Blink of an Eye

by Ted Dekker

  He turned and walked out through the same door Dean Baaron had used.

  chapter 3

  miriam faced Mecca and dropped to her knees in her room while the muezzin’s noon prayer call still wavered. It was said that Muhammad disliked the church bells of his day, so he insisted on a vocal call to prayer. Miriam thought he was right—a bell was far too harsh.

  She recited the first sura of the Koran without thinking about the words. She had taken a keen interest in the holy book, at one point thinking to become a hafiz, the coveted title of one who’d memorized all 114 suras of the Koran.

  Of course, that would have been impossible: She was a woman. But the poetic nature of the Koran was like music to her mind and she found it pleasing. The word Koran meant “recitation.” Her faith wasn’t compelled to understand the words of the Prophet, but to repeat them. So then, if she could recite as well as a man, couldn’t she be a great theologian?

  She stood and rearranged the pillows on her bed. Her room was decorated in purple because her father had decided many years ago that it should be, despite Miriam’s vocal dislike of the color. Her declaration that he best leave decorating to women with good taste earned her a slap.

  Miriam headed for the main living room, where her mother, young Haya, was instructing the servants’ preparations of Salman’s breakfast. Like many men with multiple wives, Salman rotated villas every day, so that he was with each woman only every fourth day—a blessing or a curse for the wife, depending on her view of him.

  Haya slid across the room toward Miriam, frowning. She wore a brilliant blue dress and strings of pearls that stood out nicely against her creamy neck. Once, in Spain, Miriam had watched the movie Star Wars, the only Western movie she’d ever seen. When the villain, Darth Vader, appeared on screen cloaked in black, she’d gasped aloud. Saudi women looked like Western movie villains!

  Haya had applied a touch of makeup, something she did only when Salman came. “He’ll be down in a few minutes,” Haya said. “I don’t want you around.”

  “Don’t worry, I have no intention of being around.”

  Haya looked at her with a blank stare. The phone rang.

  Miriam crossed to the door, eager to find Samir on the grounds or in the garage. She slipped into her black abaaya, pulled on her veil, and stepped outside. The garage stood detached, twenty meters from the entrance.

  Like all males outside the family, Samir was prohibited from seeing her face, and indeed he hadn’t . . . except on three occasions. The first of those times skipped through Miriam’s mind as she walked to the garage.

  It was three years ago, in the late afternoon, just after she turned seventeen. She’d been on the back lawn walking with her sister, Sara, when Samir ran out to tell them that their mother was waiting for them in the car. His shout startled a goose, which leaped from the pond and rushed at Miriam. Panicked by the honking bird’s aggression, she spun to flee.

  In spinning she tripped on her sister’s foot. Samir rushed to chase the goose away, which he did easily enough. But in her fall, Miriam’s veil flew off. She was on her feet and staring at a stunned Samir before she realized her face was bare.

  For long seconds, neither moved. Samir gazed at her face as if he’d arrived in heaven and was seeing his first angel. Something in Miriam’s soul changed with that look. In his eyes, she was a person. Not because of her beauty, but because in that moment she had become more than a black sack among a million other black sacks.

  Samir had fallen in love. She could not resist loving him in return. So began a forbidden romance that took them, on two separate occasions, to Spain, where they slipped away from the family and spent hours staring into each other’s eyes and talking about love. On the second occasion he had vowed to love her forever and marry her, no matter the consequence.

  “Miriam.”

  His voice jerked her from her memories. “Samir.”

  He stood in the shadows of the garage, and her heart swelled. He wore the traditional white cotton thawb, but in her mind she pictured the strength of his arms and chest under the garment. His dark hair swept over milky brown eyes. Miriam glanced back at the villa and walked into the shadows, her heart pounding as much from the impropriety of it as from her love.

  “No one saw you?” he asked.

  “No. And how is my love?”

  “Please, keep your voice—”

  “Don’t be a mouse. No one can hear.” She was bold, wasn’t she? Perhaps Sita’s wedding had emboldened her.

  He grinned. “If you think I’m a mouse, then you don’t know what a lion is.”

  “A lion? I will turn you into a lamb. I miss you, Samir. When can we go away again?”

  She still wore her veil, and in a way it gave her courage to know that not even he could guess her expression.

  “I’m setting it up,” he said. “Next month. To Spain again. Maybe this time we will stay.”

  “Stay? Don’t tempt me if you can’t also make a promise.”

  “I promise that nothing can keep this love I have from stealing you away forever.”

