Blink of an Eye (9 page)
The evening crept by like a slug making its way across a pincushion. Her brother, Faisal, came home, his normal obnoxious self. The meal was inconsequential and she excused herself early.
“I'm going to bed. After my shopping trip today, I've decided the merchants of Riyadh are too conservative for my tastes. Sultana is taking me to Jidda in the morning. Just for the day. And if Jidda doesn't have what I want, I'll just have to go to Spain, won't I?”
Haya smiled. “Maybe I should come with you.”
“Wonderful idea. Although I'm not sure Salman would approve without his permission.”
Haya's smile softened.
“You won't tell him that I've gone, will you? We're flying in one of her husband's jets in the morning and will be back late afternoon.”
“Go ahead, spend my husband's money. Someone has to.”
Miriam hurried off, heart firmly planted in her throat.
It was one a.m. before Miriam slipped through the darkened villa and entered Salman's office carrying her small suitcase. His forbidding oak desk flown in from Spain cast shadows under the moonlight. It had taken her nearly a month to find the combination to the floor safe hidden beneath it. Haya knew the combination, of course. Someone besides Salman had to know how to access the valuables. He had entrusted his young bride with the code, knowing she would never abuse his trust. And in her youth, Haya certainly did not suspect that she
was
violating that trust by bragging about the combination to Miriam late one night. Coaxing the numbers from Haya had not been an easy task, but when Miriam slipped into the office later that same night and opened the safe, she did not mind the trouble.
Except for her own breathing, the house was silent. She walked across the thick carpet, pushed aside his chair, and knelt, trying to still her heart. Using a flashlight, she dialed the numbers in the order she'd burned into her mind. But her fingers trembled and she overshot on the first try. The second produced a soft click, and she pulled the door open.
She played the flashlight's beam over the contents, positioned exactly as they had been two years earlier: the passports and traveling certificates on a small shelf and wads of cash on the safe floor. Like many Saudi men in his position, Salman kept a healthy stash of money in the event that a political emergency might force him to flee. There were several stacksâeuros, francs, and American dollars. Miriam was interested only in the dollars.
She paused long enough to satisfy herself that the house was still asleep. Working quickly, she shuffled through the documents and withdrew her own passport and a blank traveling document. She would have time to execute the document with Salman's forged signature, giving herself permission to travel to the United States. Miriam only hoped her attempt would stand up to scrutiny.
She pulled out twenty bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills, each an inch thick, and placed them in the suitcase. She guessed it was roughly $500,000. A small amount of cash in royal Saudi terms, but enough for a start in America, surely. If not, she could always fall back on the jewels.
Miriam closed the safe, spun the dial, and left the room with a new tremor in her fingers. She had just committed a serious crime and had no doubt Salman would insist on punishment if she was caught. In light of today's drowning, perhaps he would order her arm amputated!
It took her an hour to pack and repack the case, hiding the money beneath the clothes. The airport authorities rarely checked the bags of royalty, but there was always the possibility. Unless they rummaged through her clothes, they would find nothing. Of course, if they did open the suitcase, they would rummage, wouldn't they?
She finally locked the case and forced herself to bed again.
The morning came slowly and without a wink of sleep. Each minute of the two hours leading up to her departure with Samir seemed to slow down. Miriam walked downstairs at eight thirty and saw with no small relief that the house was still quiet. She donned her veil and walked to the garage, carrying the suitcase in one hand and her vanity case in the other.
Samir helped her with the bags. If he noticed the weight, he didn't say anything. Once again she was thankful for the abaaya that hid her skinâthe adrenaline racing through her blood had surely flushed it red. Or drained it white.
What if Salman needed something withdrawn from his safe before Miriam got to the airport? What if Samir dropped the suitcase, spilling its contents on the ground? What if . . . There were too many what-ifs!
This is a mistake, Miriam! You should run back to the
house. You could tell Samir that your cycle came early and you cannot
make this trip.
