Blink of an Eye

by Ted Dekker

  Seth stepped in and closed the door. She would talk to him, in English. He knew that, but he also knew that he had to come off as a woman.

  “Hello, could you help me, please?” he said, afraid his voice would crack. Sounded like a woman to him. The servant just stared at him.

  “I’m an American,” he said. “I beg you for assistance.”

  “American?” She glanced at the window, obviously terrified. Filipino servants—Muslims who’d come to the cradle of Islam in search of work—were common in Saudi Arabia, but their employers often mistreated them.

  “Yes. I am willing to pay you.” Seth slipped his hand under the abaaya, took a wad of U.S. bills from his front pocket, a couple hundred dollars, and held it out to her. “Please.”

  She looked at the money for a moment, glanced one more time at the window, and then reached for the cash eagerly. By the look in her eyes, it was probably more than she’d seen at one time in her whole life.

  “I must speak to the woman who is here. Her name is Miriam.” The servant fixated on the bills. “She was married here, yes?”

  The woman looked up, untrusting.

  “Please, she’s my friend. You must help me.”

  “No woman married here,” the servant said.

  Darkness dumped into Seth’s mind. No! He was blind again!

  He gasped. The woman took a step backward. He was standing in the middle of a guarded palace on the Arabian Peninsula with a coup raging about him, and he was blind.

  Dear God, help me!

  “Please!”

  “You’re a man!” she said.

  He cleared the frog from his throat and hitched his voice up an octave. “Please, I didn’t mean to startle you. I have a pain in my stomach.” That was ridiculous.

  “No marriage,” she said. “You cannot be here! If I am caught, they will beat!”

  Seth reached out a reassuring hand, and then pulled it back when the hair showed, thoroughly unfeminine. “No, they will not catch you. I will go. But I must know. I will pay more.”

  He reached into his pocket and removed another bill. It was a hundred. “Here, take it.”

  She reached forward, but this time he pulled the money back. “Tell me. Where is the woman?”

  She eyed him carefully and then looked at the money.

  “Yes. There was a wedding,” she said.

  “When?”

  “Last evening.”

  That was it! It had to be!

  “Where is she?”

  The woman held out her hand. “Give me money.”

  Seth gave it to her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You go now. You go!” She picked up a broom and jabbed it at him. “You go now!”

  Seth dispensed with his attempt at a woman’s voice. “Tell me where she is!” he boomed.

  The poor servant dropped her mouth in shock and then swung the broom. It hit him on the head, and he threw up an arm to ward off continuing blows. She began to squeal. The ruckus would be the end of him.

  “Okay! Hush! Sh.”

  She continued beating at him, unfazed. Seth fled and slammed the door behind him. He ran five paces before thinking he must look like anything but a graceful Saudi woman. He pulled up, heart pounding. But the grounds were still quiet.

  Miriam was here. He knew that now. There was only one way to find her.

  For a blond-headed, green-eyed, fair-skinned male racing through a Saudi Arabian palace and pulling open doors, an abaaya was a wonderful thing.

  Miriam sat on the couch, suffocated by purple. The subterranean room had no windows, yet its decorator, presumably Omar, had lined the walls with heavy velvet curtains. The red carpet reminded her of blood, and it clashed with the drapes. The silk bedspread was black. The violet candles smelled like licorice. The room was nothing more than a lavish dungeon.

  To her it all smelled of Nizari, that dreadful extremist sect, though she’d never smelled Nizari.

  They’d brought her here an hour after the wedding and locked the door. Since then she’d seen or heard no one. The hours crept by with mounting dread, and she managed to sleep only for a couple hours, here on the couch.

  Repeatedly she thought to kill herself rather than face Omar again, but suicide was not her way. She would rather be killed by him, and she intended to provoke him to it. The mutawa who oversaw Sita’s drowning said that she had done Hatam bodily harm; Miriam wondered how her friend injured him. Scratched his eyes out, maybe. Or smashed his nose. If Omar tried to kiss her again, she would bite him, and not gently.

