Blink of an Eye (5 page)

Sita began to struggle.

Her legs kicked from her white underdress. Her arms flailed and her hands broke the surface, splashing like fish stranded in the tide. Her veil floated up, and for the first time since her friend's wedding, Miriam saw Sita's face. Brown eyes, wide and round. Straining mouth, covered by a wide band of silver tape.

Musa's eyes bulged; his arm trembled. His mouth parted and he began to scream.

But he held his daughter down.

Musa had chosen the drowning.

Miriam's tilting mind fell and crashed. She spun to her right, breaking free of the man's grip. She had to save Sita. She had to get help! She had to dive in and pull her to safety!

Her cheek exploded under the guardian's fist, and the pool tipped to one side. A groan, low and unearthly, broke from her throat. She began to fall. She hit the concrete hard, inches from the water.

Under the surface, Sita stopped struggling.

Her father still screamed, long, terrifying wails past twisted lips. The religious man's emotionless face betrayed the truth: It was not the first time he'd overseen a father drowning a wayward daughter; it would not be the last.

Sita's lifeless eyes stared up through shimmering water. Miriam's world went black.

chapter 4

k
halid bin Mishal bin Abd al-Aziz. That was his name—Khalid, son of Mishal, who was son of the first king, Abdul Aziz. Prophetic, Khalid had always thought, a name that begged him to make his bid for the throne. Technically he was a royal nephew; his father's brother had been King Fahd before the reigning king, Abdullah, took the throne. Although the first king, Abdul Aziz, had sired forty-two sons, the kingdom required only so many kings. Four to be precise, all of them Abdul Aziz's sons. That left thirty-eight less fortunate.

Time was not merciful; the king's sons now grew too old for a crack at the throne—Khalid's father was seventy-eight to his fifty-eight. Those who weren't too old were undeniably far too liberal. It was time for Saudi Arabia to be returned to her great calling as the world's protector of Islam.

It was time for a new king, Khalid thought. He'd planned for this day long ago.

Khalid sat on red pillows with his son, Omar bin Khalid, and Ahmed, the director of transportation. Like the others, Khalid wore the traditional ghutra headdress but topped it with a red circular
igaal.
The three reclined in a room that looked like a Bedouin tent but was actually a room in Khalid's palace.

Omar picked up a glass of scotch and sipped the amber liquor. Alcohol was illegal in Saudi Arabia, of course, but most of the royal homes were well stocked. Khalid himself did not touch the stuff, but every man was entitled to his vices. Omar had more than his share. Women, for one. Not even Khalid approved of Omar's lack of respect for the young women. He'd bailed his son out of more than one situation involving dead females. One day the gender would be his downfall.

But today he would use Omar to attain his own ends.

Both father and son embraced the teachings of the Nizari, a fact that very few knew. As such, they were uniquely qualified to overthrow the current monarchy and restore the days of glory, as God willed.

“It takes great discipline to be a great leader,” Khalid said. “The country is floundering.”

“There's a difference between talking privately about changing things and doing so,” Ahmed said. “Look at Al-Massari. He was exiled to England with his band of dissidents. Osama bin Laden and his Reformation Committee—we all know what happened to him. The government won't just welcome change for the sake of—”

“I'm not asking them to change,” Khalid said. “If there is a cancer, you don't persuade the cancer to
change
. You cut it out. That was both Al-Massari's and Bin Laden's problem. Neither had the resources to cut it out. I do.”

Omar spoke for the first time. “We do.”

Ahmed stared at him. Khalid had waited until now to bring the director into full confidence.

“What do you mean, you
have
it?” Ahmed asked.

Khalid smiled. “Let me ask you a question. If a man in my position was to have the full support of the ulema and twenty of the top-ranking princes, and the undeterred ambition to overthrow the king, could he do it?”

Ahmed glanced at the door. They all knew that talk like this could earn death. He studied Khalid's face. “No,” he said. “Even with the princes and religious scholars, it's not enough for a lasting success.”

“You're honest. I'll remember that when this is over.”

Omar chuckled from his perch on the pillow and threw back the last of the scotch in his glass.

“You're right,” Khalid said. “Overthrowing a government isn't the same as installing a new one. But what if a man in my position also had the full support of the Shia minority in the eastern provinces?”

“That would not be possible. We are Sunni.”

“Anything is possible when such great power is at stake. You should know that. Indulge me for a moment.”

Ahmed hesitated. “Then, yes.” His eyes shifted with his thoughts. “It could be done.” Eyes back on Khalid. “How would such support be gained?”

Khalid stood and walked to a bowl of fruit. He picked up a piece of
nangka,
a sweet yellow fruit imported from Indonesia. “Through the sheik, of course.” He pushed the fruit into his mouth. If there was a leader among the four million Shia living in the eastern parts of Saudi Arabia, it was Al-Asamm, and to call him
the
sheik was enough.

“Al-Asamm hasn't flexed his muscles in ten years. And he's not a friend to the House of Saud. What do you hope—”

“Actually, he hasn't flexed his muscles in nearly twenty years. Have you thought about that? He offers a token demonstration now and then, but not like he was once known to.”

“That doesn't make him a friend.”

“The Shia are a passionate people. Look at Iran—they know how to overthrow. We wouldn't give them too much power, of course, but they do constitute 15 percent of Saudi citizens. We will give them a voice.”

“And how in the name of God do you propose to approach Sheik Al-Asamm?” Ahmed waved his hand. “It'll never work.”

“Yes, it will,” Khalid's son said.

They both looked at Omar.

“Yes, it will,” Khalid agreed. “Tell him why it will work, Omar.”

