Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  The glass doors left a direct line of sight to any Houthi who walked into this building. A prim clerk stood behind the departures desk. Kay slapped her passport on the desk. With a crash, Joe came up beside her.

  “Here.” Joe shoved his open cell at the clerk. The barcode of a boarding pass glared from the screen. The clock above the desk read 4:58 a.m.

  They’d miss the plane!

  With a little nod, the clerk flicked open an inkpad and stamped Joe’s passport. White buttons traveled up the clerk’s shirt all the way to his neck. The clerk’s shoes made a clicking noise as he crossed to the printer and extracted a paper ticket.

  A truck pulled up outside the glass airport doors? Houthis? They had to get out of here!

  Sweat rolled down Kay’s arm, drenching everything as she thrust her hand toward the clerk. “My ticket?” Her voice came out as a gasp.

  “Do you have an exit visa?” The clerk’s gold-rimmed glasses fell lower on his nose. He shoved them back with his thumb, making a fingerprint on the lens.

  “Yes.” Kay’s voice came out as a wheeze. No, she didn’t. Men piled out of the truck in front of the airport.

  “Where is it?” The clerk closed his hand around her passport, the blue paper a hostage beneath his fingers. He brought his bony chin down and glared at her.

  No! She looked to the glass doors. Houthis with guns piled out of trucks in the parking lot.

  Joe shoved in front of her. “I’m her husband. Give me a blank one, and I’ll sign it.”

  “Oh, that’s different then. Of course.” The disapproving clerk dropped her passport in Joe’s hand and gave him a piece of paper.

  Back turned to her, the clerk smiled at Joe. Kay switched to English. “This is so messed up.”

  With a flourish of the pen, Joe finished his John Hancock. “We love Arabic culture, remember?”

  The clerk took her ticket from the printer and handed it to Joe. “Plane’s about to take off. You’ll have to wait until the evening flight.” He pointed out an open metal door where men in airport uniforms rolled stairs away from a plane’s loading door.

  Grass grew on the airport tracks, the runway broken in many places.

  “Arrest that man!” A shout rose through a sliver of opening glass doors. Turbaned Houthis rushed the airport.

  “Run,” Joe yelled. Pain shot through her knee as she sprinted toward the door to the runway. Her too-large boots flapped around her ankles. She stumbled across broken asphalt.

  Behind them, shots peppered the air. The white cloth of the Houthis’ robes flapped up around their legs.

  Two hundred more feet, a hundred more feet. Bullets landed around her. Ahead, the airport officials dropped hold of the stairs, and ran from the Houthis.

  No cover on this wide open runway. The Houthis waved their guns.

  A gap of several feet separated the stairs from that door. She reached the stairs and shoved them toward the door.

  The metal held fast, some kind of brake holding them in place. The sound of Joe’s rapid breaths pounded in her ears. Bullets peppered the metal stairs. Could she jump the distance from stairs to door?

  With a grind of mechanical gears, the airplane door began to seal.

  Heart breaking from her chest, she pounded up the stairs. Beneath her, the Houthis pointed guns. The airplane door moved toward closed. Fifteen feet beneath her, the asphalt loomed, too much distance between her and that closing door to assure a safe landing.

  “Jump,” Joe yelled and leaped in front of her. His feet hit the metal of the airplane door. He stretched out his hand as the mechanical door grated toward shut, its force powerful enough to kill a person trapped beneath its arc.

  Turbaned men pointed guns.

  Might as well die trying. She sprang forward.

  Her feet fell short of the opening. As she plummeted, Joe clenched her arm. The door grated toward her. He pulled her inside.

  With a clang, the door sealed shut on the hem of her skirt. Her shoulders slumped as relief slid through her.

  A few passengers looked up from their seats. One old man shrugged, as if gunmen on the airport runway happened fairly regularly.

  With the grinding of wheels, the plane thundered down the runway. The jet roared. Its wheels lost contact with ground as it soared into the air.

  With a sigh, Kay collapsed into a seat and looked to the man who’d saved her life multiple times. “What next?”

