He smacked the side of my head. I reeled. Humiliation stained my cheeks. His men ripped the designer wardrobe from my closet. I suddenly realized that they were the costumes of a disposable prop: me. I fought Izaan as he dragged me to the cellar.
“You’ve learned so little.”
He shoved me next to the old incinerator. Radiating heat singed the hair on my arm and snapped at my skin. They fed my wardrobe into the flames, reducing the clothing he’d taught me to wear to ashes. They incinerated the lifestyle he’d insisted I master in order to project the flawless image of a model American couple: the next president and first lady of the United States of America.
Photographs of our smiling faces at our wedding, political events and holidays were burned, along with books, bibles, magazines and artwork. Only pictures of Izaan—without my presence, or that of any other woman—were kept. Beyond tears, I stood speechless. I’d kept his secret. Helped him build a secular image that America would swallow.
“Do you see how it is now?” he asked. “Do you see what we worked so hard to achieve? Now this country will be led to Allah.”
Then I knew.
The Quran.
His quotes were paraphrased from the Quran.
I met his gaze.
He would pay.
Only one bag accompanied me to Washington and the Hay Adams Hotel. Demoralized, I donned Izaan’s latest demand—a burqa. The top of the burqa was shaped like a pillbox hat. From there, black fabric fell in a deliberately formless shape to the floor. The only other detail was the mesh veil that hid my face and eyes. Tears slashed mascara across my cheeks.
The burqa gripped me in a bone-crushing depression. It devoured my peripheral vision and my self-respect. The veil distorted my perception. Through it, even the brightly upholstered chairs and ornately carved bed of the hotel appeared worn and worthless.
Reality, terrifying and ugly as a cobra about to strike, snapped into focus. Thoughts flew at me from a thousand broken places. I wanted to scream. If I started, I wouldn’t stop. I needed to think.
To act.
A high-pitched ringing grew in my ears, and buzzed through my brain like a menacing swarm of bees. I walked into my bathroom and retrieved the prescription Izaan demanded I take.
I stared at the bottle.
Until now, he controlled me, inside and out. His precious pills were supposed to help with the ringing, my depression and everything else. They didn’t. When I took them, I felt submerged beneath the world, slogging upstream against a relentless current. Detached and passive.
I studied the label. What was really in the bottle?
I unscrewed the top and dumped the entire contents into the toilet.
Izaan would be furious.
I was delighted.
Water swirled around the bowl, sucking the venomous capsules into the vortex, siphoning them down the drain, just as I’d been sucked into the dizzying eddy of Izaan’s deception.
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, planning and security, the Secret Service could never manage to completely control grand events, such as a presidential inauguration. The sheer number of bodies made that impossible.