  She wanted to lift her veil, to see his eyes widen at seeing her mouth and eyes. The thought made her hands tremble.

  “I am crazy for you,” he said.

  “Crazy? Where did you hear such a silly saying?” She rather liked it.

  “An American movie. Do you like it?”

  “It is expressive, isn’t it? Crazy. And I am crazy for you, my lion.”

  He stared at her for a moment before allowing a shadow to cross his face. “I’ve been ordered by your father to take you to a meeting today. At eleven.”

  “Is that so? With whom?”

  He turned away. “Abu Ali al-Asamm. The sheik.”

  Miriam felt her mouth part. “Al-Asamm?” How was that possible? He was one of the most influential Shia sheiks in the country, but not a Sunni, certainly not a Wahhabi. “What on earth for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I was supposed to meet Sultana at ten in the market.”

  “Then I will tell her that you’ll be there later.”

  She hesitated. “What does he want?”

  “You’ll have to ask your father. I’m just the driver. For now.”

  As if on cue, a black Mercedes nosed up the driveway. Miriam stepped back, mind still engrossed by the notion of her meeting the sheik. Why such a powerful man in no way connected to the House of Saud would request a meeting with her alone was beyond her comprehension.

  The car parked on the apron in front of the garage. “I’ll meet you here in two hours.”

  The door behind the driver opened and a man wearing dark sun glasses beneath a white ghutra stood. She didn’t recognize him, but judging by his business suit he meant just that—business.

  “You’re Miriam, the daughter of Salman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get in,” he said, his voice silk.

  Miriam glanced at Samir, who was watching the man.

  The man in sunglasses stepped back and motioned to the back of the car. “Please, get in. Sita, the wife of Hatam, has demanded to see you. Please, get in.”

  “It’s okay,” Samir said under his breath. “Go.”

  Miriam broke from her stance and hurried for the large black Mercedes. She opened the rear left door and slid in next to the man, who’d seated himself without turning toward her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The man slammed his door. “Silence.”

  Sita had called for her. Good news, then. Her husband would never allow his new bride to call for her friends if she was in trouble.

  They passed a large white mosque, and she watched the men walking through its gates. Islam was supported by five pillars, simple and beautiful, and, contrary to the more restrictive sharia laws, they did nothing to shackle women. Five pillars: The Creed: “There is no god but God and Muhammad is the messenger of God.” Daily prayers: upon rising, at noon, in midafternoon, after sunset, and before retiring. The annual Ramad
an fast. The hajj pilgrimage to Mecca. Almsgiving to the poor.

  And a sixth to some, the jihad, as the situation warranted, to “spread Islam or defend against infidels.” This last pillar was no pillar at all to most Muslims, including Miriam, but it clearly motivated those few radical fundamentalists who’d taken up the sword in the name of God. Not unlike the Jews, who’d entered their so-called promised land by virtue of the sword.

  Only when the car pulled into a driveway did Miriam know their destination. The Mercedes pulled up to an expansive villa covered in bougainvillea. They were at Sita’s childhood home, which surprised her. Sita did not live here any longer.

  A dread seeped into her bones.

  The man faced her for the first time. She could see the reflection of her veil in his mirrored glasses. “Did you know that Sita’s new husband, Hatam, is a loyal member of the Nizari sect?”

  Nizari? She didn’t know the extreme Islamic sect still existed. Rumors of their activity made the Taliban of Afghanistan look reasonable by comparison.

  “As is Sita’s father,” the man said. “It’s why they do so much business together. Remember what you see today. Consider it a message from Omar bin Khalid. Get out.”

  What the man meant, Miriam had no clue, but his words made her mouth dry.

  Who was Omar bin Khalid?

  She followed him, surrounded by silence, through an archway that opened to the green grounds she and Sita had walked so many times. An old swing set built of oak sat unused beneath several tall trees to their right. Palms swayed in a light morning breeze. Still no sound. If anyone from the family was here, there was no sign.

  The man led her around the side of the house instead of to the front door. They walked around the corner, toward the pool.

  Miriam saw them then. Four people standing on the pool’s deck. Sita, her father, and her veiled mother. And another man.

  Sita, too, was veiled in black, standing with her arms at her sides. What could this possibly—

  Miriam stopped, frozen to the concrete. The person standing next to Sita’s father was no relation to Sita, she saw that now. The tall thin man wore the white tunic of the religious police of Saudi Arabia, the mutawa, but a red cloth encircled his ghutra.

  From the Nizari sect as well, perhaps?