  Every muscle in his body stiffened as he stood between overhead compartments. His face drained of color. “Soon as we reach Cairo, I need to call headquarters.”

  Cairo, Egypt

  Thursday, October 20th, 11:34 a.m.

  The morning sun beat down on the land of pyramids. The concrete walls of the U.S. embassy rose in front of Joe. Exactly how seriously had Brian meant that threat of jail time?

  The man who’d tried to kill him with a drone likely wouldn’t have any qualms at tossing him in federal prison and throwing away the key. Sweat collected on Joe’s palms. Taking a deep breath, he dialed the Massachusetts office of the CIA branch.

  A passcode later, a receptionist connected him with the CIA chief of station he used to work for. “Hey, Boss.” Joe gulped. “It’s Joe Csontos.”

  “You are on the CIA most wanted list, Joe. Where are you?” Karim Nasir’s voice was calm, like always, but the harshness of his tone penetrated the airwaves.

  Most wanted list? That meant jail. Joe’s heart thumped against his T-shirt as the Egyptian sun beat down on skyscrapers. “Cairo. I had to go to Bahrain, you understand. I couldn’t let our intelligence asset die.”

  “Yes, you could. In fact, you were ordered to.” Karim spoke levelly, but each word had the intensity of a bullet. “This is why you’re supposed to get CIA approval for any romantic relationships.”

  “Kay’s not my girlfriend.” Joe glanced at a crack in the sidewalk. An ant stumbled into it, falling head over body. So much for him converting Kay. Instead, these weeks together had probably confirmed every negative thing she’d ever believed about God and religion.

  “Not what your co-workers at the embassy said.” Even through the phone line, he could almost see Karim shimmy up one thin eyebrow, like he used to. “Regardless, I will give you a temporary passport and plane ticket to our New England headquarters where you will stand trial for gross misconduct.”

  “What about my job? A terrorist attack goes down in two days. Abdullah’s at large, and I think he gave me false intel when he said the target was Mile High Stadium.”

  “Job? After this, you’re never getting a clearance again. What you should be worrying about is how many years you will or won’t be spending in jail.” Karim spoke in an eerily level tone. Even during Ramadan when Karim hadn’t eaten or drunk all day, he maintained that unbending calm.

  Karim couldn’t be serious—could he? “Kay needs a U.S. passport and plane ticket too.”

  “You’re joking!” Karim raised his voice. He never did that. “You’re being tried on treason charges and you’re still fussing about your girlfriend?”

  “I can’t leave Kay in Cairo with a Yemeni passport.”

  “Fine. I’ll stretch our already strained personnel budget and send her a temporary passport and ticket too. See you at the closest federal prison.” With a click, the line went dead.

  The phone dropped from Joe’s hand. It bounced against the filthy sidewalk. Jail? He’d always acted with integrity, served his country. Would he really spend time in jail same as a thief or a drug dealer, same as his sister had? Even Charity wasn’t a felon.

  Saturday, October 22nd, 1:25 p.m.

  Blue skies turned to clouds as the Boeing jet descended toward Cambridge air space. Kay looked at Joe. He’d called the CIA in Cairo and gotten them these tickets, but he’d said nothing else about the conversation. This entire plane ride, he’d scarcely said a word.

  The phone she’d purchased in Cairo buzzed.

  Mom’s number. Got your text, Kay. I’ve been so worried
. I called you a million times.

  I’m okay, Mom. I’m landing at Harvard right now. Time enough to explain what had happened in person.

  The debate’s starting in an hour. See you there. Love, Mom.

  Rotating in the window seat, she touched Joe’s arm. “Four weeks ago when I was driving to this airport and we were arguing about Saudi Arabia, I never thought I’d be flying back with you.” She smiled at him. Would he fly back to Saudi after this? Would she ever see him again after they landed?

  He grunted, gaze far off. “Yeah, you were spouting your delusions about the Middle East being a beautiful place.”

  “The Middle East can be a beautiful place.” The camel ride had been fun, and the landscapes were breathtaking.

  “I love Middle Eastern culture too. It’s why I joined the CIA. It’s why I learned Arabic. I just hate how Islam has taken away all the beauty.” He slammed his foot against the seat in front of him.

