Blink of an Eye

by Ted Dekker

  “Yeah.” Odd. Very odd.

  “Another year here and you’ll be out,” Harland said. “Stay with it.”

  Seth sat back. “Now you’re sounding like Clive Masters.”

  “Anyone with half a brain would say you should finish.”

  “So you’re saying . . . ?”

  “Play ball at the reception Thursday. Smile, be nice. Try to keep your foot out of your mouth. Maybe even offer some kind of apology to Baaron—”

  “Suck up.”

  “In the vernacular.”

  “Be reasonable and do what’s best for everybody.”

  “Yes.”

  Seth stood and walked to the window. His fingers slipped into his pocket and toyed with the Super Ball. The pigeon was hobbling along the grass, dazed.

  “I wouldn’t dream of anything else, Professor.”

  chapter 6

  the bruise on her face was hidden from Samir, but he had to know something terrible had happened by the tremble in her voice. The tragedy was too large in her mind to discuss at first—they rode in silence.

  Miriam had awakened in the car and wept for her friend. At home, her father, Salman, refused to hear anything of it, insisting that if it had happened as she said, the matter was beyond his influence. She went to her room and fell asleep on a pillow soaked with tears. She’d heard of stonings and even drownings before, of course, but only in stories of mad men in remote desert regions. Never could she have imagined seeing her best friend drowned by Musa. Wicked, wicked Musa.

  The Nizari sect lived and they were an insane lot!

  Haya awakened her before noon. Samir was waiting to take her to her appointment, she said. Miriam had almost forgotten. The sheik Al-Asamm wanted to see her. Why? Did he have a son for her to marry? Then he would approach Salman, not her.

  She didn’t care. Sita was all she could think of. She washed away her tears and readied herself.

  Samir drove her through the streets of Riyadh, seeming to understand her need for silence, past new structures designed by Western architects. Nearly a quarter of Saudi Arabia’s population was expatriate, imported labor and expertise to build the city and serve the House of Saud. The foreigners were effectively cut off from the lives of most Saudis, sequestered in communities designed for them, but their touch could be seen everywhere. To many fundamental Muslims, the slow Westernization of this, Islam’s birthplace, was a blasphemous tragedy.

  Today, for the first time, Miriam thought it symbolized the hope of freedom.

  They wound through the suburbs, sandstone brick-and-mortar construction. Square. Everything square. And then they were in the desert, which stretched endlessly to Dhahran on the Persian Gulf. The Americans had used Dhahran as a base during the Gulf War.

  “Sita was drowned by her father this morning for defying Hatam,” she said.

  “Wha—No!”

  “Yes.” She lifted her hand to her mouth, afraid she might begin crying again. The tires droned under them.

  “The savage!” Samir said. “He is a pig!”

  Miriam swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Her father is Nizari.”

  He gripped the wheel and shook his head, clearly surprised. “The Nizari hardly exist. Not among the respectable.” He seemed to be at a loss for words. “I’m so very sorry, Miriam. Some men can be beasts to their women.” He looked out his window, jaws flexing. “I could understand a beating, but drowning? It’s not—”

  “A beating?” she cried. “No man should have a right to beat a woman! What gives a man that right? It’s inhumane to drown your daughter, and it’s inhumane to beat your wife!”

  They were the strongest words she had ever spoken in Samir’s hearing. He mumbled his agreement, but her words obviously stung his ears. She sat next to him, as she frequently did when they were alone, for the rest of the trip. But today she sat dazed and numb.

  Fifteen minutes after they left the city, Samir turned onto a small sandy road that led to a solitary Bedouin tent. Two Mercedes rather than camels formed a kind of gate in front of the main canvas flap.

  Samir stopped the car. Dust drifted by.

  “He’s waiting inside.”

  Miriam stepped out. A Bedouin woman dressed in a traditional black abaaya, but without the full-face veil, exited the tent and watched her. Bedouin veils rode on the bridge of the nose, allowing the world free access to the eyes.

