Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Radical Trilogy

  Glossary

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Other Books by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Copyright 2018 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without express permission from the author except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. To contact the author for permission visit www.facebook.com/annegarboczievans

  Veiled by Privilege is a work of fiction and is set in a fictionalized version of Harvard University, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen. All characters, names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, events, organizations, places, locales, religions, religious practices, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental and is beyond the intent of the author. All characters are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Koran quotations courtesy of J.M. Rodwell’s 1876 translation of the Koran.

  Scripture quotations taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by iCreateDesigns

  Clip art licensed Creative Commons CC-0

  Veiled by Privilege

  Anne Garboczi Evans

  CHAPTER 1

  Wednesday, September 28th, 3:05 p.m.

  “I will not do it.” The black-clad female catapulted up from the metal bench in Harvard University’s Yard.

  Shifting toward the thin woman, Joe Csontos, CIA Field Officer, extended the USB drive again. “We are prepared to offer you a green card if you send us intelligence about Abdullah El-Amin’s terrorist affiliations after you become his wife.”

  “After?” Mariam Al-Khatani’s voice went shrill. Her sweater slapped against her bony arms as she gestured. “How many weeks or years after marrying a man whom I have no wish to marry?”

  Joe swallowed. The crisp autumn air stung his throat. Poor woman. He handled her uncle, Muhammad Al-Khatani, a Saudi informant. Her uncle’s unfortunate choice to betroth Mariam to an Al-Qaeda operative had put her on the CIA’s radar. “My boss didn’t say.”

  Mariam whipped her hand through the air, sending her long skirt flapping against the yellow and orange leaves that littered the grass. “You know how the Kingdom is. A woman needs her male guardian’s signature to leave the country. Green card or no, this man I am to marry will never grant me an exit visa.”

  Standing, Joe closed the distance between them. He rested one hand on the bronze foot of the massive statue of some pretentious socialist that towered over Harvard Yard. As the chill air whistled past him, a weight descended on his chest. Mariam calculated correctly. The state department issued travel warnings to even native-born U.S. women marrying Saudis, telling the women they’d never make it home.

  Mariam clenched her fingers, digging her nails into the visa rejection letter. “Abdullah El-Amin wants me to become his third wife. I refuse. USCIS rejected my grad school visa, but I’ll file for a work visa.”

  Joe coughed into his shirtsleeve. The pressed white fabric lent credence to his undercover identity as a technical specialist looking for interns at the Harvard job fair. “My boss spoke with Citizenship and Immigration Services, Miss Al-Khatani. He had them blacklist you.” Burning a source based on his boss’s orders. He clenched and unclenched his hand. Back in his Green Beret days, he’d never have tolerated doing this to an indig.

  “You work for the CIA. You could get me extension, but you don’t care.” The hysterical woman spat. “My uncle will force me to marry this man. You are aiding rape. Does not that bother your American principles?”

  Fallen leaves whipped across the empty yard, their shriveled bodies brown as the dirt beneath the bench. He’d tried to get Mariam an extension, spent hours appealing to the powers above him. His old boss might have bent, but Brian Schmidt, the chief of station at the Saudi Arabian embassy, wanted a new source following Abdullah. If that meant forcing an innocent girl to marry a known terrorist, Brian didn’t care.

  “I’ve converted religions.” Mariam wrung her chapped hands, her voice frenzied as her Arabic accent made her rapid words almost unintelligible. “I am Christian now. You know the penalty for that in the Kingdom. Would you do this to your sister?”

  Hand on the cold metal of the statue base, Joe moved his gaze across Mariam’s face. She reminded him a little of his twin sister, the same desperate look in both their eyes.

  Joe dragged his finger across the toe of the statue’s boot. He couldn’t defy Brian and help Mariam defect. He’d lose his job, his security clearance, even go to jail for mishandling classified assets.

  Also, he couldn’t suggest defecting for fear Brian would find out. At least, he couldn’t directly suggest defecting. Joe studied her. “Don’t do anything stupid like try to disappear into the U.S. without a visa.”

  She looked up, surprise in her brown eyes.

  “The CIA would track you down.” Joe gripped the metal base of the statue and prayed no Patriot Act device recorded this conversation. Brian had Mariam’s entire apartment bugged.

  Mariam twisted a brilliant oak leaf between her fingertips, her face as expressionless as the grave.

  “I know Canada’s only a four-hour drive, and if you left your identifying documents behind, you could disappear into Canada.” Paralipsis, the rhetorical device of saying without saying. He’d lost sleep learning that word for his online rhetoric class while camped out in the Iraqi desert.

  Mariam widened her eyes.

  “We would still find you with the tracker on your phone though, so don’t try illegally immigrating to Canada.” Joe brushed his fingers against the concealed Glock inside his jeans as he said the words, face stern enough to please Brian Schmidt.

  Would she try defecting?

  His guts churned. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given her that idea. If the CIA caught her defecting on an expired visa, things would go even worse for her.

  Heels clicked down the sidewalk.

