Alma’s aunt slapped her hand across Alma’s cheek. “Stop that. You are a lucky girl. I would gladly marry such a man of faith as Abdullah.”
She had to find a way to get Alma out of here! Kay rushed to the window. Her skirt tangled in her sandals. The hem tore as she yanked back three layers of tulle and heavy drapery. No latch adorned the immovable panes.
Beneath the glass, the waters of the bay shimmered three terrifying stories down. Even if she broke the glass, they’d never survive the fifty-foot fall.
Alma’s aunt threw abayas at them. “Come. Abdullah’s men will escort us to the wedding hall.”
No! A sense of foreboding as dark as the midnight sky fell over her. Kay glanced left, then right, but Alma obeyed and her aunt already had her hand on the door.
Kay threw the abaya shroud over herself. Once she got down to the hall and met Joe, then together they’d find a way to save Alma from wedding a terrorist.
As Kay followed Alma, men drew into a circle around them. The men’s black bisht jackets covered their white thobes. They had guns slung across their shoulders.
Guns at a wedding? Kay’s heart pounded. She twisted her gaze back and forth. The heavy veil hanging over her niqab made sight difficult.
Should she try to run? Jump over that balcony? Only the faint glow of moonlight lit this window-lined hall. The armed men swept Alma and her aunt on. She had to rescue Alma.
The doors of the banquet hall creaked open a slit. Yellow light poured out as Alma slipped in. Kay glanced to the balcony again. Would those men shoot her if she ran?
Even if she sprinted to that balcony, how would she get down?
From the women’s hall, Alma’s aunt beckoned her.
No men with guns would patrol the women’s hall. Kay turned away from the balcony. She’d go in the wedding hall and wait for Joe.
Friday, October 7th, 11:55 p.m.
Black bishts filled the men’s side of the wedding reception, men’s red-checked ghutrahs contrasting with the black robes at what should have been his wedding day.
Muhammad scowled into the fountain of the five-star banquet room that he’d paid for.
“Where is Joe?” Abdullah’s cold presence invaded the room. He’d banished the wedding photographers, probably the musicians too, and brought in Yemen-trained terrorists slinging guns over the flowing robes of their bishts. This felt like a war zone, not a wedding.
All Mariam’s fault. Muhammad kicked the fountain’s base. If she hadn’t shamed the family honor, he’d be five minutes away from acquiring a bride.
“If Joe’s not here by midnight, I’m proceeding with my marriage. I’ll expect you to find some other way to kidnap him while I enjoy my beautiful bride.”
Muhammad clenched his fist. He’d spent all the money for this luxurious wedding and the dowry, all for Abdullah to get a bride. How could Mariam do this to him? He’d even had to throw in an extra five thousand riyals to get the family to agree to Alma being a third wife to Abdullah rather than his only wife. Abdullah possessed wealth untold, but would he pay him back? Of course not.
With a sniff, Abdullah scratched under his nose. The man’s breath sounded congested. He glanced at his watch. “Eleven fifty-seven p.m.”
“I’ll go into the women’s reception with you and finish things with Mariam.” Words he thought he’d never have to say. Muhammad glared at the chandelier. The women in his family had always acted respectably. No shame had sullied the Al-Khatani name for generations. He’d take Mariam out to the bay and drown her there. Perhaps her blood would not only redeem his family honor, but also purge her sins so Allah would allow her to enter jannah.
Eleven fifty-nine p.m. read the bronze clock hanging above a marble column. Abdullah gestured to Muhammad.
Muhammad nodded. Time to enter the women’s reception. Guess Joe wasn’t coming.
Saturday, October 8th, 12:01 a.m.
Music filled the banquet hall. The haunting tunes of Arabian Nights that Kay had often listened to while studying for a midterm wrapped around her. Female singers and dancers performed in this great room entirely filled with women. She glanced at the henna etched across her fingernails and hands in reddish-brown curlicues.
“The grooms and imam will arrive now.” Alma’s aunt shoved Alma and Kay toward the raised stage.
Alma touched her shoulder and leaned close. “If my aunt lectures me on the duties of a wife to obey her husband one more time, I’m going to barf. Also, if I’m marrying your groom, who are you marrying?” The girl’s tearstains had dried and she’d summoned a smile.