  Miriam reached the tent and gazed into the smiling eyes of the strange woman.

  “You may remove your veil in here,” the woman said.

  Perhaps the sheik was not so concerned with tradition. Not wanting to be rude, Miriam removed her veil and entered.

  Abu Ali al-Asamm, a white-bearded holy man, sat on a large silk pillow and talked in hushed tones to a woman on his right. A maroon carpet with gold weaving covered most of the floor, and on this carpet was a single low table. Otherwise there was only a stand for tea and a large bowl of fruit—hardly the furnishings of a typical tent. Apparently, they had come on short notice with only what would fit into the cars outside.

  Talk stilled as the tent flap fell behind her. The sheik was on the heavy side, and getting to his feet was not an easy task. He stood and stared at her with eyes that betrayed as much wonder as curiosity.

  “Miriam.”

  She dipped her head, feeling exposed. He knew her name, obviously, but he spoke it as if some mystery were contained between the syllables. What was this all about? Did he know about Sita’s drowning?

  The sheik walked toward her, eyes beaming. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He took her hands and kissed them. “Such a beauty, just like your mother, may God give her rest.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “You know my mother?”

  “But of course. She was my wife; I would think I knew her quite well.”

  Desert silence smothered Miriam.

  “Forgive me, but you’re mistaken. I’ve never met you. Or your wife. She isn’t my mother.”

  “No, Miriam. I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Salman adopted you, yes?”

  “What?”

  “You were never told?”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  He stared at her, then turned away. “Come . . . come sit.”

  She hadn’t heard right! “I don’t understand.”

  The sheik turned back, saw the fear in her eyes, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me. It’s a shock. How insensitive of me. I’ve been watching you for all of these years and you’re learning for the first time that I’m your real father.”

  She could hardly imagine it. In fact, she couldn’t. Why hadn’t she been told? There was no resemblance, no logic, nothing to tie her to this man.

  “You’re a perfect reflection of your mother, Jawahara, who died giving you birth.” The sheik motioned to a beautiful woman who was pouring tea. “This is Nadia, my second wife.”

  Nadia set the teapot down and hurried over, kissed Miriam’s hand. “My house is yours.”

  Miriam didn’t want this house. It had been a mistake to come! But looking at them both, she knew that they spoke the truth. Such a powerful man would never fabricate such a preposterous story unless it was entirely true.

  Abu Ali al-Asamm was her father. God help her.

  “It changes nothing,” the sheik said. “You are who you are. A beautiful woman. Privileged in every way. Royalty. Please, come and sit.”

  They sat. Nadia offered her fruit, and she took an apple. Miriam bit into it absently, trying to think through the ramifications of this news.

  “So how is the House of Salman treating you these days?” the sheik asked. Wrinkles spread from his eyes, crow’s-feet formed by a perpetual smile. Miriam felt a knot rise in her throat. Could she trust this man the way she’d always wanted to trust Salman? Could such a strange man be a real father to her?

  “Well,” she said. It was not the precise truth, but it was the co
rrect answer.

  The sheik began to speak about his life. None of it really mattered to her, but she listened politely and asked a few questions to show interest.

  What she really wanted to know was why. Why had the sheik given her up for adoption to Salman? What advantage had it gained him?

  He talked for ten minutes of the eastern province and Dhahran. Of the Shia and the American involvement in the region. About Miriam’s mother and how she had always wanted a daughter. Miriam was her only child, but Jawahara had died happy. Yet the sheik had not brought her here to talk about her mother.

  The talk stalled. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yes.”

  Al-Asamm studied her face. “Your eyes betray you, my dear.”

  She shifted her eyes. “I have—had—a very good friend named Sita. She was fifteen and forced to marry an old man. She refused him, and this morning her father drowned her for shaming them. I . . . I was forced to watch.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear.” The sheik clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It is an abomination. There are far more appropriate punishments than death. I am sorry, child. I am very sorry.”

