Blink of an Eye

by Ted Dekker

  “We have a red light—”

  “Drive faster! Faster.”

  “Faster,” he repeated and nailed the throttle. They split the intersection of Durant and Bowditch at a good sixty miles an hour. The Mercedes slowed for the light and then crept through.

  “Fast enough?”

  She didn’t respond.

  By the time they reached Shattuck, the Mercedes’ lights were weaving in and out of view. By the time they hit Interstate 80, the lights were gone.

  They headed south, and Seth had no idea where they were going. They just headed south.

  “They’re gone,” Seth said.

  She looked back. “Yes.”

  “Now what?”

  She looked over at him, face white. “Maybe they will come again.”

  “Maybe you should tell me why they want you,” he said.

  “Maybe you should tell me how you know they want me,” she said.

  How he knew? He didn’t have the faintest idea. But that didn’t matter. What did matter was that he had known. He couldn’t shake the thought that he was meant to be here, riding down the freeway with a woman named Miriam from Saudi Arabia.

  And even if he wasn’t necessarily meant to be here, in some strange way he wanted to be. Because she needed him; because he had just felt his blood flowing, really flowing, for the first time in years; because his mind had pulled a couple of very cool tricks back there for the third time in three days.

  And then there was the fiasco that awaited him at the Faculty Club.

  Yes, he belonged here. At least for the moment.

  “You first,” he said.

  chapter 12

  hilal stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hyatt Regency’s twenty-third floor, overlooking the millions of lights along the San Francisco Bay. A strange blend of emotions crowded his chest—the same as every time he visited the United States—a mixture of excitement and sadness that left him empty. Somehow Europe and Asia were different. He’d seen plenty of large cities full of excess, beginning with Riyadh, which in many ways bled more exorbitance than the rest put together. If the princes were known for anything, it was spending money. No, it wasn’t the wealth boasted by San Francisco’s coastline that bothered Hilal.

  It was the unlimited freedom of every citizen to bask in this wealth that bothered him. Nowhere else in the world did as many individuals have as much as in America. In most countries the wealthy paid the price of personal freedom with rules.

  But here, the people enjoyed both immense wealth and unparalleled freedom. The combination made America unique among nations. The mutawa might accuse him of straying from the edicts of the Prophet and acquiescing to the infidels for such a statement, and in some ways they would be right.

  Unfortunately, only a few truly understood that Saudi Arabia faced political extinction if she did not adapt to the changing world. Fortunately, King Abdullah was one of those.

  Hilal turned from the window and poured himself a scotch. It felt good to be in a country where he didn’t have to break the law to do what he did normally. He threw the drink back and swallowed.

  A black nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power lay beside the briefcase on the bed. His contact had delivered the weapon to him an hour earlier with a few other items he’d requested. Another benefit of freedom.

  Six hours earlier he’d arrived and learned that the sheik’s daughter had fled Berkeley. Sorting out the details of what transpired at the university had not been easy. Evidently, two Arabic men had passed themselves off as Hilal and an embassy associate and attempted to take her. This meant that someone else valued the woman as much as the king did and knew Hilal was on his way to collect her.

  To his way of thinking, there was only one reason any Saudi assassin would go to such lengths to intercept Miriam. They needed her for their own gain. There was only one way to gain from a woman, and that was through marriage. The mixing of bloodlines.

  Someone sought Sheik Abu al-Asamm’s allegiance. Which meant that someone wanted power over the king.

  But who? Who would know of his trip and the woman’s whereabouts?

  Wouldn’t it be ironic if the kingdom’s fate was decided by a woman rather than a man? Of course, a single bullet to her head would decide everything.

  The shrill sound of the hotel phone interrupted his thoughts, and he picked it up. “Yes.”

  “Good evening, Hilal.”

  “General Mustafa. It would be best for me to call you on your cell phone. I’ve taken care of security. Every six hours, as requested by the king.”

  “Of course.”

  Hilal paused. His first call to Saudi Arabia had been directly to the king, but he couldn’t interrupt Abdullah every six hours to update him on this mess. General Mustafa was a blood brother to the king and the head of intelligence. If they couldn’t trust him, they could trust no one.

  “She escaped with an American—Seth Border, a student,” Hilal said.

  “So, the authorities are cooperating.”

  “Locally, yes. I’m scheduled to meet with the State Department tomorrow afternoon in Los Angeles. Meanwhile, the local police have begun a search for the car. We believe she’s headed south. Several complaints were called in from other motorists. Evidently the man thinks he’s in a race car.”

  “Don’t all Americans?” The general chuckled.

  Hilal found no humor in the statement. “The police say they will have the car by morning. With any luck I will be on a plane back to Riyadh tomorrow night.”

  “Good. Then this should be a simple matter.”

  “Perhaps. She managed to escape the two men who tried to intercept her.”

  There was a pause. “Will you track them?”

  “I have a car; I have a police scanner. Freedom has its advantages, General. I’ll call back in six hours.”

  Hilal hung up the phone, picked up his briefcase, checked the room by habit, and left for the garage.