“No one’s marrying anyone,” Kay said. She had to get Alma out of here. Did armed men still block their exit? Where was Joe?
With a new coat of makeup, Alma seemed to have resigned herself to her fate. How did a teenager find that much inner strength? She couldn’t let Alma be bartered away to this fifty-something terrorist.
A surreal feeling hung over Kay. The heavy doors creaked open. Women whipped out headscarves and pulled robes around their shoulders.
The gaping double doors revealed men, dozens and dozens of men, no sign of guns though. Did they hide weapons beneath their black jackets?
Four men entered. Muhammad, Abdullah, a man who looked like Alma’s father, and a gray-bearded imam. No sign of Joe.
The doors thudded shut, imprisoning her. Kay’s heart pounded. The sequin-covered wedding dress slid off her clavicle.
She backed up, her ridiculously puffy skirt twirling with each step. Tall windows let in moonlight.
Muhammad focused his gaze on her. He’d only agreed not to kill her if Joe married her.
She ran for the windows. The glass felt cold against her hands as she struggled with the panes. The window locked shut.
All around her women chattered, the mood eerily festive. She glanced from laden tables to vaulted ceilings. Only those gilded double doors led out of this ballroom.
Muhammad’s black bisht swayed against his legs as he walked past rows of tables and candle-heated warming trays of banquet food. Women’s cheerful whispers continued, all gazes fixed on Alma, the beautiful bride, and Abdullah, the lucky bridegroom.
Pace steady, Muhammad closed the distance between her and him, one thudding footstep at a time.
Her breath came in gasps. Seizing a chair, Kay slammed it against the window. Thud. No cracks appeared in the glass.
“Mariam, come with me.” Muhammad clenched his hand around her bare arm, fingers tight enough to bruise.
On the platform in the center of the ballroom, Alma’s father took his daughter’s hand and placed it in Abdullah’s.
Everything around Kay blurred as she fought against Muhammad’s grip. He was too strong.
Upfront, the imam spoke the marriage vows to Alma, locking her into the horror of a lifetime with a terrorist.
Muhammad cinched his other arm around Kay’s waist, forcing her toward the door. She couldn’t breathe. The beaded hem of her dress tangled against her shoes as she fought to stay in the room.
The smooth soles of her thin sandals slid against the tile. Muhammad dragged her toward those double doors where death awaited her.
Something clattered. The doors burst open as a man ran through them.
“Do I need like a ghutrah or something, or am I good?” Joe slid to a stop on the marble tile in dirty combat boots. Sweat stained his three-dollar T-shirt, the right leg of his jeans ripped from ankle to knee, and a bloody scratch ran down his shin.
He’d come.
Muhammad dropped her arm.
The wedding dress’s wide neck slid off Kay’s shoulder as she slumped in relief. Her pounding heart stilled. One shotgun wedding coming up, then she’d arrive at the U.S. embassy.
Muhammad glanced to Abdullah. Alma couldn’t marry that horrible man.
In a pace, Joe closed the distance between him and her. He seemed stiff, his posture wary. Had he seen the men with guns too?
Kay ran the last step toward him and clasped his hand. His palm chafed aga
inst hers. “Thank you for coming,” she breathed, in English. Words couldn’t express how much she owed him.
He touched her other hand and looked down into her eyes. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Black grease streaked his right temple.
“Sinner. You are touching my niece.” Muhammad rose to his full height.
“So? Aren’t we here for a wedding?” With a shrug, Joe bounded onto the platform. He leaned down and took her hand.
The white silk veil fell back from her hair, the fabric of her dress swishing softly against the metal stairs as she mounted the platform. Her shoes clanged with each step as her rapid breaths moved the bodice of the wedding dress. She’d been saved from death by mere moments, all thanks to this man.
Joe clenched her next to him, his mouth at her ear. “Follow my lead. I bought you a ticket from King Fahd International Airport to New York. Exit visa signed and sealed. You’ll be in the States by tomorrow.”
She flicked her eyelashes up. “What about my dissertation?”