  Images of public beatings and humiliations recounted from days not so old flashed through Miriam’s mind. The sharia was a difficult law, but the ways of the extremist sects like the Nizari made even the most devout fundamentalists blanch.

  In that instant, Miriam knew her friend had kept her vow. Sita had refused her husband and would now pay a price.

  Oh, dear Sita! For a fleeting moment Miriam thought about running to her friend, taking her hand, and fleeing toward the fence. But Sita’s father, Musa, was a good man. Surely he was reasonable as well. The punishment would be his decision, not the mutawa’s, Nizari or not. Surely it would be merciful.

  Miriam forced her feet forward. Those gathered watched her in silence. Although Miriam couldn’t see Sita’s eyes, she could feel Sita’s gaze like razors on her skin. They came to the edge of the pool, across the span of water from Sita and her father, and stopped.

  For a moment no one spoke. Miriam looked at Musa. Deep lines carved the stone of his hard face. It wasn’t yet hot, but sweat glistened on his brow. The religious man shifted on his feet, and his sandals scraped the concrete.

  “These are all the witnesses?” he asked quietly. Miriam wanted to scream at his bony and dark face, wake him from his terrifying apathy. But she stood still next to the suited man, who nodded once.

  A soft whimper floated across the pool. Sita or her mother, Miriam could not tell. She ached to say something, to beg for leniency on behalf of her friend. It will be all right. If they beat her, her wounds will heal. If they cut off her hand for refusing to touch her husband, she will still live free of him. Surely the man had divorced her already. He would never live with this stain on his name.

  Neither would Sita’s father.

  “There is no god but God,” the religious man said, “and Muhammad is the Prophet of God. No man shall escape his wrath. It is for our love of God and his Prophet and all that is written that we have gathered, lest we become a people who defile God.”

  Sita stood motionless, unlike the fiery girl Miriam knew. Nausea spread through her stomach. She had heard that those who administered severe punishment drugged the accused on occasion, to prevent a struggle. If they were going to beat her . . .

  “Let it be known that this woman has defied her husband’s rights and injured him bodily in a manner no different from murder. She has made a mockery of God and of Islam and must be punished in accordance with the laws of the Nizari, servants of God. So be it.”

  Musa’s upper lip trembled. Still no one moved. Miriam had seen a beating once, a horrid occasion. But it was filled with anger and yelling, not this silence.

  The whimper came again—Sita’s mother—and this time it lingered, then grew to a soft, quivering wail.

  The religious man lifted his chin and muttered something Miriam couldn’t understand. He closed his eyes. “You have heard from God. Do what you must do.”

  Eyes still fixed directly ahead, Musa took his daughter’s arm. The wail turned guttural and shredded the air. Sita’s mother grabbed her daughter’s other arm.

  “No!” she moaned. “She is my daughter!” Terror ripped through Miriam’s chest, electrifying her heart.

  Sita’s mother pulled at her daughter and dropped to her knees. Sita looked like a rag doll about to be pulled apart. Her head lolled on her shoulders.

  “Take me, I beg—”

  The religious man’s hand cracked against her face, stilling the cry and sending her reeling backward. Miriam cried out involuntarily. She took a step to the side, but the man beside her gripped her elbow and squeezed it like a vise.

  “Sita!” Miriam cried.

  “Shut up!” Miriam’s guardian jerked her arm. She felt pain spread down to her elbow.

  Sita turned her head toward Miriam.

  Oh, dear Sita! What are they doing to you!

  Sita’s father was trembling from head to foot now. The religious man gave him a nudge toward the steps. Musa blinked, then stiffly led his daughter to the steps and into the water. Sita followed like a lamb, veiled and submissive, waiting for her fatal baptism. The clear blue water soaked Sita’s abaaya pitch black.

  It occurred to Miriam that she had stopped breathing. The unearthly silence returned, punctuated only by the blood pounding through her ears. Long fingers of horror snaked over her nose and mouth, smothering her. What happened next unfolded without fanfare, like a dream, distant and disconnected from reason.

  Musa placed his large hand on the docile child’s head and shoved her under the water.

  Miriam flinched and her guardian’s grip tightened. No no no no . . . Miriam was screaming, but the screams refused to reach past her throat.

  Sita’s abaaya floated around her like a black cloud. Musa’s face trembled red. His eyes, still fixed on some unseen horizon, swam in tears. Miriam’s mind tilted. What she was seeing wasn’t real. This father was not holding his fifteen-year-old daughter under the water in this pool she’d splashed in as a small child. This was just a horrible vision from hell that would end at—

  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

  khalid 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.