Chapter One

The Meeting

Kelly

I drive a golf cart at the airport ... the kind used by airlines to transport people around the vast complexes of modern terminal buildings. Generally, only those who are mobility impaired, women with young children, and older people who cannot manage long distances are transported on these carts, but one day, I received a call on my radio to proceed to the First Class Lounge and pick up a party of three passengers and take them to the gate for their flight. It was a sufficiently unusual requirement that I questioned it, but I was informed that, yes, my presence and vehicle were definitely needed.

Upon entering the lounge, I was directed to one of the private conference rooms, and when I knocked on the door to advise the passengers that I was available for the required transportation services, it opened partially, and a crooked finger silently beckoned me into the opulent room. Now ... I’ve seen all sorts of people and costumes in the course of my job, butthis was the first time I had the experience of meeting some of the super wealthy of the earth. One of the men, tall, elegant, and immaculately dressed, spoke quietly, in keeping with the subdued atmosphere of the lounge environment.

“Thank you for coming so quickly. We require your assistance to transport our young lady to the gate, please.” The speaker gestured towards a black shrouded figure sitting erectly in a wheel chair by the window.

“Of course, sir,” I responded, a little surprised that she would require any sort of aid, but the wheelchair and its occupant were indisputable.

The other of the expensively dressed, swarthy skinned men, obviously from the Middle East, walked over to the chair and pushed it to the door. I assumed that the young woman in it was one of their daughters that had perhaps been incapacitated in a car accident or suffered from some debilitating condition. I was wrong about her being related to either although correct about her lack of ability to move freely. She sat silently uptight, staring directly ahead, swathed completely in one of those all-encompassing black robes women from that region are required to wear while in public. I was unable to see anything of her face other than a hint of skin tone through the narrow band over the position of her eyes, and even those were virtually invisible through the dense black, screening cloth that covered the slit in her head-encompassing veils. She kept her hands hidden within the capacious folds of the garment, but I saw the tips of her fingers emerge slightly for a moment and then withdraw again. They were tightly encased in what appeared to be snug, black, thick satin gloves. The long, full robe descended to cover her legs and feet, not even revealing the tips of her footwear.

I tried not to stare, at least too obviously, for the sight of a woman so thoroughly concealed from view, even though otherwise visible, was quite a startling one here in North America.

“Let us go to the gate now, please? T