in the crack of sunshine. Behind her, the hot breeze puffed at the heavy curtain. An hour speaking with her had passed like a moment. In Cambridge, she gave driving lessons to refugees and she was raising funds for a 5K next month to benefit research efforts to help children with Down syndrome. She didn’t even know God, but she shared agape love better than most Christians.

  With a flick of her hand, Kay let the abaya drop from her shoulders.

  He couldn’t take his gaze off her. She looked magical, like the mysterious girl named Khalwa from Al-Ramadi’s poems. The gold necklace she wore snuggled in the concave below her throat, her skin glistening against the gold.

  “What are you looking at, cowboy?” She put her hand on her waist and jutted one hip out, as if teasing him.

  “Kansas has farmers not cowboys.” The glimmers of sunshine pooled around her feet as if forming a portal to another world. He stood there looking at this woman so unlike any other he’d met before.

  “Really, no cattle? I bet you owned one of those straw-brimmed rancher hats as a kid though.” Kay took a sharp step closer. She traced her finger across the side of his hair, a teasing smile on her lips.

  His breath stopped.

  “Bet you had a set of pistols too. Played cowboys and Indians, the non-PC, shoot the Native Americans version?” She brushed her hand across his hip pocket, her thumb tracing over his army issue belt. Her eyes glinted with a teasing mirth.

  If he touched her hand, would she let him? She stretched her other hand out.

  His pocket buzzed. She stepped back, breaking the mood. Ghastly timing for a text. He fumbled for his phone. Muhammad Al-Khatani’s number flashed on the screen. I am having my bachelor party Friday after sunset. Will you come?

  Bachelor party, not the normal CIA handler description. Still, he hadn’t found anything out about the ensuing terrorist attack by more traditional means. Joe looked to Kay. “I have to answer this. Work. Sorry.”

  As he walked away from her, he started typing. Sure thing. Text me the address. Welcome to a night of a smoke-filled room and male-only chit-chat without a woman in sight, very different from western bachelor parties and a sight healthier. Except for the lungs.

  Kay flopped on the floor, no chair or bench in this wide space. “I was harassed three times on the walk here. Three times. Some random man on the sidewalk fussed, ‘Where’s your male guardian?’ before allowing me to pass.”

  “If Saudi had a second amendment, I’d buy you a gun.” Joe sat cross-legged next to her. He inhaled musty air and let it out. He had to ask her to spy. Brian hadn’t given him a choice.

  “Does that pickup line actually work for you?” Kay raised her dark eyelashes, her brilliant colored lips curved.

  He felt his neck flush. She’d mocked the strictness of his religious upbringing yesterday and she didn’t know the half of it. Nor did Kay know what happened to his twin sister or how that had shaken his faith. He’d almost walked away from church more than once through the years, almost labeled all religion as a propaganda attempt aimed at control and moved on. Telling Kay that though would scarcely aid him in converting her.

  “Tell me more about Abdullah’s illegal activities.” She scooted next to him, her crossed knee rubbing up against his. With a smile, she leaned back on her hands and looked up at him. The silky folds of her shirt swished back around her dark shoulders. Her lips were as vivid a red as her painted fingernails.

  “The U.S. government wants to know where in Yemen he’s funneling the money through.” Rather, where the AQAP had their terrorist bases. If Kay knew anything about international finance she’d see through Brian’s flimsy cover story. Joe watched her.

  “What does Abdullah do with the money he launders?” Kay rested her elbows on her crossed knees. Her arm rounded around the base of her elbow.

  She was smart all right, but not about this kind of stuff. What if Brian’s orders got her killed? “That’s classified.” Joe stood. He had Imam Al-Ghamedi’s group this morning. “Can I drive you home? Well, closer to home, assuming Muhammad’s not at the house this morning.”

  “No, I’m fine. I need to explore this beautiful Saudi culture. It all makes sense now, you know. Muhammad’s awful because he and Abdullah are wanted criminals.”

  “Don’t say that aloud.” He frowned. Also, Muhammad worked on the right side, but maybe she’d take more care if she feared the man she lived with.

  “To think, I almost judged the entire Saudi culture by one criminal, same as a Midwestern talk sho
w host.” Kay shook her head, flicking her black hair across her chest. “I shouldn’t have griped so much about Saudi customs either. Where is my cultural sensitivity?”

  Joe pressed his mouth together. For as smart as Kay was, she sure could be an idiot about cultural awareness and all that liberal dogma.

  Footsteps sounded outside the hallway. Joe twisted.

  Kay gasped.

  Hiding out in a men’s prayer room, not the brightest idea Kay had ever invented. Though he could only blame himself for going along with it. Mom used to preach against the “brain fog women cast over men” as a caution not to date.

  The metal door handle twisted. Someone wiggled at the handle then shoved. The bookshelf barrier he’d placed rocked.

  Lunging to the window, Joe jerked up the sash. He held out his hand. Abaya and headscarf flung over her shoulder, Kay swung one leg out the window. Her tight jeans caught on the metal window frame. Hands on hers, he helped her down into the empty alley.

  Ducking under the sash, he scrambled after her. She smiled at him. “Thanks. You don’t think it was culturally insensitive of us to invade their prayer room, do you?”

  He suppressed a groan. He needed to get Kay out of Saudi Arabia before she “culturally sensitively” got herself killed.

  Wednesday, October 5th, 11:57 a.m.

  Legs crossed, Joe sat on the silk cushion as the scent of tea and cinnamon rose around him. Scarcely the setting one would envision for plotting murderous acts of terrorism.

  The youth gathered around Imam Al-Ghamedi in this narrow living room. No stick of Western furniture or electronic device corrupted the scene, a sign of how much the host despised the West. Or perhaps he couldn’t afford to buy any. An ant pattered across the worn tile of the tiny house.

  Imam Al-Ghamedi raised hairy arms high, his white thobe falling back to his elbows. “The nation is corrupt, the poor are oppressed. The prophet, peace be upon him, worked justice and tore down the strongholds of corruption.”