  “Islamic fundamentalists, not regular Muslims. Christian fundamentalists aren’t so pretty either.”

  “You’re right. There are Muslim men I’m proud to call friends. I use the male pronoun, not out of sexism, but because I’m literally not allowed to talk to the women.”

  “I know, I know. They need their own Betty Friedan. Go on. You were telling me I was right.” Her eyes laughed.

  “I have some awesome Muslim friends. Zafir from my Army unit, for one. I just wish they weren’t shackled by a piece of garbage like the Koran.” He clenched his hand around the armrest, fingers digging into plastic.

  She grinned at him. “Basically, you feel about them the way I feel about you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re an awesome friend, and I wish you weren’t shackled by a lot of ridiculous rules.” A sigh rose through her. As conservative as he was, he’d never date her. Today would be goodbye.

  “The Bible is about God’s love, not a list of rules. And we didn’t have mutwas enforcing the no drink, no dancing rules, so give conservative Baptists some credit.” Though he said the words flippantly, his expression resembled a grimace more than a grin.

  The plane bumped and jolted through the air. Below them, the spotted greens and browns of Massachusetts rose toward the plane.

  The pilot’s voice carried over the loudspeaker. “We are approaching landing.”

  “Where are you headed after this?” She smiled at Joe. She could probably coerce an extra debate ticket from Dr. Benson if he wanted to come. Then again, she could only imagine what kind of explosion would result from him talking politics with her friends.

  “Federal agents are meeting me at the plane’s door to take me to jail for what went down in Bahrain.” Joe stared straight ahead, no glimmer of a jest on his stiff face.

  “No!” Her breathing increased as she stared at him. She touched his arm, but he continued staring ahead. “What can I do to help? I got you into this mess. I can testify to that.”

  “No, I got myself into it. And there’s nothing you can do.” He crashed against the seat back.

  “But Joe, you saved my life by coming to Bahrain. Surely the CIA will recognize that?” Her heart caught. She clenched his hand. He couldn’t go to jail!

  He smiled, a wistful smile with no enigmatic qualities. “I wish.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Saturday, October 22nd, 2:12 p.m.

  What would happen to Joe? Sweat built under the skirt suit she’d changed into. What could she do to help him? He would have given his life to save hers. Kay clenched the dissertation papers she’d typed up during layovers. They all seemed vastly unimportant now.

  Her phone beeped.

  Mom’s number. She’d hadn’t explained anything to Mom or Dad yet. We’re in the front left section under the pink Hillary signs.

  Be there in ten, Mom. Though she could never sit through a presidential debate now. She needed to help Joe. What if she contacted her senator? Presidents could issue pardons.

  In the academic suite, a monitor showed ushers seating debate viewers in the largest room in Sever Hall.

  Her shoes thudded against the wooden floor of the academic suite. Benson’s door hung open.

  “Good evening, Dr. Benson.” Hand on her cell, she laid the printed dissertation notes on his desk. Some way must exist for her to exonerate Joe. Her head spun. He’d only defied orders to save her. Maybe Hillary could help? Her parents might be able to get her an audience with Ms. Clinton after the debate.

  “Why, welcome home. I’m surprised you took the time to grace me with your presence after ignoring your professor’s emails for two entire weeks.” Dr. Benson glared over his desk.

  Outside the office, another debate monitor buzzed with the noise of the media setting up recording devices on the debate stage as viewers shuffled into seats. Was Hillary backstage?

  “I expect great things from this dissertation.” Dr. Benson laid his hand on her dissertation outline and brought his thin eyebrows down.

  “Dr. Benson, can you get me backstage?” Kay’s gaze riveted on the row of keys hanging off hooks behind his desk. Benson practically owned this hall. “While I was in Saudi Arabia, I met this guy. He’s in trouble and if I could talk to the presidential candidates—”

  “This guy. I told you to write a thesis, not fall in love.” Dr. Benson dropped his hand from the chair and sat ramrod straight. “Wait, is he Saudi? Is he being mistreated by the American intelligence community? That would make a splendid dissertation. I can contact the ACLU.”