  She thought of biting down on his lip hard enough to sever it. I’ll show you that I’m not your toy. No, she was a woman. But in this man’s hands she couldn’t be a woman. He didn’t even know women existed. To him they were merely flesh, possessions. Something to use up and throw away.

  Her vision blurred with tears. What have I done to deserve this?

  The phone rang and Miriam jerked.

  The white porcelain receiver hung on a brass hook—she’d thought the device was only a decoration, but its shrill ring proved her wrong. She stood. Should she answer it?

  Miriam let it ring a dozen times before picking up the receiver and placing it to her ear.

  “He is coming,” a woman’s voice said. “He has asked that his bride be ready.”

  Miriam shivered.

  “Do you hear me?” the woman demanded.

  “I will never be ready!” Miriam whispered.

  Silence. A soft chuckle. “And that is as he wants it. So then, you are ready. If you anger him, he will love you for it. If you submit to him, he will hate you. He has the blood of a king, and you are his queen.”

  Miriam slammed the receiver down and screamed. “Never!” She shook and raged. “Never!”

  She sobbed and crossed the carpet, still shaking like a twig in the wind.

  There is only one way, Miriam. You must kill him. She closed her eyes. You must distract him and sink the candlestick deep into his skull.

  A noise sounded at the door. Miriam ran to the dresser and flattened herself in the shadows. The candlestick! She reached out and snatched it off the dresser.

  The door opened a crack. Miriam pressed into the darkness and held her breath.

  The door swung open. A woman stood in the doorway, clothed in black. Veiled. Was this Omar’s sick fantasy? To come dressed as a woman?

  Revulsion swept through her gut, threatening to explode in a scream. She could do it. She would take his head off before he—

  “Miriam?”

  It was a man! Omar had come to her in an abaaya to mock her. If she let him come in and swung at him while he had his back turned, she might succeed.

  “Miriam, are you in here?”

  The man was speaking in English. English! Did Omar speak English?

  “Miriam. God, help me. Where have they put you?”

  Her mind filled with his voice and one name screamed to the surface. The figure started to turn away. No. No! This could not be Seth! She was out of her mind. If she called out to him, she would give herself away.

  The figure turned to leave.

  Miriam could not stop herself. She stepped out of the shadows, candlestick held out like a weapon.

  He spun back. “Miriam!”

  Take off the veil, she tried to say, but she couldn’t. Her throat was swollen shut. He yanked the veil from his head.

  It was Seth.

  Miriam felt her knees weaken. Her face wrinkled in shame. She was crying. Why was she ashamed?

  He rushed to her and she fell against him, unable to hold back deep sobs. She was saying things to him, telling him everything, but the words all came out like moans. Long earthy moans like death, echoing around the chamber.

  “What have they done to you?” He did his best to hold her up, but she sagged and he sank to the couch, embracing her. “I’m going to kill . . .”

  She could not stop the gushing of her heart. Omar was coming at this very moment, and she had to warn
Seth. But her voice would not cooperate.

  He rocked her. “You’re safe now. You’re safe with me. Do you hear me, Miriam? I’m here now.”

  “He’s coming,” she managed.

  “Who? Omar?”

  She tried to catch her breath. On impulse she grabbed his abaaya and kissed his face. “Thank you!” She kissed his hair, repeating herself through more tears. “Thank you, thank you. Thank you, Seth.”

  “Listen to me, Miriam. Where is Omar?”

  Yes, he was coming, wasn’t he? Miriam came to her senses. She sat up, alarmed.

  “He’s coming!” Miriam said.

  Seth looked at her, unsure. “Now?”

  “Yes, now!” She pushed off him and ran for the door. “We have to leave now! Can you see the futures?”

  “No.” He jumped to his feet and jerked the abaaya off. “Here, you wear this.”

  “No!”

  Seth stopped at the anger in her voice.

  “No,” she said. “You wear the abaaya. Give me your clothes. Hurry!”

