Read Online Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery) by Suzi Weinert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzi Weinert
Ads: Link
American lips would speak their names. “Khadija, enough!” he shouted with authority. “Our guest has no time for this. His schedule here is busy. His English is excellent and…”
“No,” Ahmed interrupted on impulse. “To know more is wiser than to know less. I accept your daughter’s gracious offer, Mahmud.”
As Khadija’s face lighted with enthusiasm, Ahmed marveled at the length and thickness of her eyelashes and the way her soft hair brushed the delicate skin of her face. Could the others hear his heart’s loud pounding inside his chest? Shifting self-consciously in his seat, he hoped the motion distracted Mahmud from noticing his strong reactions to the man’s daughter.
Mahmud’s look of surprise at Ahmed’s reaction froze into a rebuffed and disapproving scowl. They ate in silence until Khadija looked at her watch, sipped the last of her coffee, stood and announced, “I’m off to class. Back about one o’clock. See you all this afternoon.”
Her father grunted annoyance and Ahmed said, “Safe travel.”
He felt as if a piece of him left the room when she did.
16
Friday, 7:47 AM
As Khadija’s car pulled out of the driveway, Mahmud volunteered to Ahmed, “The others have gone and Heba’s in the kitchen where she can not hear us, so we can speak openly.”
“A Muslim-American wife, Mahmud? How did this happen?” Ahmed’s own training forbade unnecessary social mingling with the enemy, never mind marriage.
Rather than apologize, Mahmud allowed his smug expression to suggest an opposite story. “In truth, it’s genius. Although I executed the task brilliantly, I can’t take credit for originating it. Years ago, when the Great Leader placed me in this infidel country, he instructed me to find an American bride. Imagine my disgust at this unthinkable duty. But marrying an American put me in the quick-line for American citizenship and proved to everyone here my willing integration into this life—a life you and I know is entirely false.” He gave an ironic laugh. “Who would suspect this ‘Americanized’ Muslim man is actually a terrorist?”
Recognizing the strategy’s cleverness, Ahmed said, “I see we all play needed roles here. And have these twenty-four years of integration changed your dedication to carry out our mission? Speak truly now, for this is essential.”
Mahmud’s face sobered. “If anything, my resolve grows ever stronger. You have no idea how hard this is. Every day I am torn between acting like a perfect American husband or killing my wife. My life is a nightmare! Only a strong man could endure the madness. And she’s not even pretty. But the homely ones are easy targets, wanting husbands to validate their worth. She insists on some independence, and when I give her the discipline she deserves, she threatens to leave me. American men, she argues, don’t treat women that way. Then I show her newspaper stories proving this untrue. Many American men beat and even kill their women. But I cannot risk doing this during my assignment here in case someone calls the police. I must blend into this filthy culture to avoid all suspicion. I cannot draw attention to myself until Allah, blessed be His name, calls me soon for our great mission. ”
“Rocks fill your path. I see that,” Ahmed agreed. But how could this man thinks his wife plain? “Your wife is homely?”
“Ugly. Her color is washed away: white skin, blue eyes and the hair beneath her hijab is yellow.” He flinched. “She’s not at all our kind. Never would I willingly choose her for a wife.”
Mahmud spoke with such venom that Ahmed didn’t doubt his sincerity. Odd, because the very differences he loathed fascinated Ahmed. He remembered his father’s delight in his mother’s unusual green eyes, perhaps a genetic gift from early European plunderers or European women brought centuries earlier as gifts for powerful Sultans or Caliphate rulers.
“In this country the wife’s family expects no
“No,” Ahmed interrupted on impulse. “To know more is wiser than to know less. I accept your daughter’s gracious offer, Mahmud.”
As Khadija’s face lighted with enthusiasm, Ahmed marveled at the length and thickness of her eyelashes and the way her soft hair brushed the delicate skin of her face. Could the others hear his heart’s loud pounding inside his chest? Shifting self-consciously in his seat, he hoped the motion distracted Mahmud from noticing his strong reactions to the man’s daughter.
Mahmud’s look of surprise at Ahmed’s reaction froze into a rebuffed and disapproving scowl. They ate in silence until Khadija looked at her watch, sipped the last of her coffee, stood and announced, “I’m off to class. Back about one o’clock. See you all this afternoon.”
Her father grunted annoyance and Ahmed said, “Safe travel.”
He felt as if a piece of him left the room when she did.
16
Friday, 7:47 AM
As Khadija’s car pulled out of the driveway, Mahmud volunteered to Ahmed, “The others have gone and Heba’s in the kitchen where she can not hear us, so we can speak openly.”
“A Muslim-American wife, Mahmud? How did this happen?” Ahmed’s own training forbade unnecessary social mingling with the enemy, never mind marriage.
Rather than apologize, Mahmud allowed his smug expression to suggest an opposite story. “In truth, it’s genius. Although I executed the task brilliantly, I can’t take credit for originating it. Years ago, when the Great Leader placed me in this infidel country, he instructed me to find an American bride. Imagine my disgust at this unthinkable duty. But marrying an American put me in the quick-line for American citizenship and proved to everyone here my willing integration into this life—a life you and I know is entirely false.” He gave an ironic laugh. “Who would suspect this ‘Americanized’ Muslim man is actually a terrorist?”
Recognizing the strategy’s cleverness, Ahmed said, “I see we all play needed roles here. And have these twenty-four years of integration changed your dedication to carry out our mission? Speak truly now, for this is essential.”
Mahmud’s face sobered. “If anything, my resolve grows ever stronger. You have no idea how hard this is. Every day I am torn between acting like a perfect American husband or killing my wife. My life is a nightmare! Only a strong man could endure the madness. And she’s not even pretty. But the homely ones are easy targets, wanting husbands to validate their worth. She insists on some independence, and when I give her the discipline she deserves, she threatens to leave me. American men, she argues, don’t treat women that way. Then I show her newspaper stories proving this untrue. Many American men beat and even kill their women. But I cannot risk doing this during my assignment here in case someone calls the police. I must blend into this filthy culture to avoid all suspicion. I cannot draw attention to myself until Allah, blessed be His name, calls me soon for our great mission. ”
“Rocks fill your path. I see that,” Ahmed agreed. But how could this man thinks his wife plain? “Your wife is homely?”
“Ugly. Her color is washed away: white skin, blue eyes and the hair beneath her hijab is yellow.” He flinched. “She’s not at all our kind. Never would I willingly choose her for a wife.”
Mahmud spoke with such venom that Ahmed didn’t doubt his sincerity. Odd, because the very differences he loathed fascinated Ahmed. He remembered his father’s delight in his mother’s unusual green eyes, perhaps a genetic gift from early European plunderers or European women brought centuries earlier as gifts for powerful Sultans or Caliphate rulers.
“In this country the wife’s family expects no
Similar Books