  A girl as lovely as Pyramus’ Thisbe turned the corner. “Coming to the international student dinner tonight, Mariam?” She spoke in flawless Arabic. “Your fiancé Hamed is invited too.”

  Joe couldn’t help but stare. Those tight jeans and the tattooed letters peeking out from a deeper v-neck than any Koranic sura would recommend did not signal a Saudi girl, yet she spoke faultless Arabic. Know how many times he’d met a non-coworker American girl who spoke Arabic? Never.

  “I can’t, Kay.” Mariam shifted her feet on the asphalt, swishing the leaves with the edge of her dress. “Hamed and I, we need to talk.”

  “You look shaken.” The woman glanced at him, brilliant-colored lips pressed together as if she considered blaming Mariam’s woes on him. She spoke again
in Arabic. “Do you want me to take your shift at the refugee advocacy center? I’m taking this crate of diapers over there.”

  Were those partially exposed tattooed letters six inches below her neck Greek? What did the letters spell? Joe tilted his head and made out an epsilon letter. Was that a sigma after it?

  On second thought, she’d probably get the wrong impression if he kept staring at that part of her body. Neck heating, he jerked his gaze to the face of this woman who was skilled in Arabic and Greek.

  “Thank you.” Mariam clasped the girl’s hand with both of hers. “You are a good friend.”

  “It’s nothing.” The girl shook off Mariam’s hand. The sunshine shimmered on hair the color of midnight. “Pass the word that we need more children’s clothes, boys’ size six to twelve especially.”

  “I will.” Mariam lifted her floppy sweater collar and dabbed at her eye. “The refugees need more housing too.”

  “I could probably take in a family. I have that extra bedroom.” The woman’s face possessed an air of mystery, an other-worldliness in her every movement. Her dark eyes held an intelligent light, an almost imperceptible asymmetry in the lines of her face that made one unable to look away. Rumi, the Sufi mystic of thirteenth-century Afghanistan wrote a poem about a girl with a face like that.

  Her boot heels plunged into the sodden grass as she walked on without a backward glance. Even her stride had grace.

  “Who was that?” Joe looked to Mariam and said in English. He’d never revealed his Arabic fluency to her.

  “Kay Bianchi, a PhD student in Middle Eastern studies.” Mariam wiped at her nose. “I have not told her anything.”

  “American citizen?” Joe held his breath as he watched Kay’s departing back. Her walk possessed vigor, an intriguing attitude in the way she held her shoulders. The border of her shoulder blades just showed through the yellow fabric of her shirt. CIA operatives weren’t allowed to date foreign-born nationals.

  “Yes.” Mariam brought her chin down.

  Do you have Kay’s phone number? Joe stiffened. No, he pondered insanity. He knew nothing about that woman.

  How often did one meet an American fluent in Arabic? How often did one meet a woman who liked Greek? Had she read Aristophanes? Euripides? Sappho? Though incomplete in its preservation, Sappho’s “Love Shook My Heart” still ranked among the most captivating poetry he’d ever read.

  Joe shoved the thoughts away. “I need to see you tomorrow morning, Mariam.”

  “I am busy.” Mariam drew in her thin elbows.

  “Your uncle sent you a plane ticket for two days from now. I need to see you tomorrow night too. Six-ish?” Brian Schmidt had ordered him to keep an eye on Mariam. When she did end up in Saudi Arabia, he would do as he promised and try to get her that American green card ASAP. A weight descended over Joe. Brian wouldn’t want to give up such an essential operative as the wife of Abdullah El-Amin, the man who ran most of AQAP’s Yemen terrorist camps.

  “I have Bible study with my friends.”

  “Text me the address.” Joe pulled out his phone and swiped open the calendar app. Kay was Mariam’s friend. Did Kay come to this Bible study? Please, dear God, let Kay come to that Bible study. God’s views on romantic relationships with non-Christians about equaled the CIA’s view on dating foreign nationals.

  Wait, was Kay even single? He tightened his thumb against his phone screen and looked back up. “Hey, Mariam. Is your friend—”

  But Mariam Al-Khatani, niece of intelligence asset Muhammad Al-Khatani, and soon-to-be third wife of terrorist Abdullah El-Amin had walked on.

  Thursday September 29th, 2:15 p.m.

  Kay leaned over the table as Professor of Middle Eastern studies and graduate chair Dr. George Benson spoke. A stack of index cards slid under the pressure of her arm.

  “Today I will decide which of your dissertations are worthy of this university’s estimable reputation.” Dr. Benson turned his thin lips up. No matter how many books he’d published or grants he’d won, technically the other three professors sitting on this PhD committee all had equal say in accepting or denying her dissertation prospectus. Ha. With all the accolades Dr. Benson had earned, he could intimidate even the dean.

  Sweat moistened her white collar. Would Dr. Benson approve her dissertation? Kay bit into her nail. She had only her mother’s unending persistence to thank that she’d gotten back into this PhD program after the idiot decision she’d made.

  Kay shook her head, suppressing a tear before it could well up to smear her mascara. She’d never fulfill her dream of becoming a professor at Harvard now.

