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Secret Service Agent Frank Harrigan knocked on my door. “It’s time.”
I fought to find a smile, but instead I found hate and clung to it.
I greeted Frank.
The burqa so impaired my vision that I caught my hip on the door handle as I exited my room.
Frank ignored my clumsiness.
I massaged the pain.
He escorted me through the halls to my husband’s temporary headquarters at the Hay Adams, across from the White House. It was a suite, of course, for U.S. President-Elect Izaan Bekkar. Heat built up beneath the burqa. My head itched. Perspiration clung to the back of my neck. Anxiety raced in my chest, seemingly appropriate for a warrior going into battle. A bead of sweat trickled over my temple.
Frank ushered me into Izaan’s temporary office. Arms crossed over his chest, Frank took up his post in the back of the room. I sat on the couch across from Izaan, who aimed that smile at me, the one that blinded everyone to the truth. Everyone that is, except me.
“You look nice in your burqa.”
“Islamo-fascist bastard.”
He shook his head in tight, controlled movements.
“They’ll impeach you.” I kept my words short. Chatter and questions agitated Izaan, provoked his paranoia.
“Impeach?” His gaze narrowed, hard and dark. He leaned toward me and glared with laserlike intensity. “The first amendment protects religious freedom.”
“But it won’t protect you from the people when they learn their president is a radical Islamist.”
“You’ve got to let go of this, Sylvia. It will destroy you.”
A small victory. He was angry.
“Do you understand me?”
I smiled.
He sucked a deep breath. “How are you?”
Interesting. A change of strategy. Act like you care. Try to keep the wife happy.
“It’s important that you work with me, Sylvia.”
A bitter laugh rose in my throat. I swallowed it and kept quiet.
“We’re so close.” He spoke softly, but I could hear the threat that weighted his words. “Do you understand how important this is?”
I kept silent.
After my appointment with Izaan, Frank took me back to my room.
I wrenched the burqa over my head and threw it into the corner. I stood naked before the mirror, my boney ribs angled to a concave stomach. A purplish knot bloomed on my hip like a shriveled rose. I leaned into the mirror. Dirty green eyes stared back at me. My cheeks were free of bruise or blemish. A disfigured face would have defeated Izaan Bekkar’s political agenda. The face wasn’t to be touched. But that rule was about to end. The veil of a burqa would see to that.
“You must do exactly as I say.” Izaan’s orders and instructions permeated my mind.
Drip…drip…drip.
Fanaticism indeed had a face. President-Elect Izaan Bekkar. America would be brought to Allah, or die on her knees. Could I face the destruction I’d enabled? Turning from the mirror, I opened my suitcase. How could I have spent years married to this man without even knowing him? The answer was easy. I didn’t want to know the truth.
I worked a finger into the edge of the suitcase lining. The seam gave way, revealing the long-bladed knife that I’d sewn into the gap behind the fabric. I peered out through the window into the dusky darkness and the flickering lights of the White House. I laid the blade against my wrist. How easy it would be to run a hot bath, settle into the soothing water, and slice my skin. How long would it take before I fell into an unending sleep? A gentle press and beads of blood popped up along the edge of the knife.
Drip…drip…drip.
The handle, mahogany inlaid with mother of pearl, felt smooth and reassuring in my grasp.
Not a chance.
I tossed it back onto the bed.
The bloodstained blade left a swath of pink on the comforter.
There was another way. Something Izaan would never expect from me.
Courage.
Inauguration day arrived with a flurry of snow and vibrant activity. I needed to move quickly. Not an easy task on icy ground clad in a burqa.
We walked out to the waiting motorcade and were ushered into limousines. Unable to see my feet and the floor of the car, I stumbled.
My knee clipped the door.
Another bruise.
Izaan and I were seated in separate vehicles. Snow coated my burqa and melted into the fabric. Wet material clung to my body like a cold, soggy blanket. Images swirled before me, pulsing forward, retracting. The saturated cotton clung to my face, threatening to suffocate me. I fought the urge to gasp for air. I wanted to rip the fabric off my skin.
The knife.
Focus on the knife.
Under the folds of cloth, I stroked it with my fingertips. It anchored me. Steadied my breathing.
But could I do it?
We circled the Capitol and entered the building through a private hallway behind the podium. Marble pillars towered over us, sleek and smooth. People scurried everywhere. I’d learned that no matter the amount of money spent on coordination, pla
If they only knew where the real threat lay.
I suppressed the urge to laugh at the irony.
An agent guarded me. The Secret Service thought they directed all my movements. Izaan thought he controlled me. As first lady, the agents acted as my protectors, my lifeline. But soon they’d have to kill me.
Through the veil of the chadri, I stared out at the crowd that scurried like ants in and around the seats. My gaze landed on a man wearing a dingy down parka.
“Now arriving…” an amplified voice boomed. “Take your seats…”
Down Parka stood next to a denim-clad teenager, who bent over to tie his shoe. A woman hurried past in a faux leopard-print coat and snow boots.
Why were they so poorly dressed?
I shivered.
A cluster of pain mounted behind my eyes. I stood in the wings, waiting for my cue. Savage fluorescent lights hung low over our heads. I squinted against the glare. Pain as sharp as the tip of an ice pick scraped behind my eyes. Nausea clamped down on my stomach. I rubbed my temples through the fabric of my headdress.
Too late to take a pill. The pills are gone, remember?
Music played. It didn’t sound right. Pain distorted everything. The bass thrummed in my head like a boom box. Where were the Secret Service agents? Why didn’t they stop that racket?
Nonsensical chatter filled my mind as I told myself to follow Izaan.
We walked onto the stage.
A collective gasp whooshed around me as the burqa caused a stir. People dashed around us, taking their positions.
“This way, doctor,” someone said.
So much scurrying. So much rush, rush.
I expected to know everyone on the stage, but strangers filled the seats around us. Dignitaries. Izaan’s friends. Supporters. My gaze snagged on a police officer trailing a German shepherd. The dog’s nose led their progress through the crowd. Gazes darted in my direction. I tucked myself in close to Izaan.
He shot me a hard glance.
A vice of pain pinched my eyes. I closed them to fight the building misery. When I opened them, Chief Justice Deborah Steman stood to my left. The fine fabric of her black robe glimmered in the bright light. A large gold cross dangled at her throat. She looked like a nun.
Izaan nodded. I knew my role. His instructions were explicit. I took the Quran from Izaan’s grasp, and handed it to the chief justice.
Another gasp sucked through the crowd.
The chief justice’s eyebrows arched over her wide eyes. Her lips parted with a quick intake of breath. I bit the side of my mouth to quell my nervous energy. Trembling knees threatened to buckle.
Why did the chief justice’s robes resemble a nun’s habit?