  He understood. It took them only a few seconds, fumbling madly with buttons and zippers, but in the end Seth was still hidden in a cloak of black, and Miriam wore his corduroys and a white shirt twice her size.

  “My hair,” she said.

  He spun her around and tied her hair in a messy knot behind her head. Horrible! She needed a ghutra. Anything to cover her head. She ran for the bed, pulled one of the pillows from its case, and tied the case over her head.

  “You make a lousy man,” Seth said.

  “And you make a terrible woman,” she said.

  Seth reached for her hand. “Come on!”

  They ran from the room and headed for the stairs. “Where’s the garage?” he asked.

  They had come through the garage yesterday, but she did not make a note of it. “I don’t know. The back! Toward the back.”

  Together they burst onto the main floor. Seth seemed to know better than she where the back was, because he pulled her into a hall and motioned to the end. They walked quickly now. A servant entered the hall and took two steps before turning back to them.

  They walked on, a man and a woman: two strangers in the villa, oddly dressed perhaps, but nothing more. She hoped.

  “May I help you?” the servant called after them.

  “No,” Seth said, and his Arabic was good enough, she thought. He said he’d lost his gift, which meant he was on his own. They were on their own.

  Dear God, help us.

  They found the garage at the back, beyond the study that Miriam had waited in yesterday. A row of cars lined the stalls. Mercedes, all of them. Shouts reached them from the villa. Omar.

  “Hurry!” Miriam tore for the first car, blinded by fresh fury. She would never go back. Not alive. Never!

  “I can’t see a . . .” Seth ripped the veil from his face, vaulted the railing, and raced for the second car. Both were locked.

  They tried all five cars. The one on the end ticked as it cooled. It was unlocked. She knew without a doubt that Omar had just arrived in this car.

  Seth piled in on the driver’s side and stabbed the garage-door control.

  “You can’t drive! They’ll stop you; you’re a woman,” Miriam said. She glanced at the garage door that was rising at Seth’s command. “I’ll drive.”

  He hesitated and then pushed over to the passenger side.

  Miriam slid behind the wheel and turned the keys. The black Mercedes thundered to life. Movement from the door caught her attention. Omar exited the door that led to the house.

  You’re too late, you filthy pig.

  She set her jaw, jammed the shifter down, and punched the accelerator. They plowed through a half-opened garage door, metal screeching and wrenching, but Miriam hardly noticed. She was breaking down the walls of prison.

  “Go!” Seth yelled. “Go, go, go!”

  She went. Straight for the front gate. But the gate was closed.

  Seth grabbed the door handle. “Ram it!”

  “Ram it?”

  “Punch it!”

  “Punch it?”

  “Go! Hard! It’s a Mercedes; we’ll make it!”

  She had learned to trust him in the desert, and she had no reason to doubt him now. She pressed the gas pedal to the floor and they roared for the gates. They both ducked at the last moment. With a tremendous crash and a jolt that threw Miriam into the steering wheel, the car slammed through the gates. They dragged one of the gates for a few meters and then broke free.

  Miriam spun the wheel to the right. The car swerved a few times before she straightened it out. Then they were flying through an intersection to the sound of honking cars.

  “Slow down!”

  She eased off the pedal. “We made it!”

  He stared at her, wearing a sly grin. “For the moment. Do you know where we’re going now?”

  “Out of the city.”

  “Then where?”

  “Then I don’t know where. Do you?”

  “No.”

  An army truck blazed past them and careened around a corner toward a mob of men surrounding a petrol station. So, the coup was under way.

  Miriam looked at Seth, hardly able to comprehend his presence. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “You came for me.”

  “Did you ever doubt me?”

  She looked out her window, still dazed. “This is really happening, isn’t it? We are free?”

  “Not exactly. The palace is under siege,” Seth said. “Chaos is spreading. Let’s hope we can get out of the city.”

  She only had to consider the matter briefly to know they would never make it out of Saudi Arabia. But they had escaped from Omar, and that was enough.