  Dr. Benson brushed his graying hair back. “Every year I tell students to write something exceptional. Every year I am appalled. Nevertheless, let’s hear your offal.” He waved his left forefinger.

  Today marked the single most important day of her entire academic career. A tight feeling banded Kay’s chest as she gripped the index cards. Rumi, the Islamic poet, encouraged his followers to embrace what they loved. She loved making a difference for impoverished women and fighting discrimination such as with her work with refugees and at the domestic violence shelter. This PhD would give her the standing to do that.

  The dim overhead lights shone against the room’s dark paneling. Dr. Benson’s administrative assistant had slotted her for the second presentation. She had half an hour and ten PowerPoint slides to condense months of work. Each year, Dr. Benson rejected more students than he let graduate.

  Dr. Benson clasped the lip of the podium on either side. “I will recommend the graduate with the best dissertation for a teaching position here.”

  A teaching position at Harvard? Her heart thumped against her shirt. Ink rubbed off from her note cards onto her slick palms. After last year chasing Felipe, a Berkeley-educated planetary scientist, and his pot-inspired visions of a world beyond what she could experience with her senses, she’d thought she’d lost all chance to follow in her parents’ footsteps as tenured professors at Ivy League universities. Kay steadied her hands on the desk. She had to write the best dissertation.

  Dr. Benson issued a summons and a dorky-looking thirty-year-old removed his deerstalker hat and bumbled up to the podium. Alex.

  The committee members, all graduates of Ivy League schools, swiveled toward him.

  Sweat trickled down Alex’s pimpled forehead. He extended the PowerPoint remote. Click. Slide one glared on the overhead screen, showcasing the curled letters of Arabic words.

  A handful of Benson’s other PhD students sprinkled the room. No sound penetrated the mahogany walls.

  Alex’s swallow reverberated. “I will analyze poetical meter in the Koran and compare it to the Biblical Psalms. In this slide—”

  Dr. Benson snorted. “Fail.”

  “Shouldn’t we listen to his presentation before deciding?” Dr. Colbert touched the table and his watch slid down his substantial wrist. His yellow sports jacket scuffed against the chair back as he slid his thick shoulders uneasily.

  “No.” With a may-you-rot-and-worms-devour-your-carcass glance, Dr. Benson turned to Alex. “Transfer your credits to some Podunk Midwestern university. You are not worthy to have the Harvard seal on your diploma.”

  Gut rolling out of his suit, Alex slunk off the podium, shoulders stooped.

  “He could try again next semester.” Dr. Colbert toyed with his watch. Like mere jackals appearing before the king of beasts, the PhD committee members turned their meek-eyed gazes to Dr. Benson.

  Dr. Benson twitched his thin nose. “Or the dean can learn to no longer assign me inferior students.”

  Kay gulped. Fear tingled through her fingers. Surely Dr. Benson would like her presentation better? She’d not so much as had a drink with friends for six months as she labored over it.

  “Ms. Bianchi.” Dr. Benson pointed at her.

  Steadying her hand on the bench-like desk, Kay pushed herself to a stand. Each tap of her heels against the stone tiles sounded loud as a drumbeat. Sweat soake
d her stomach, her blouse sticking to her skin.

  Dr. Benson handed the remote to her.

  The white plastic slid between her trembling fingers. If Dr. Benson took a dislike to her dissertation, he’d ensure she never graduated from Harvard. All her hopes and dreams hinged on today. She clicked slide one, her voice raspy. “I have translated a collation of Princess Wallada bint Al-Mustakfi’s work and am contrasting it to the Canterbury Tales.”

  “A comparison of medieval Sufi poetry to Chaucer, really Kay?” With a sneer, Dr. Benson pointed behind her to Alex. “At least his comparison to a religious book introduced some element of modern relevancy.”

  What? Kay shook.

  A woman shifted in the front row. “I know my slot’s not until 4 p.m., Dr. Benson, but may I take Kay’s time since you’re throwing her out of the program anyway.” An oversized plaid suit hung on Sandra Herrick’s gaunt ribcage. Her flat hair descended in strings around her shoulders.

  Kay’s heels wobbled beneath her. The scent of books and old wood stuck in her throat. She had to convince Dr. Benson to give her another chance.

  “Depends, will your topic lull insomniacs to slumber?” For Dr. Benson, that sounded respectful.

  Sandra straightened her glasses on her thin-bridged nose.

  Kay dug her teeth into her lip. Rumor had it that Dr. Benson had his eye on Sandra for a professor post. His recommendation carried so much weight with the dean it might as well be a job offer.

  Laying both hands on her desk, Sandra spoke with the confidence of one who’d been the valedictorian of her class since kindergarten. “I volunteer at the Refugee Advocacy Center and plan to write about the historical roots of hospitality in Middle Eastern culture versus Western culture.”

  Volunteered? Kay choked back a snort. Sandra had made a token appearance at the refugee center twice. Every time she’d asked Sandra for donations for the refugee food drive, Sandra said people who can’t feed their kids shouldn’t have children.

  “I work at the refugee center several days a week, Dr. Benson.” Kay tried to put confidence in her mumble.