They pulled away from the villa. Traffic bustled with expatriates headed to work and Saudis headed to oversee them.
“What do you suppose the weather in Jidda will be like today?” Miriam asked.
“Beautiful,” Samir said. He cast her a glance. “As beautiful as you.”
The veil spared her from having to force a smile to cover her grief. “And how do you know that I haven't grown warts under this sheet?”
“Warts or no warts, I would love you, as God is my witness.”
“Before you saw me unveiled, I was just a walking sheet. And then you saw me and I became your undying love. What if I'd been ugly?” They teased each other often in the car's privacy, but now the jokes failed to lift her heart.
“True. I'm a man. And like most men, the beauty of a woman does strange things to my mind.” He gave her a coy smile. “Your beauty nearly stops my heart. I don't know what I would do, seeing you walk around my house unveiled. It might kill me.”
They passed Riyadh's water tower, a structure that made Miriam think of a champagne glass.
“At least you would die a married man.” She turned to him. “We can't pretend forever, Samir. You know that I will be married within the royal family. I have to produce a son of royal blood, remember?”
Samir cleared his throat and stared ahead.
“As long as we're in this country, we'll never be allowed to marry,” she said.
“Then we'll have to leave this country,” he said.
It was the first time he'd said it. Miriam's heart filled with hope. But no, she couldn't say anything now.
“We will?”
He looked at her and then returned his gaze to the road. “I've thought of nothing else for the last year. We have only two options: Either we never love each other as a man and woman are meant to love, or we leave the country. Leaving would be dangerous. But I think . . . I really think I would die without you.” He took a long breath. “I am a good Muslim, and I will always be a good Muslim. I love this country. But if it makes no difference to God, I think I will take you as my wife.”
Miriam felt her heart swell. She wanted to tell him why she was really going to Jidda.
She rested her hand on his arm. “Samir, I would leave Saudi Arabia to be with you even if all the king's guards were after me.” A tear broke from her eye and she paused to rein in her emotions. “I want you to make me a promise.”
“I would promise you my life,” he said.
“Then promise me that you
will
marry me. No matter what happens, you will marry me.”
“As there is no god but God, I swear it,” he said.
She wanted to lift her veil and kiss him. She glanced around, saw that the closest car was nearly fifty meters back, and did just that. She leaned over and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Her lips flamed at the touch.
He blushed and glanced in the rearview mirror. His eyes grew misty and he swallowed. “If I had been born a prince,” he said, “then I wouldn't bring any dangerâ”
“You
are
a prince! You will always be a prince. The only real danger I face is being separated from you,” she said.
They drove toward the airport in a heavy silence of mutual desire, and Miriam thought her heart would burst with love.
s
ultana was waiting by her husband's black Mercedes. A white Learjet waited on the tarmac, door open and engines running. Princes typically owned several jetsâSultana's husband owned six. The pilot, an American with whom Miriam had flown before, walked out to greet them, grinning wide. Then they were aboard and the door shut and Samir was gone.
Ten minutes later they were airborne.
Less than an hour later they landed at Jidda's international airport on the coast of the Red Sea. Separated from the pilot, they had talked freely and completed the paperwork that gave Salman's permission for Miriam to travel alone and out of the country. Sultana's confidence fed Miriam's, which grew with each step.
The main terminal teemed with people in white and black clothing, more men in white than women in black. The ticket counters for Saudi Arabian Airlines stood to Miriam's right. She waited with Sultana in this sea of wandering men, cloaked in her abaaya, and a wave of doubt swept over her.
“What if Hillary doesn't remember me?” she asked. “Just because she taught Middle Eastern studies doesn't mean she'll be friendlyâ”
“Stop it before you talk your way out of this. There's a plane leaving in forty minutes. If you hurry, you can catch it.”
Miriam looked around again. Sultana's hand rested on her arm.
“Go with God. And tell them in America.”
“Tell them what?”