Appalled didn’t even begin to describe his expression. “You are not going back to Muhammad’s house! You can’t even—”
“I’m joking.” She grinned at him. “Thank you for rescuing me. I’ve been almost killed quite enough for one year.”
“A double wedding. Very good for the omens.” The imam turned. His wiry gray beard jutted out from his chin.
Joe sucked in breath. “Imam Al-Ghamedi.”
“Joe.” The imam’s gray eyes pierced them both.
Sweat glistened on her henna-covered hand.
“Read these words.” The imam extended a piece of paper.
A wedding vow stared up at her amidst the surrounding silk and finery, this ballroom decked out more lavishly than any American wedding she’d attended. “I, Mariam Al-Khatani, offer you myself in marriage and in accordance with the instructions of the Holy Koran and the Holy Prophet, peace be upon him, I pledge to be for you an obedient and faithful wife.”
A solemnity hung in the air, every voice in this room hushed.
Imam Al-Ghamedi turned.
“I, Joe Csontos,” Joe coughed, his gaze on Abdullah, “ pledge in honesty and sincerity to be to you a faithful and helpful husband.”
Revealing his name to terrorists could scarcely aid his government career. Kay bit her lip. He’d come here for her.
Abdullah took Alma’s gloved hand. A white veil still covered Alma’s face. The Imam said some sort of blessing.
“Rings?” Muhammad asked.
The imam glared at Muhammad. “We are not following the evil Western custom of rings.” Turning to the crowd, the imam raised both hands and began some kind of marriage sermon in a loud voice, which mostly consisted of extolling the virtues of an obedient wife.
Leaning toward her ear, Joe gave her half a smile. “Just as well about the rings, because I didn’t buy you anything.”
The music played around them, the mysterious sound of Arabian Nights surrounding her. His right arm touched her back. She smiled at Joe. “Lovely music. I could imagine using it for a real wedding.”
“You are having a real wedding.”
With a scowl, Muhammad shoved a paper at him. Joe signed and passed the paper to her.
“What,” Kay hissed as she added her signature below his.
“Signatures, witnesses, vows, it doesn’t get much more legal than that.” Joe handed the paper to Muhammad and the man walked down the podium, still glowering.
“This marriage.” Kay looked right and left. Her heart started to race. “It’s not legally binding in the U.S.?”
“It could be.”
“Um . . .” Kay felt her eyes widen.
“Not to worry, we’re in Islamic territory. All I have to do is say ‘I divorce you’ three times and it’s over.” Joe flashed a grin.
Imam Al-Ghamedi scowled. “Do not touch your bride so much, Joe.” Behind him, a soloist joined the pianist and they started a haunting song about love. The noise filled the room.
Joe dropped his arm from her, putting a good six inches of space between him and her. “Let’s get out of here. My car’s outside.”
As the imam started yelling at the accompanist to stop the haram Western music, Kay stepped off the podium.
Swiftly, they walked behind long tables to the double doors. Joe pushed the handle. The doors creaked.
Armed gunmen confronted them.
“Where are you going?” Abdullah stepped down from the podium. He moved away from the partygoers into the darkened hallway.
“To take my wife on our honeymoon.” Joe smiled, body relaxed.
“Veil yourself.” Abdullah stabbed a finger toward Kay. “Search him.”
“I left my abaya in the other room.” She yanked the white veil back up over her hair and bare arms. Besides, if he was so tempted to lust by her naked face, why was he looking at her? Perv.
“Kay,” Joe hissed through clenched teeth. He shook his head at her.
Right, the whole living until tomorrow thing, still a bit tenuous here.
“You do not speak in the presence of men.” Abdullah swelled out his chest. “A woman’s voice is haram forbidden.”
Fine. She grabbed a tablecloth from a folded pile of linens and threw it over her bare arms and face. Her breath blew back on herself inside the suffocating canopy. A pin-sized hole allowed her a green-tinged view of outside.
More armed men surrounded them. They patted down Joe and took his Glock and an assortment of knives.
The ridges of the tablecloth felt stiff against her fingertips. Kay struggled to keep from shaking. She shoved the tablecloth back so it only covered her hair. The lights flashed off gun barrels.