  “No, he is the intelligence community. He saved my life. I have to help him.” Kay clenched the lip of Dr. Benson’s desk.

  “Saved your life?” Dr. Benson jerked his chin up.

  “I was abducted to an Al Qaeda terrorist camp in Yemen. Another woman was too. A Saudi forced her to marry an Al Qaeda operative.” Stepping around him, she laid a hand on the key rack. Fading sharpie ink labeled the keys.

  “Saudis do not believe in forced marriage.”

  “Yes, they do.” She whipped around. “I was almost honor-killed.”

  A snort escaped Benson’s thin nostrils. He rolled his gaze up toward the smoke-colored ceiling. “You are losing objectivity, making some personal case study rather than scientific research.”

  “I have the research to back it up.” Kay stabbed her finger at the papers she’d dropped on his desk. Her nostrils flared as she strove to suck in air despite the way her heart raced. She had to free Joe.

  “Ha.” Dr. Benson sneered.

  “I do. Honor-killings impact countless women every year in the Middle East. I have all the statistics recorded there in my dissertation outline.”

  “I’m not going to approve that dissertation.”

  “What do you mean?” Her heart pounded.

  “Let us be candid. I’m not going to let you turn Harvard University into one of those hate-mongering, Midwestern schools with your prejudiced dissertation. End of story.” Benson flourished his hand across the desk.

  “It’s the facts.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s your little crusade from your unscientific personal experience. Now are you going to rewrite the dissertation the way you originally intended, highlighting the unique beauties of being a Saudi woman, or would you like me to make your name so toxic you’ll never earn a PhD anywhere?”

  Benson could kick her out of Harvard. With his ire, she’d be lucky to even get accepted at a Podunk university. A PhD from such a university would never allow her to become a professor at an Ivy League school. With a shake of her head, she focused on the key rack. Joe was going to jail because of her. “Which of these will unlock backstage?”

  The phone on Dr. Benson’s desk vibrated. He tossed the cell toward her. “I need to find a way to mute this moronic ringtone.”

  “You just click Settings.”

  “It’s not my phone. It’s Saeed Khan’s.”

  Kay jolted back. Saeed was the name on that Yemen map. No. Surely many Saeeds roamed the world.

  “It just wa
rned me if I enter the wrong passcode one more time I’ll erase the whole idiot phone.”

  Alma’s words echoed in her mind. All Abdullah’s phones, they have the same password, “1969.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. We’re not near done discussing your dissertation failure.” Dr. Benson kicked his chair back and stalked out of the room. The closet door shifted with his movement, revealing box after box of papers.

  Her fingers trembled. Should she? Reaching for the plastic, she pressed her finger against a “1,” then a “9,” then a “69.”

  The phone opened. She clicked voicemail. A name she’d never forget flashed across the screen. Abdullah El-Amin.

  Sweat drizzled from her hands. She clicked play.

  Arabic words played through the little speaker, the sound miniscule in the vastness of Harvard, so different than how Abdullah’s voice had sounded in Bahrain. There, his voice had filled the hotel, controlling each one of their destinies as he held Alma’s, her, and Joe’s lives in his hand.

  Allah Akbar. All is ready for tonight. When the infidel journalist walks on the stage to ask the presidential candidates a question about Islam, then detonate the bomb.

  The bomb! The terrorist plot would occur here, upstairs, where her parents currently sat waiting for her. Her fingers went numb. Jerking out her new phone, she stumbled over the keys to type the number to that phone the Houthis had given Joe. Please pick up!

  Ring. Ring. Click. The phone picked up.

  “Joe, the terrorist attack’s here! During the debate. Who do I tell? Can you call someone? They’ll detonate it after a journalist asks a question about Islam. My parents are up there. Joe!”

  The phone clicked. “And press star to delete your message,” said a computerized voice.

  She’d spilled her soul to voicemail. The video monitor outside Dr. Benson’s office blasted out the patriotic anthem. The two presidential candidates moved onto stage. Mere minutes until Saeed exploded that bomb.