Sultana looked out the window at a rolling jet. “That only a few are like that pig Hatam, drowning his wife.” Her voice shook. “That we despise beasts like Omar.”
Sultana's crusade.
“What if my father has already discovered me missingâ”
“If you don't go right now, I'm going to start screaming. Do you want that? Every policeman in the terminal will come running.”
Miriam forced an anemic grin. “Okay, I'm going.”
“Take care of yourself.”
Miriam took uncertain steps toward the counter, the small bag in her right hand and the vanity case in her left. She stood in line and yet again was grateful for the veil.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, one ticket to Riyadh, please.”
The man eyed her curiously. “Papers.”
She handed over the forged documents, which explained the emergency nature of her trip, expressly authorized by Salman bin Fahd. A cousin had taken ill in Paris, and there was no male companion available for Miriam. Whatever the man behind the counter thought, he was in no position to question the son of the king.
Miriam declared no luggage, took her ticket, waited to board, then entered the plane. An hour later the plane landed in Riyadh, and Miriam thought again about aborting. She could still call Samir to pick her up, hurry back to the villa, and replace the cash. Or she could catch another flight back to Jidda and return with Sultana.
And then what?
Then she would be forced to marry Omar.
Her feet carried her out to the main terminal. The ticket counters ran along the far wall, and for a moment she wasn't sure if they were the gates to heaven or to hell. She walked toward them.
You've gone
too far to go back. If they refuse to sell you a ticket to Paris, you will fly
back to Jidda.
But they didn't refuse to sell her a ticket.
Once again she climbed on board, muscles strung taut like zither wires. The large DC-10 lifted off and slowly turned to the northwest. Every time a steward walked down the cabin, she half expected him to approach her with the news: “I'm sorry, ma'am, but your foolish plan to run from your marriage to Omar has been found out. We are under orders to turn the plane around and return you to Riyadh, where a group of a hundred mutawa are waiting at the airport to beat you.”
But again her fears failed to materialize. The plane landed. The passengers deplaned.
Miriam walked cautiously down the Jetway, eyes open for armed authorities. She paused ten feet from the terminal entrance, struggling to still her breathing. A young man stepped around her, staring. In her fear, she'd almost forgotten that she was wearing the abaaya.
She reached up, pulled off her veil, stuffed it up her sleeve, and forced herself into the terminal.
Hundreds of colorfully dressed people strutted or milled about, and she was sure that most of them were looking in her direction.
Miriam scanned the crowd quickly. No religious police! Or were they hiding to avoid a scene? She located a bathroom sign up the hall and struck out for it with a new urgency, avoiding any eye contact with curious onlookers.
Is that Darth Vader, Mommy?
She had to shed this black cloak. A wedge of black caught her attention and she glanced up to see another woman dressed in an abaaya, fifty meters ahead. She still wore her veil and trailed her husband by several meters.
The sight emboldened her. Miriam barged into the bathroom and entered the handicapped stall. She threw off her abaaya, set the suitcase on the toilet, unlocked the latch, and flipped it open. One of the hundred- dollar stacks fell to the floor in her haste to pull out her jeans. She stared at it, horrified.
The restroom door opened and someone entered. Miriam bent for the money, shoved it back under her clothes, and quietly closed the case. But she was afraid to engage the latch for the noise it would make.
No one was going to bust in here and grab her because they'd heard two latches clicking closed. What was she thinking?
The door opened and closed again. She was alone again.
She dressed as quickly as her trembling hands would allow. She'd thought to discard her abaaya in the waste bin by the sinks, but now she wondered if it might be better to flush it down the toilet.
Of all the ideas . . . ! The toilet would only flood!
Miriam scooped up the garment, grabbed her bags, and left the stall. She crossed to a large waste bin, set her cases down, and summarily shoved her abaaya through the opening. She faced the mirror.
Her image stared back, face ashen, arms and neck bare. What was she doing?