  Khalid spoke softly into the secure phone line. “Those idiots were your men. And now an American helps her?”

  Omar leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

  “The fact that Hilal himself has gone means the king suspects something.”

  “The king always suspects something. His days are numbered and he knows it.”

  Silence.

  “Who is this American?” Khalid asked.

  “Seth Border,” Omar said, shifting the receiver to his opposite ear. “A student. That’s all my men were able to learn before they left the scene. Evidently the police showed up in some force.”

  “That would be Hilal’s doing. By now he’s working with the authorities.”

  Omar sighed inaudibly. In the end, men like his father always depended on men like him, didn’t they? On killers and enforcers of the law. True strength was always wielded by the sword. Even the Prophet had known that.

  Khalid took a deep breath. “You will need to marry her in America if you can,” he said. “With Hilal involved, bringing her back could be a problem. And if she does not cooperate, then she must be silenced.”

  “Killed.”

  “We can’t have her telling the world stories. General Mustafa called ten minutes ago,” Khalid said. “Hilal called him. They’ve already identified the American’s car and expect to take Miriam into custody by morning. She’s headed south.”

  “There’s no question about Mustafa’s loyalty?”

  “No.”

  “How often will Hilal call him?”

  “Every six hours. We will know what he knows before the king does.”

  “I’ll call from New York; if there’s any change, I’ll make necessary adjustments.” Omar paused. “In the meantime you should prepare the sheik for the worst. We need his loyalty even if his daughter is killed.”

  Khalid snorted. “You are telling me how to arrange my business now?”

  Omar ended the call.

  chapter 13

  miriam sat in the speeding Cougar and watched
the endless string of oncoming headlights. They’d spent an hour speculating who was after her and what course would be best for them.

  They’d made their way south on Interstate 5 toward Los Angeles. Although they saw no indication that authorities were in pursuit, Seth insisted that the farther they traveled from Berkeley, the safer they would be. Judging by the labyrinth of freeways and endless lines of cars, Miriam didn’t believe anyone had a hope of finding them.

  After a flurry of discussion, Seth settled into an introspective state, drifting between deep thought and filling her in on America, as it really was, he said.

  They stopped once for petrol. He gave her a short tour of the gas station, explaining what the different candies were and why he preferred the red licorice strips over the black ones and why mixing a fruit drink with candy for health reasons made no sense because the candy was bad enough on its own. So were most of the nuts.

  They came out with two tall bottles of cold Dr Pepper, two bags of red licorice, and two bags of beef jerky, which he assured her was just as hard on the body as the other “junk” they had purchased. Consistency seemed important to him.

  She assured him that she knew most of this—not only had she spent a summer in California while attending Berkeley, she had made several trips to European cities and read a thousand magazines published in the West. Still, he did have a unique perspective.

  Seth took advantage of the stop to change out of his suit and into a pair of black corduroys and a faded orange T-shirt, which seemed to loosen him up considerably. She had no such option. The white dress was holding up well enough, but the disparity in their dress made her an inappropriate companion for this bold man.

  Miriam finally decided that Seth should know the whole truth of her predicament. It took another hour to tell him of the events that led up to her leaving Saudi Arabia—all of them, including Sita’s drowning.

  “So you were forced to watch?” Seth asked, horrified. “Omar was making a point? How can anyone . . .” His voice faded and he closed his eyes for a moment, furious.

  “Now you see why I fled?”

  He faced her, and for a second she thought he was going to challenge her. But then his face softened. “I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing to have to see.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what the girl’s mother must be going through.”

  “They must be part of the Nizari sect. But she is still a mother who lost a fifteen-year-old daughter at her husband’s own hand. Her devotion is beyond me.”

  Seth stared at the road and swallowed. Her savior had his soft side. Or were such displays patently American?

  “Americans have easy lives,” she said, looking away.

  “You think so? Not all Americans. Have you ever been slapped around by your father?”

  “I’ve received my share of beatings.”

  “Not a week went by that I wasn’t beaten by my father when I was a child.”

  “You?” She felt surprisingly appalled by his admission. She’d never imagined mistreatment in America.

  “I didn’t mean to fish for pity. Never mind.”

  “I tell you about Sita and you tell me never mind?” she asked.

  He considered that for a moment. “My father was an alcoholic, and despite his frequent repentance, he habitually abused my mother and me. My childhood was pretty ugly.”

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “It’s okay. I can’t complain.” He forced a grin. “I may not be the most well-adjusted human being you’ll meet, but I know how to count my blessings. Not being born in Saudi Arabia, for starters.”

  “Ha! I don’t think you understand. You would do well in my country.”

  “That’s right, I forgot. I’m a man, right?”

  “You forgot your gender? Perhaps you’re really a woman in disguise.”

  He smiled, breaking the tension for the moment. Silence filled the car, and they traveled south for a while without feeling the need to break it.

