Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Read online

  Dr. Benson turned to Sandra. “Now that, Ms. Herrick, is exactly what I’m looking for. Real, gritty, truly engaging the intricacies of Middle Eastern culture.” Dr. Benson’s voice held admiration. “Looks like I can tell the dean to start etching the name sign for the office by mine. Clear the floor, Ms. Bianchi.”

  No! Kay dug her fingernails into the PowerPoint remote. A teaching position at Harvard was her family legacy. Her mom was on the senior faculty of women’s studies at Yale, Dad taught Western literature at Albertus Magnus, and her grandparents had been educators too.

  “Please, Dr. Benson. Let me finish the presentation. My dissertation does have ties to modernity.” Her throat constricted, barely passing air. If Dr. Benson rejected her from Harvard, she’d never get into a half-decent grad program anywhere. She’d never get to do research to fight discrimination and improve the lot of Muslim women in America.

  Tap, tap.

  All eyes turned toward the classroom door.

  Dr. Benson allowed no one to interrupt his classroom, not even the dean. When the state of Massachusetts had issued a tornado warning two years ago, his administrative assistant had shaken in fear to cross that threshold.

  The crystal knob twisted. Dr. Benson glared at the swiveling mahogany.

  Sucking in breath, Kay pitied whatever new hire hadn’t gotten the memo. More to the point, she pitied whatever PhD committee member earned Dr. Benson’s wrath by the new hire’s summons.

  A woman stuck her face through the doorway. “Kay.”

  Mariam. The remote fell from Kay’s hand. Slowly, she turned to Dr. Benson.

  “Not satisfied with suggesting a dissertation project worthy of a middle-schooler, also need to disrupt everyone else’s intellectual pursuits?” Dr. Benson drew his nose into a pointed line.

  “But Dr. Benson, surely I can rework this dissertation. I’ll include modern Middle Eastern poets.” The strength of desperation swelled Kay’s voice. “What if I compared the princess’s personal life to modern women authors?”

  Dr. Benson pointed to the door.

  Her pearl necklace turned to lead around her throat, the weight yanking down her neck. Her knees quivered. Years she’d gone to school for this PhD.

  A cough sounded from the PhD committee table. “I always review my students’ dissertation ideas beforehand. Give them a chance to succeed.” The bags under Dr. Colbert’s eyes sagged.

  Nails bearing into her skirt, Kay hung on Dr. Benson’s response.

  “Fine.” Dr. Benson let out an exasperated huff. “Submit a new one paragraph idea to me by 6:00 p.m. tonight. I’ll give it a look.”

  Kay’s shoes cemented to the ground. Tonight? Dr. Benson planned for her to fail.

  “Now, go.” Dr. Benson pointed to the door, his outstretched arm unwavering.

  Her brain thumped against her skull. This couldn’t be happening. Kicked out of Harvard? What would her parents say? Kay scrambled off the podium, through desk aisles. Sandra sat at the foremost desk, smugly contemplating her success. Kay fisted her hand. She’d volunteered at the refugee center, not Sandra—

  Her shoe caught. She stumbled over Sandra’s leather laptop bag. Feet sliding, she plummeted toward the floor.

  The stone tiles came up at her with a thwack and slammed against her hip. Her shoes slid off her feet as her pencil skirt trapped her twisted legs. Her Ann Taylor blouse rumpled up above the waistband of her panty hose.

  “I believe you’ve entertained us quite enough, Kay.” Dr. Benson stared down from his podium. He’d had the same disdainful look the day she sat in his office with her mother post-Felipe and begged him to allow her back into the PhD program. Now after all her work, would she fail?

  Despair sagged through her. She reached for the edge of Sandra’s desk. The stone felt cold against her stocking-clad legs.

  The door creaked open further. A man moved past Mariam.

  He reached down and gripped her hand. “Okay, there?” Strength radiated from the pressure of his hand and the muscles that swelled out the sleeve of his polo shirt looked far too impressive for anyone who’d passed high school.

  “Um, sure.” She struggled upright. The man touched her back as she attempted to maintain balance while jamming her feet into kitten heels. He’d cut his blond hair so short as to lose all character, like those punk rednecks who aspired to join the Army someday.