Omar regarded his father and Ahmed, trying to keep his contempt for both hidden. He'd sat through numerous meetings like this one, plotting and gathering support for his father's plan. Now, less than a week away from the actual coup attempt, it was becoming his plan. Not because he had conceived it, but because without him, the plan would fail. Then he would become king himself, after Father was killed. The reign of the kingdom would be built on blood, he thought. Blood and marriage. Both at his hand.

“It will work because I will marry his daughter,” Omar said.

His father faced Ahmed. “You see? It will work because my son will marry Sheik Al-Asamm's daughter.” He grinned.

“What daughter? And how will that help?”

Omar picked up a fig and rubbed its skin, eyes on Ahmed. “The reason Sheik Al-Asamm has remained quiet these past twenty years is because my father bought the sheik's allegiance,” he said. “My father convinced Salman bin Fahd to adopt Al-Asamm's daughter in exchange for the sheik's loyalty. Her name is Miriam. When she marries me and bears a son, we will create an inseparable bond between Sunni royalty and the Shia. The sheik insisted that she not be married until she reached twenty-one. Evidently he wasn't in a rush to weaken the bloodline. She is now a week from that birthday.”

Ahmed stood. “Salman's daughter Miriam is really the daughter of the Shia sheik? Abu Ali al-Asamm? They are Shia; we are Sunni.”

“Thus the secrecy,” Omar said. “When she marries into the royal family and has a son, Sheik Al-Asamm will be linked to the throne by blood.”

Ahmed looked too stunned for words.

“Miriam will marry Omar in a secret ceremony,” Khalid said. “In exchange, Al-Asamm will support our coup. I will give him governor ship of the eastern province. This was planned twenty years ago, when Omar was just a boy.”

They had no assurance Ahmed would support this plan, but they'd disclosed the same with two dozen ministers, and all but the minister of education understood the stakes. The man died within the hour—a tragic accident.

Omar stood and picked up an apple. He bit deeply into its crisp flesh. “We need your support, Ahmed. Your position is critical to our plans. We need the airports.”

The minister of transportation lowered his voice to a whisper. “This talk is treasonous. You're plotting your own death.”

“Today what we've said is treason; in one week your speaking to my father in such a way will be treason,” Omar said.

Ahmed glanced at Khalid and then back. “You have Sheik AlAsamm's
full
commitment?”

“Would we be talking to you if we did not? I will take his daughter Miriam as my wife in four days.”

“And then?”

“Two of our generals have Shia blood,” Khalid said. “If we have AlAsamm, we have them. We will unseat Abdullah the day after the wedding. I will be king in one week. We will be a fundamentalist state within the month.”

Ahmed's lips curved into a faint, sweating smile. “Then you have my support.” He paused, studying Khalid's face as the prospect sank in. “You have my full support.” He dipped his head. “There is no god but God.”

Omar took another bite. Just like that, the man had switched his loyalties from the reigning king to Khalid. Of course, if he refused, he would pay dearly.

A bell rang near the tent door. “Come,” Khalid commanded.

A thin man dressed in a business suit entered and dipped his head. Omar felt his pulse quicken. His servant approached the table and looked at them without speaking.

“Well?”

“It is done.”

The corner of Omar's mouth twitched. “The girl is dead?” he asked.

“She was drowned an hour ago, as you insisted.”

They stared at the servant in silence. Stonings were a slow, drawn-out nuisance. Better to drown and be done with it.

“And the girl?” Omar asked.

“As you said.”

“Thank you. You may leave.”

The man lowered his head and left.

“What was that?” Ahmed asked, face white.

“That was the judgment of God,” Omar said. “And a message to my dear bride.”

chapter 5

s
eth crossed the North Field and angled for Berkeley's Department of Philosophy. His corduroys bunched slightly over worn sandals as he stepped through the grass. To his right, a dance squad performed flips in short skirts. The Faculty Club building stood beyond them, bordered by a manicured glade. He'd been inside on four occasions, each time for an event that required his attendance. Receptions in honor of his awards, mostly.

Like the one scheduled for Thursday evening. The American Physical Society and the American Institute of Physics had named him something or other of the year, and, like it or not, the graduate dean was obligated to acknowledge the award. Thinking about it now, Seth wondered what would happen if he didn't show. He wasn't feeling too social after yesterday's fiasco with Baaron. He envisioned two hundred faculty dressed to the nines with champagne glasses raised and no one to toast.

“Seth!”

He turned to see Phil—a third-year undergraduate and the epitome of a nerd with glasses, pocket protector, and pimples—run up behind him. Phil was among half a dozen down-and-outers that Seth felt truly at home with.

“Hey, Phil.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and rolled the Super Ball between his fingers.

Phil slapped an open crossword magazine in his hand. “You ready?”

“Sure,” Seth said. “Let me see it.”

Phil held the page up, displaying a four-inch-square crossword puzzle. Seth made quick mental notes of the puzzle's pattern—black squares, white squares, numbers. Category: GOOD MARKS.

“Okay.”

Phil withdrew the puzzle and glanced ahead. “So where you going?”

“Meeting with Dr. Harland. You?”

“To the cafeteria. Okay, ready? Seventeen across, ten letters, clue—
expropriate
.”

“
Commandeer
,” Seth said.

Phil flipped a page, checked the answer, and continued. “Good. Twenty-four across, seven letters, clue—
horse back in the pack
.”

Seth considered the clue for a second. “That would be
also-ran
, Phil,” he said in his best game-show voice.

“Never heard of it,” the younger student said. “Three down, five letters, clue—
subdues
.”

“Three down?
Tames
.”

“Final answer?”

“
Tames
, Phil. It has to be
tames
.”