Abdullah turned to Muhammad. “Take your niece and kill her. I’ll interrogate this Joe about the CIA.”
Muhammad was a double agent. Joe’s heart sank. He’d walked into a trap.
Al-Qaeda would want to discover CIA sources and methods, just like Tracy had said before he’d escaped that containment cell.
The man reached for Kay’s arm.
Joe went taut. “You can’t kill her now. She’s my wife.”
“As if we would let an infidel actually marry a Muslim girl.” Abdullah glared at him, hell-fire burning in his eyes.
“I have converted. Imam Al-Ghamedi will vouch for me.” Please God let Imam Al-Ghamedi vouch for him. Otherwise Kay and he were both dead. Joe looked to the pile of his weapons that three men guarded.
“You know Imam Al-Ghamedi?” Abdullah jerked back, his black bisht slipping down his thobe.
“Yes, I have attended his Koran studies for many days now.” The cold air conditioning flapped Joe’s torn jeans against his leg. To think, he’d thought Brian throwing him into federal prison for disobeying orders was the greatest risk he took when escaping that containment cell. “Behold, Allah is great. Tell him how faithfully I have attended, Imam Al-Ghamedi.”
Imam Al-Ghamedi bobbed his gray beard up then down.
“I believe in the cause, bringing Allah’s freedom to all men through the blessed Al Qaeda. There’s no need to interrogate me.” Or torture or kill him. Joe met Abdullah’s gaze. “I will gladly tell you all that the CIA has planned.”
“You lie. You are a traitor.” Abdullah motioned the gunmen closer. At least a dozen assault rifles aimed at his head at pointblank range.
“I’m telling the truth. Just this afternoon, my supervisor imprisoned me for supporting your cause.” Joe dug his thumbs into his pockets, feet spread.
Abdullah grabbed Imam Al-Ghamedi’s arm. They stepped away and began to talk in rapid Arabic.
The gunmen itched their fingers against triggers.
“A locked cell? How did you get away?” Concern shone on Kay’s brow. It did have an alabaster glint, Tracy’s mocking notwithstanding.
He forced a smile as he scanned the hallway. “SERE school training, classified.” Too many gunmen, not enough exits. He couldn’t escape from here, especially not with a civilian.
<
br /> Joe flipped out his phone and pulled up Brian’s number on the signal app. Muhammad working with Abdullah. At Grand Hotel in Bahrain Bay. Need backup ASAP.
No response.
“What happens next?” Kay pressed against him, the green tablecloth falling off her black hair.
“Either we walk out of here safe and get you on a plane to New York, or they kill us.” Or Brian Schmidt threw him in federal jail for risking sources and methods contrary to a direct order from a superior. That was a distinct possibility too.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday, October 8th, 12:17 am
With a sigh, Muhammad leaned against the tan hallway wall and looked out for any approaching hotel staff. Instead of running interference for a terrorist, he should have been tucking his bride into a limo to trade kisses and champagne on the ride to the airport.
“Joe has attended the group regularly, though he has not paid alms to Al-Qaeda.” A few paces away, the bearded imam spoke in a low tone.
“He is CIA. I do not trust him.” Abdullah crossed his arms, gaze intent as he left his lovely bride to languish in the women’s hall.
“I will ask Kamal. He has spent much time with Joe.” Imam Al-Ghamedi turned. Even his sandals looked pious, the leather ragged.
A kid barely past his school years ran closer. Kamal raised one hand. “Please let me join the mujahideen in Yemen. Take me with you, Emir Abdullah!”
Abdullah nodded. “You can get on my jet tonight.”
“Tonight?” Kamal swallowed, bobbing his skinny throat. The kid couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. “I should tell my parents first.”
“Allah is to be obeyed. His will is above that of your parents. What about this Joe?” Abdullah spoke as harshly as Dr. Strange’s nemesis, Kaecilius.
“Joe is a faithful Muslim.” Kamal dipped his head. “He and I study the Koran together. He has memorized great portions.”
“Very well. I will invite him to Yemen to work for Allah’s cause.” Abdullah tugged his bisht back around his stomach.
“I’ll go get my suitcase.” The boy ran toward the exit.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 22