  As her twisted ankle throbbed, Kay glanced into the man’s eyes. His blue eyes lent intensity to his fair skin. His blond eyebrows cut across his face in a line and he had square cheekbones worthy of movie stars. She’d seen him with Mariam yesterday.

  Dr. Benson’s peeved voice rose. “Feel free to ogle each other, outside.”

  A sick feeling overtook her. Kay shook off the man’s arm and shoved past him to the hallway before she started bawling like a middle schooler. Her hair caught in the Velcro of his windbreaker.

  Pain shot through her scalp as her hair ripped. Touching his chest, she pulled at her hair. This guy did pump iron. He even felt like iron.

  “Sorry about that.” He smiled at her as she got the last strand out.

  Grabbing his arm, she hustled him out of the door and away from her entire PhD committee’s diversion.

  The door swung closed, shutting off Dr. Benson’s disapproval and the dissertation mess she’d made inside. Five feet down the hall stood Mariam, head down, hyperventilating.

  “What’s the matter, Mariam?” Kay brushed at her now tangled hair.

  Mariam glanced around her. “Shh. No one must record this.”

  What? Outside, the frosty wind bent the colorful tree boughs as it hissed through the open courtyard, bringing rain. Kay patted Mariam’s back in what hopefully was a soothing manner. “It’s not legal to bug rooms. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Since the Patriot Act?” Arms folded, the man leaned back against the picture window. He stared straight at her cleavage.

  Casting a glare at him, she yanked her blouse straight, white fabric sliding over her black tattoo.

  “He knows.” Mariam lowered her voice to a whisper. Only the faintest sheen of Chap Stick colored her trembling lips.

  “Knows what and who is he?” Kay gave the man, who for some unknown reason was tagging along after Mariam, a sideway inspection. While she’d told Mariam for the last six months that she thought Mariam was rushing things with Hamed, this new man of hers seemed even worse.

  Mariam inclined her head and gestured toward the man. “Kay, meet Josiah Csontos.”

  The man held out his hand.

  With a groan, Kay shook it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “I received this.” Mariam held out a sliced-open envelope. A creased plane ticket protruded from the paper, the words Saudi Arabia Airlines emblazoning it in black ink.

  “Going to visit home over Fall break?” Kay attempted an encouraging smile. If only she could go instead. A few weeks in Saudi Arabia would certainly give her material for a dissertation rooted in modernity.

  Shoulders slumping, Kay glanced back at the classroom. What kind of dissertation idea could she come up with by 6 p.m.?

  Casting a nervous glance at Josiah, Mariam switched to Arabic. “My Uncle Muhammad has ordered me home, but I thought I would get a visa for grad studies. The State Department denied my extension.” Mariam pressed her hands together.

  “Oh.” Kay glanced at her again. On closer inspection, crusted streaks ran down Mariam’s cheeks and her eyes looked bloodshot. Perhaps she should hug her friend? No. She patted Mariam’s shoulder. “Don’t stress. I’m sure there’s another way. An H1B visa, a J1? I’ll go down to the Citizenship and Immigration Services office with you tomorrow.” Modernity, Dr. Benson had said. Could she write about Yemen’s economics?

  A cell’s ring exploded from behind. Punk redneck extracted his phone and walked away from them. If only she’d chosen Sandra’s topic, but now that Sandra had announced it, Dr. Benson would never let her do a dissertation based on her work with refugees.


  “My uncle says when I return home, I must marry a Muslim. He will not allow me my faith.” Mariam dropped her head to her hands and started sobbing.

  Sighing, Kay attempted an awkward side hug. “I’d be a little more worried about the arranged marriage, than freedom of religion. Anyway, I’ve helped dozens of refugees with visa issues. We’ll get this fixed.”

  Unlike her PhD. Now Dr. Benson would be looking for a reason to reject her. What could she come up with in four hours that would convince him to let her stay in the program? Also, the thirteenth-century Sufi poet Rumi had beautifully expressed the Islamic tolerance of all forms of religion.

  “None of the Saudi men see women like you do. It is your Jesus here, his book teaches Americans to respect women.” Slipping her hand into her skirt pocket, Mariam held up the faded New Testament she carried with her everywhere.

  “Ha! Christianity’s chock-full of patriarchal garbage. Saudi Arabia’s probably more feminist than Southern Bible culture.” Kay re-tucked her blouse into her skirt. Her head pounded. In four hours would she really lose everything she’d tried for since her parents had enrolled her in the dual-language elementary-school Arabic program?

