3

Bent over his keyboard in his third floor office, Youssef Khan inspected the latest schematic in his AUTOCAD program. He was concentrating so hard that he jolted a little in his chair when his computer signaled an instant message with a loud ding. He frowned. He never got instant messages at work. Only at home when he was communicating with one person in particular.

His heart rate kicked up a notch. When he read the username along with the message, written in Pashto, his insides tightened.

Is she here?

It was him. Youssef almost couldn’t believe it.

They’d never attempted to contact him here at work before, but IM was his contact’s preferred method of communication. The man was paranoid about phones being tapped and e-mails being traced, so he was always sending messages via different usernames and accounts to avoid detection and tracking. Youssef straightened and considered his reply. Whatever the contact’s network wanted, it must be important for them to take the risk of contacting him here. Still, the possibility of being caught in communication with them made his heart thud and his palms turn clammy.

Casting a surreptitious look around him to ensure his coworkers at the engineering firm weren’t close enough to see what was on his screen, he hunched over his keyboard and typed out a brief answer.

I don’t know.

A few seconds later, the terse reply came back.

Find out and contact me immediately. The man signed off.

Youssef blinked. That was it? No further information about why they wanted him to do the checking—though he suspected they were planning an operation of some sort—or what they planned to do with the information when he reported back to them. Probably just as well. The less he was privy to about their plans, the easier it would be to claim his innocence if he got caught later on. He wanted to help the cause, not become a martyr for it.

Quickly clearing his screen, Youssef got busy doing whatever he could think of to erase the evidence of the conversation from the computer’s hard drive. He wasn’t stupid. Couldn’t be too careful these days and he didn’t want anything pointing to him in case his Taliban contact tried to implicate his involvement later. While he worked, his mind spun with the things he had to check on to find the woman in question.

Khalia Patterson. The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan had already managed to kidnap and kill her father, so it made sense that they’d want to eliminate her as well when she arrived. She was either very stupid for doing so, or very brave. Youssef had been shocked to learn she was coming to Pakistan in the article he’d read a few days ago. Apparently she had designs to take up where her father had left off in his misguided efforts to build schools for girls in the volatile tribal region. If Youssef could find Ms. Patterson’s location when she arrived in the city, he would gladly give it to his TTP contact and help prevent her foundation’s efforts.

Soft footfalls behind him sent a wave of alarm through him. He scrambled to clear the screen back to his desktop by the time Faatin, his supervisor and boss, reached him. She stopped next to his chair and gave him a suspicious look down her long nose.

“What are you doing?” she asked, more demand than question.

“Nothing.” He kept his attention on the monitor as he moved items around on the desktop, though he could see her in the screen’s reflection against the black background. “Just cleaning up some files.”

She frowned, her mouth pulling into a thin line of disapproval that marred her otherwise attractive face. Her long dark hair fell down her back in thick waves, uncovered by a hijab or even a scarf. That was only one of the things he found offensive about her. A woman should always cover her hair in the presence of men, especially those outside her family. If Pakistan properly followed the teachings of Allah and adopted a stricter interpretation of the Quran, a cleric would order a fatwa for it. Instead, his country was run by American loving liberals too afraid of doing the proper thing for fear of losing US funding. It made him sick.

“I asked you to finish up that schematic by noon,” she reminded him sharply, making him feel like a boy being scolded. And right out in the open where everyone could see. He could feel the stares aimed in their direction from around the large open room where the desks were organized into tidy rows.

Jaw tight, he turned in his seat to look up at her, brimming with resentment. “I’ll have it to you by the end of the day.”

Faatin sighed and folded her arms across her chest, unintentionally dragging his gaze to her breasts that strained against the fabric of her pale pink shirt. He hated his body’s automatic sexual reaction to her. Another reason he wished women had to wear robes rather than western style clothing that made them look so indecent. “I said by noon,” she reiterated.

“I’m doing it as fast as I can.” It was hard not to choke on the measured response when he secretly longed to put her in her place. It had taken him two

years to get hired at this prestigious engineering firm. He wasn’t going to blow his chance at advancement because of friction with his boss. He was smarter than that. Far smarter than anyone here gave him credit for, he thought with a surge of smugness.

Faatin’s gaze flicked to his desktop screen, then back to him, her tight expression telling him just how annoyed she was with his performance. “Perhaps you need to manage your time better then.”

Meaning, stop playing around organizing things that didn’t matter and get your work done.

Youssef battled to keep his contempt of her from showing. Faatin was not only his boss, she was head of the design group at the firm. She was a stickler for deadlines and had no problem calling a worker to task if she didn’t think he or she was working hard enough. If he had any desire to be promoted, he had to impress her. That also offended his male pride.

“Have it to me by the end of the day or I’ll find someone else to finish the project for you.” With that unexpected reprieve and added threat she turned on the point of her high heel and walked away, those spiky heels clicking against the tiled floor.

Seething inside, Youssef tamped down his frustration and pulled open the design program in question.

If she only knew how much he resented her, he fumed. He’d be fired from the firm within a week if anyone found out exactly what he thought of her and all the women like her—overeducated feminists who took up coveted spots at the top companies in the country and precious seats in the university applied sciences programs so that he and other men were turned away. He’d barely gotten into his program on the third try because of women like her, despite his perfect GPA and references. It was wrong. It had to stop.

Educating women was a sin against Allah. True believers like him understood that.

Not that he’d always been so radical in his thinking, of course. His mother was a college educated woman after all, and taught English to elementary school children. The difference was, his mother knew her place and didn’t act superior to men. She was a good Muslim woman. A lot of the Pakistani women in his generation were not.

The stricter interpretation of Islam he’d been exposed to at university had opened his eyes, and seeing so many male classmates turned away from their chosen program in favor of a female student had made him realize that adopting Sharia law was needed—even if it had to be implemented by force by groups like the TTP. Now that knowledge was a fire burning bright inside him. Others

knew it was the right path but were too afraid to act, for fear of reprisal from society or the government.

Not him. Not anymore.

At a click of the mouse the diagram he needed came on screen, but his mind wasn’t on work. As he typed in commands he mentally compiled a list of things he needed to do, including places to check once he got home where he could safely continue his most important work.

Find Khalia Patterson and bring his country one step closer to eradicating western feminist beliefs and values.