  The sheik sighed. “The world is changing, Miriam.” He glanced at her carefully. “Perhaps after fifty years in opposition to this government, my day has come. I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked Salman to adopt you.”

  So here it was then. “I am.”

  “I did it for the good of Saudi Arabia. For the sake of returning the country to the true teaching of Islam, and for the sake of bringing my people, the Shia, into their rightful place within society.” He paused. “King Abdullah has ruled long enough.”

  His words stung her ears. Treason!

  “Strong words, I know,” he said. “As your natural father I’ve retained the right to give you in marriage. When you marry into the House of Saud and bear a son, my grandson will be filled with royal blood.”

  “But my father—”

  “Salman? He agreed to the general plan from the beginning, though it was not for him to say whom you would marry.”

  Then the sheik told her the details of the planned coup in a quick, low voice, as if he’d rehearsed the words a thousand times. And he probably had, having hatched the plan twenty years ago!

  Her biological father had forged an alliance with her adoptive family. She was just a pawn.

  “You will be married in four days’ time,” Al-Asamm said.

  “Four days!” She jumped to her feet.

  “It’s imperative.”

  Panic pressed her chest, flushed her neck. “To whom? I have made no preparations!”

  “To Khalid’s son. To Omar bin Khalid.”

  “Omar bin Khalid? I don’t even know him!”

  The sheik stood. “And now you expect to know the one you marry?”

  “I can’t marry Omar,” she snapped. “I love Samir!”

  Silence, except for her ragged breathing. He stared, mouth agape.

  “Samir?” he finally said. “The driver?”

  She had made a terrible mistake. For Samir’s sake she had to recover.

  She could not reveal the true depth of her love for him.

  “No, you’re right. I do not. But what if I did love someone? You would still force me to marry a man I don’t love? I don’t know a single person who speaks well of Khalid bin Mishal’s family. They are animals!”

  “How dare you speak such things!” The sheik’s nostrils flared. His anger snatched her back from the brink of foolishness. In her mind, she heard a door slam, saw the bolt slide through. Several years ago, a friend who’d argued about marrying was locked up until the day of the wedding.

  “I’m sorry. But please, I beg you, don’t do this to me!”

  “Fathers have always given their daughters in marriage. Now you are telling me that you know better than I who is a good husband?”

  She bit her tongue.

  “A country is at stake!” he boomed. “We have in our hands the power to save Islam from corruption, and you think only of your fantasies?”

  Nadia stood near the corner, facing away. Her posture told Miriam that the sheik’s outburst was not a common thing. He had traded her once for peace, and he would do it again, this time for power.

  She had to buy herself some time. Four days! She shivered and found her tongue.

  “Forgive me. I was thinking irrationally. In one day my best friend has been killed and I learn that I have a wedding in four days. I’m losing myself.” She lowered her eyes. “Of course you are right. This must be done.”

  He stared at her, composing himself. “Yes,” he finally said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Forgive me.”

  He nodded, exhaled loudly. “This will be a historical day for Islam.” Sheik Abu Ali al-Asamm reached out and put a hand on her arm in a gesture of comfort.

  “The wedding will be held in secrecy. Samir will bring you to us tomorrow, and you will be pampered like a queen. And when we are successful in taking the throne, your wedding will be celebrated in the open.” He paused. “The groom has requested that the ceremonies of marriage be properly followed, including halawa,” he said, speaking of the traditional removal of all body hair below the neck. The practice had been instituted by Muhammad in the seventh century, when bathing was not common.

  Miriam nodded, suppressing an urge to vomit.

  “Now go.” He smiled. “Before you are missed.”

  She dipped her head, replaced her veil, and left the tent without another word.

  Samir dropped Miriam off at the souk and agreed to pick her up in one hour. He’d tried to find out what was bothering her and didn’t have a clue about the wedding. To tell him would only crush him. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, not yet.