  “You do not know what it is like.” Mariam lifted her head up from tear-soaked hands.

  Poor woman. Pathetic how America treated immigrants. Kay picked up her purse. “I’m sorry I’m distracted. It’s school stuff. Anyway, don’t fret. Go home, take a warm bath, read a book. I’ll fix it all for you tomorrow. I’ve got to get home and write.” Make one last stand, try to gain Benson’s approval as she sympathized with the three hundred at Thermopylae.

  Mariam shrank into her oversized sweater. She didn’t wear the hijab anymore, but she’d pulled her dark hair back tight against her scalp. Her light hands trembled. “My uncle will be so angry. I have refused to obey his order to come home for six months.”

  “The guy’s in Saudi Arabia. What’s he gonna do? Spam you with emails?” Kay studied the worried lines of her friend’s face. If only she had time to sit with her friend tonight. Working with USCIS could stress out the most sanguine mind, but she had to at least attempt this thesis before Dr. Benson’s timeline expired.

  Something moved behind her. Punk redneck had returned. Seriously, the guy could give Channing Tatum a run for his money in the looks department. Why did all the hot guys have to be dumb pervs? She’d swear he’d just glanced at her cleavage again.

  Kay looked to Mariam. “I’ll get you a new visa tomorrow. Promise.” Tugging her Android out of her purse, Kay typed in “dissertation ideas.” Desperate try. That hadn’t even worked for Isla Fisher in Confessions of a Shopaholic.

  “May I stay at your place this afternoon?” Mariam shifted a wary glance to Josiah. “It’s important.”

  “Of course.” Kay pulled her extra key off her key chain. “I just have to type up this dissertation idea, then I’m completely at your disposal.”

  A wan smile rose through Mariam’s tears. She took the key.

  Crisis averted, now she needed a dissertation project. If only she had a ticket to the Middle East like Mariam did. Only Saudi Arabia didn’t grant tourist visas, ever. Kay glanced up. She’d picked up that fact last year when she’d dreamed of visiting the birthplace of the female poet Al-Khansa who’d written the beautiful poem I See Time about how death comes to each and every one.

  Still standing, arms crossed, Josiah looked at her.

  What kind of name was Josiah anyway? It sounded like something from a religious freak show set in Alaska. “Don’t you have a job to be at?” Instead of eavesdropping on her conversation with her friend.

  Mariam turned bright red. “He works here.”

  Josiah startled, as if he didn’t expect Mariam to say that.

  “You’re a professor?” Kay stared skeptically at the man’s knit shirt.

  “He’s a …” Mariam ran the tip of her tongue over her white teeth, her breathing rapid.

  “I don’t work here,” Josiah said. “I’m a technical—”

  “Security guard.” Making a little jump, Mariam beamed as if she’d just recalled an answer from a test.

  “What the heck is a technical security guard?” Kay looked from her friend to Josiah.

  He clenched his jaw.

  Lifting her shoulders, Mariam gave him a helpless look. “I forgot.”

  He sighed. “Let’s just say security guard.”

  “Well, nice to meet you.” Kay summoned a respectful tone. She truly did value blue collar workers, and had marched in protests before for those suffering from income inequality. “Dr. Benson’s been looking for someone to unlock the basement storage area for him. Though what he needs with fertilizer and flower seeds, I don’t know.” Maybe she’d earn some brownie points helping Dr. Benson with that.

  What was so wrong with analyzing Princess Wallada bint Al-Mustakfi’s work? She had worked for months on that idea. She wasn’t an idiot. Then again, only an idiot would have run off with Felipe like she did. Maybe Dr. Benson judged her correctly. The heat of tears squeezed against her eyelids.

  “Perhaps he’s building a fertilizer bomb to teach his students a hands-on lesson on original Islam.” Josiah stuck his thumbs in his pockets.

  “What are you, a Fox News anchor?” She glared at him. “Jihad is in the heart, a spiritual experience. The only people who say differently are hick talk show hosts.”

  “And actual Islamist jihadists.”

  “I’ve achieved meritorious grades in a PhD program in Middle Eastern studies. I think I know a little more than a security guard about Islam, Josiah.” Standing tall on her kitten heels, she gave him an incinerating glare. Earned meritorious grades before failing the entire program, that is. She was such an idiot. A scratchy lump formed in her throat.