  It occurred to Miriam that for the first time, she was traveling America the American way, with an American. Despite the danger in their wake, the adventure of racing down the highway with a true-blooded American was thrilling. At the same time, the fact that the American was indeed a man triggered conflicting emotions. She had never been alone with a male stranger, much less stuck in a car with him for many hours.

  The dash lights highlighted Seth’s profile—a smooth jaw and blond hair that was decidedly messier now than when she first met him. His ragged features appealed to her on some fundamental, earthy level. He possessed the kind of air she’d expect of a free-willed spirit: handsome, yet purposefully detached from his own charm, an intelligent enigma. Despite his graceless moves back in the restroom, this man had a quick mind.

  Miriam removed her stare and smiled, thinking of their narrow escape from the university.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “That’s not a nothing smile. That’s a boy, isn’t he a strange one smile.”

  “You think you know women so well that you understand their thoughts with a glance?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe I should slip a veil on. I feel naked here with you reading my mind.”

  That gave him pause. How many men had seen her face well enough to judge her thoughts? Very few.

  “A princess with an exceptional wit,” Seth said.

  “When you look at my face, do you like what you see?” Miriam asked.

  He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Not so many men have seen my face. It seems to have made enough of an impact on you to influence your assessment of my thoughts. I’m just asking if you see anything else in it.” She took no small pleasure in throwing a man of such intellect off guard.

  “Yes.” He avoided her eyes and glanced in the side mirror although there were no cars behind them at the moment. “You’re a woman. A princess. Remember?”

  “I’ve seen more than one princess who would only look appealing next to a toad. On a good day.” She looked at the road. “You’ll forgive me, but in my country an unmarried woman doesn’t hear that she is beautiful. I think a woman is born with a desire to hear that she is beautiful, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Well . . . yes. I think so. Sure. Makes sense. Innate desire for the sake of the perpetuation of the species.”

  She glanced at him. “I never thought of it in such . . . scientific terms,” she said.

  “No. Sorry, that’s not what I meant. It seems reasonable.”

  “Perhaps it’s more a matter of love than reason,” she said. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Love? Love as in what kind of love?”

  “Evidently not. Love, as in I would give anything to be in Samir’s arms right now, hearing him whisper my name and telling me how beautiful I am. Love.”

  “Samir?”

  “Yes. Samir. The driver I told you about.”

  “You’re in love with him?” He grinned a little. “So while people in high places are plotting your marriage, you’re secretly in love with another man. A forbidden man.”

  “Yes. Desperately,” she said.

  “Desperately in love with a forbidden man. A princess with enough backbone to defy tradition.”

  She laughed, delighted at his assessment. He possessed an uncanny sense of her country, as if he’d lived there himself, even though he insisted his understanding came only from books.

  Seth cleared his throat again. “Where I come from, a man in love with a woman in danger would rescue her. So where is Samir?”

  Miriam’s joy disintegrated. “What do you mean? He can’t come after me! They’d kill him!”

  “That wouldn’t stop a man in love.”

  “And you know this?” she mocked. “He doesn’t even know where I’ve gone. When it’s safe, he will come out for me; I can promise you that. In the end, nothing will separate us.”

  She faced her side window and thought
about the way Samir had looked at her when he made his promise. What if he had left Saudi Arabia in search of her? What if at this moment he was in San Francisco, wanting to protect her? What was she doing running with this wild man? Six hours earlier he smashed into the lavatory and kidnapped her because of some strange vision that he refused to explain. And now she was trapped in a roaring car with him. What if Seth was actually an American agent working with Omar?

  “Sorry. I was just asking.”

  She closed her eyes. Slow down, Miriam. Seth is your protector. He’s as innocent as you. Without him, you would be at their mercy.

  Her mind filled with a flurry of images. Omar, Salman, the sheik, Samir, Sultana. Dear Sultana. Where are you, Samir? What had she started? It had taken her enemies exactly two days to catch up to her in Berkeley.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Please, Seth, perhaps we should go back to San Francisco. What if Samir is there? I’ve never been anywhere outside of San Francisco. What are you going to do, just drop me off at a bus stop in Los Angeles and expect that I will find my way back?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop you off at a bus stop.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She spread her hands, palms up, then let them fall to her lap. “You’re driving me to nowhere without a plan? Maybe you should let me out of the car.”

  “At the next bus stop?”

  He had a point.

  “Look, I didn’t exactly plan on rescuing a princess today. Forgive me if I don’t have my handy-dandy Ten Most Efficient Strategies to Deliver a Distressed Princess to Safety handbook in my back pocket. Maybe if you’d given me some notice.”

  She stared at him, her mind sorting through his jargon. She understood the higher meaning if not the literal one: He was as lost as she and covered his insecurity with this wit of his.

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t have any ideas,” he said. “I’m sure there are people who handle this sort of thing for a living at the State Department. I’m assuming their offices are closed at the moment. I’ll call them as soon as the sun breaks the horizon. In the meantime, going back toward San Francisco would not be smart; there are people back there who don’t like you, remember? And before you forget, I’m as much a hostage to this situation as you are. These people are after you, not me.”