  “I won’t go back, Seth. I will never go back alive.”

  Seth didn’t seem to have heard her. “What’s this light?” he asked, tapping a black box beside the steering column.

  “Did you hear me, Seth? Promise me that no matter what happens, you will never allow them to take me alive.”

  He looked into her eyes. He knew what she was asking. He said nothing.

  “I would rather you kill me,” she said.

  “What’s this device?” he asked again.

  Her father’s car had the same—it was common in a country with many rich and many poor. “It’s an antitheft device. If the car is stolen, they can track it.”

  He looked up at her with round, blank eyes.

  “They already know our every move. There’s no way out of Saudi Arabia, Seth.” Tears swelled again. “Promise me, Seth. Not alive. Never alive.”

  He rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “Even in dying, you need mazel,” he said.

  “Mazel?”

  “Luck.”

  “Another Jewish proverb from your grandmother?”

  “Yiddish, but yes.” He swallowed his fear, but the stress did not leave his voice. “I’m not ready to give up yet.” He cleared his throat. “You’re free now. That’s what matters, right?”

  She sniffed. “Yes. And I owe you my life. Again. Thank you. Thank you with all my heart. But I cannot go back. That’s all. As long as you understand that.”

  He looked at her and offered a forced smile.

  “Drive, Miriam. Drive fast.”

  chapter 37

  omar spit to the side, furious. “What I’m telling you is that she’s with another man!” he said into the phone.

  His father’s voice boomed in the receiver. “Find them! And when you do, kill the man. This woman makes you look like a fool. She escapes you once and now twice?”

  Omar closed his eyes and gripped the phone. She was not the smart one; the American was. Who else could have possibly found his way into the palace and then taken her? Who else even knew where he’d kept her? For that matter, he had no idea how even the American could have known.

  “You should concern yourself with the rioting,” Omar said. “They’re tearing the city apart.”

  �
��Let them riot. If the coup fails, it’ll be because of your woman, not the protests in the streets. We must have the support of the sheik!”

  His father was right, of course. Abdullah’s supporters needed the opportunity to vent their objection, but in the end they would follow the new king. It was the way of the desert. But if Miriam came to harm, the sheik might become a problem.

  Khalid’s voice eased. “Omar, we are very close. Everything has progressed exactly as I planned. The borders are sealed; the ministries are sympathetic; the allegiance of the armed forces is split, and they’ve agreed to stand down. Abdullah has until nightfall, and then we will crush him. But without the sheik, we will falter. He’ll turn on us as quickly as he turned on the monarchy if we don’t keep our end. Find your wife!”

  Omar smiled. His father didn’t often show desperation. “The car is headed south. It’s low on fuel. I will have my wife before you have the city.”

  He cut the connection.

  In his driveway, ten sedans lined the street, waiting. He walked to the first one and slid into the passenger seat. Beside him a simple tracking device showed the location of the stolen Mercedes. Saudi Arabians routinely used the devices; surely Miriam knew that much. But then, she could do little about it. She could exchange cars possibly, but finding a car to steal in this city would not prove as easy as it had been in America. And for that matter, tracking any car would be quite simple on these sparse roads. He would use the helicopter if he needed it. This time the chase would be short.

  “We have twenty men and are well armed,” Assir said.

  Omar nodded. “Go.”

  The train of cars moved out, a long black snake of Mercedes slithering through Riyadh’s streets and then onto the highway, south toward Jizan.

  Smoke from burning tires blackened the eastern sky. Scattered gunfire popped sporadically. The highway was nearly deserted, an uncommon sight for the noon hour. Change floated in the air. How easily and quickly it could come when all the pieces were in place. For twenty years, a rising tide among fundamental factions had threatened the monarch’s power, and now someone would finally succeed. In reality, fundamentalists comprised more than half the country; the coup was merely returning power to the majority. By day’s end, the kingdom of Saudi Arabia would have a new face. His father’s face, the face of Khalid bin Mishal.