  Josiah took a step closer. “We should get together again. We can talk Islam.” He flashed a smile, showing perfect teeth.

  “Um?” Her heel scraped against the tile. Was he asking her out? She didn’t date biased rednecks who thought of all Muslims as terrorists.

  “Mariam and Hamed’s Bible study meets tonight. Will you come? And I go by Joe.” He smiled again, a sparkle in his blue eyes.

  “Thanks—” She took a step down the hall. “I’ll think about it.” Never. She hadn’t darkened a church door since she was dedicated as a baby at New Haven’s Unitarian Universalist.

  What could she research for her dissertation project? Cost didn’t matter anymore. She’d try anything.

  CHAPTER 2

  Thursday, September 29th, 3:02 p.m.

  Joe Csontos clicked Send. The five-years-behind government issue desktop whirred into action with the sound of overheated hardware.

  The location for a Pakistani terrorist cell as analyzed by satellite data started uploading. Joe took a swig of over-chlorinated city water. Thanks to his FINTEL, some Special Forces unit would clean out that hornet nest.

  If only he were with them instead of chained to this desk. Joe kicked the modem and the circling wait symbol spun. He’d joined the CIA to do fieldwork in exciting new cultures, not translate newspapers on a computer.

  With a groan, he shoved his chair away from the desk. Why did Mariam have to make up that stupid story about him being a security guard?—a profession Kay obviously did not respect. If only he could tell Kay what he actually did at Mariam’s Bible study tonight.

  He’d found a woman who was an American citizen, fluent in Arabic, fascinated by interesting things like Greek, and a devout Christian since she not only attended church, but weekly Bible study. In twenty-nine years, he’d never fulfilled the CIA’s, his own, and God’s requirements all in one woman. Joe fingered his O.D.A. patch from back when he’d been a Green Beret. A thread peeled off the worn edging.

  Growing up, Dad always said when you find the right girl you’ll know, no need to wait. Ask her dad and start courting her. He’d given up on the courtship thing along with some of the more crazy aspects of his upbringing, but the other advice seemed so
und.

  Ring. The secure landline exploded into sound. Branch chief, Brian Schmidt’s name flashed on the screen.

  With a sigh, Joe swiveled to the glass exterior wall overlooking the city of Cambridge, Massachusetts and clicked Accept. On the horizon, above oak trees, the red brick of Harvard University towered above the splash of color.

  “Joe?” Brian coughed.

  “Yes.” Joe stared at a scratch in the wall’s paint. Kay’s voice had possessed a lilting quality this afternoon, like the pipes of the haunting Arabian music. When he’d touched her hand, an electricity stronger than any Taser bolt had shot through him. Thomas Aquinas said, “Love takes up where knowledge leaves off.” He’d read Aquinas’ entire Summa Theologiae in ninth grade because basically growing up the way he did there was nothing else to do.

  “I’m posting a security detail on Mariam starting at midnight.” Brian’s voice crackled through the phone, the connection as bad as always with a call from Saudi Arabia to stateside.

  Mariam wouldn’t even get the chance to flee to Canada. Joe tightened his grip against the cold plastic of the phone as he ran his gaze over the spirals of Harvard. “You’re condemning the girl to a life sentence as third wife to a religious fanatic. She wants to stay in America.”

  “The CIA has promised her a green card.” Brian’s voice pierced the receiver. “You did tell her that?”

  “Yeah, I followed instructions.” Joe’s throat tightened. “You know as well as I, though, that a woman needs an exit visa signed by her husband to leave that hell-hole. Even if the CIA ever does fulfill their tenuous promise to give her a green card, Mariam will never get out of country.”

  “You act as if I ordered her uncle to marry the girl off to our highest profile target.” Brian’s voice boomed. “The terrorists are the bad guys, not me. And stop calling Saudi a hell-hole. We have good diplomatic relations with the country.”

  “Yeah.” Joe prodded the steel desk leg with his boot. Maybe. Mariam had the most haunted look in her eyes when she talked of returning to Saudi. What must it feel like to see the veil of black closing in like a prison, Mariam’s only exit the grave? A Green Beret wouldn’t do this to an indig.