  The market bustled with merchants peddling their wares. Women, floating around in black, inspected products through their veils. She found Sultana at their favorite stall for fresh fruit.

  “The pigs!” Her voice trembled. “How could any sane man drown his daughter?”

  So Sultana knew. But the dread of Miriam’s own troubles had blunted the horror of Sita’s drowning.

  “I am being given in marriage,” Miriam said.

  Sultana took Miriam by the arm. The fruit vendor was staring their way. She grabbed Miriam’s arm and pulled her to the end of the row. She kept her voice low. “What are you talking about?”

  “I met with my father this morning. He has given me in marriage.”

  “No!”

  “No. My real father. Sheik Abu al-Asamm.” Her voice trembled.

  Sultana looked at her as if she were mad. “The Shia sheik? What are you talking about?”

  “He is my blood father, Sultana. I was adopted into King Abdullah’s family in exchange for loyalty.”

  Sultana appeared dead on her feet.

  “Sultana, did you hear me? I am to be married—”

  “To whom?”

  “To the son of Khalid bin Mishal. Omar. The wedding is in four days.”

  “Omar bin Khalid!”

  Miriam glanced around, self-conscious. “I’m scared, Sultana.”

  “Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear, this is terrible.” Sultana hurried toward the brick wall that surrounded the market, stopped after four paces, and urgently swept her arm for Miriam to follow.

  “Sultana? Sultana, please.” Sultana’s anxiety heightened her own.

  “What should I do?”

  Safe from bent ears, Sultana spun to her. “Do you know who Omar is? He’s my first cousin! I could tell you things about this man that would make you vomit.” Sultana was shaking with fury. “I have spoken with Sita’s mother. Do you know who pressured her father to drown her? I’ll tell you. It was Omar bin Khalid.”

  “Omar? But how . . .”

  The words of the man who’d dragged her to the drowning crashed over her. He said that the drowning was a message. From Omar!

  “You can’t marry him!” Sultana cried. “I once saw him kick my niece in
the head when she was three years old. For taking a toy from one of his nephews! She was in the hospital for a week!”

  Miriam swam in fear. “I have to do what the sheik says! Look at Sita!”

  “And look who killed Sita!”

  “And if I don’t obey, then Omar will kill me too; is that what you want?”

  “Stop it!” Sultana said. “Just stop for a minute.”

  They stood under the shade of a palm, breathing steadily in the afternoon heat.

  “We’re not thinking clearly,” Sultana said. “Why does the sheik want to marry you to Omar bin Khalid?”

  Miriam told her. She included Omar’s message as well.

  “Knowing of this is enough to get us both killed. We’re still not thinking clearly. Omar is a beast who orchestrated Sita’s drowning, don’t you see?”

  She was right. Dear God, have mercy on them both, Sultana was right.

  Miriam looked back at the shops. A woman draped in black faced them. “You’re right.” She faced Sultana. “You’re right.”

  “There’s only one thing you can do,” her friend said.

  “What?”

  “Run.”

  The possibility stunned Miriam into a momentary silence.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Yes, I am! You have to run. If you stay, you will either be beaten into submission or end up dead like Sita.”

  “Run?” Miriam’s heart began to pound. A long silence stretched between them. Two years earlier, on a girlish whim, they had drawn up a detailed plan to run away to the United States and convinced each other the idea would work. Not that they ever intended to use it. “Those were childish plans. They would never work.”

  “Does Salman still keep the same safe?”

  “Yes. I think so. What if I get caught?”

  “Then they’ll force you to marry Omar anyway. That’s why this is the right time to run. They need you, don’t you see? They can’t just kill you.”

  Her friend had a point. “They may not kill me, but I’d pay a high price.”

  “The price of not trying could be higher.”

  Miriam could not decide. Most women she knew had a hard enough time getting out of the house, much less getting out of the country. Who was she to think she could run?