by Ted Dekker
“What do you mean, you might not be a princess anymore?” Hillary asked, turning in the center of the room.
Miriam set her vanity case on the floor. “I mean that I’ve run from the House of Saud.”
Hillary blinked. “You’ve . . . you’ve run? You can’t run from the House of Saud. You are the House of Saud.”
Miriam laughed lightly. “Yes, I suppose I am. But actually”—she looked around, strangely intoxicated by Hillary’s mess—“actually, I’ve fled. Imagine that. I left Saudi Arabia and I’ve come to the United States. And I was wondering if you might help me for a few days.”
She wanted Hillary to hug her, delighted with her courage. Instead, the professor just stared, unbelieving.
“That’s impossible,” Hillary finally said.
“But I’ve done it!” Miriam felt her face broaden into a smile.
“No, I mean you can’t run from who you are. You shouldn’t have.”
It occurred to Miriam that Hillary really did not understand, professor of Middle Eastern studies or not. She should have been discouraged, but the joy of her success prevented it.
“May I stay with you for a day or two?”
“Well . . . sure. It’s a far cry from the Hilton, though. Last time you had the whole top floor, and now you want to stay with me?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth—”
“Last time I was a princess. Now I’m just a woman.” She smoothed her yellow blouse. “See, a woman. I’ll be out of your way tomorrow. The next day at the latest.”
“Does the embassy know you’re here?”
“I told you, I’m running.”
“So you’re a fugitive?”
Hillary’s tone pushed Miriam down onto the sofa. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
Hillary sputtered. “No. No, of course not. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. As long as you promise to tell me all about it.”
“I will.”
“Good. Now, a princess must have tea. I have a wonderful herbal blend. China Moon. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Be right back.” Hillary slid into the kitchen.
Miriam breathed deeply. She kicked her shoes off, lifted both arms to the ceiling. She hardly knew she was going to yelp before she did so—a full-blooded Arabian yelp with an ululating tongue.
From the kitchen, porcelain rattled and then crashed. Hillary had dropped the teacups. But Miriam didn’t care. She flung herself back into the soft sofa cushions, laughing.
Omar could steam all he liked. She was free from him.
chapter 10
omar bin Khalid studied the great white hall through the study’s cracked door. Greek columns supported an elegant carved ceiling forty feet above the glassy marble floor. His father had paid a famous artist two million dollars to paint huge portraits of each Saudi king, six including the one he now planned to kill, Abdullah. The canvases peered from the far wall like sentinels craning for a view of history’s next chapter.
Clacking feet echoed through the chamber, but he couldn’t see to whom they belonged. He’d called his father from a high-level meeting with the news less than five minutes ago.
The dog had fled.
His father turned the corner and swept into view, his arms swinging with each long step, his thawb swirling around his ankles. Omar eased the door closed, crossed the office suite, sat on the black leather sofa, and crossed his legs casually. The office was a study in the trappings of immense wealth. Not a single item, from the immense gold-layered desk to the quill pens in the drawers, could be bought on the open market. Every item was custom-made. Even the thick white carpet had been woven of camel’s hair for this room and this room alone.
The door slammed open and his father walked in. “What is the meaning of this?”
Omar folded his hands to still his quaking fingers. “She left the country yesterday for Paris.”
Khalid walked to the center of the room, face drawn. “She left with whom?”
The woman had denied him. Miriam’s denial was no less offensive than that young feline’s refusal of her husband. Omar had known Sita would be a problem for Hatam, predicted that her reaction to him would constitute grounds for her death.
So. His bride was too stupid to get the message.
“She presented the airport authorities with forged travel documents,” Omar said. “She slipped away on a trip to Jidda, took a flight to Riyadh, and then on to Paris. On her own.”
His father drilled him with a stare. “She’s in Paris now?”
“No. She’s in the United States. California, where she attended school for a summer.”
“And her father? Salman?”
“Furious. But still blind to our intentions.”
“If our sources know this much, so will King Abdullah,” Khalid said, turning. “He’ll want to know why.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Omar said. “Why is irrelevant. I have just been spit upon by a woman.”
“Do not get distracted from the true crisis. She was your means to the throne and nothing more. Without her, Sheik Al-Asamm will withdraw his support. Without her, there is no throne.” He took a seat behind the monstrous desk. “Where is the sheik?”
“In the desert. He vows to withdraw if we don’t retrieve her.”
His father cursed. “Living with the Shia will be like sleeping with the devil. We should kill the lot of them.”
“I agree.”
But they both knew that without the sheik’s support, the coup would fail.
“The woman has fled.” Khalid shook his head and closed his eyes. “Of all the insolent . . .” His eyes opened, blazing. “Everything! We thought of every possibility. But this? What kind of daughter has Salman raised? You see, this is why we must overthrow the throne! A royal daughter is asked one thing—to marry a prince—and she runs like a coward! Don’t women know their place any longer?”
“Obviously not,” Omar said.
“And if the king learns of our plan?”
“He would never have the proof.”
“If he even suspected?”
Omar paused. “If I were him, I might kill the woman, prevent the marriage.”
Khalid leaned back in his chair. “If the king killed the sheik’s daughter, the sheik might be furious enough to align himself with me without a marriage.”
“Then kill the woman and blame it on the king,” Omar said, thinking the end would be fitting.
“It might come to that. But the king would deny it as quickly as we would. And we have no guarantees that the sheik would side with me. I can’t very well ask him, can I?”
Khalid pushed his chair back and walked to a window that overlooked a pond spotted with a dozen geese. “Bring her back.”
Omar stood, turned from his father, and ground his molars to squelch a surge of rage. “I will.” He strode toward the door. “I will.”
He would bring her back. He would drag her back by her hair, bleeding and screaming. Assir and Sa’id were already on a flight to America, two hungry jackals waiting for directions.
“Alive,” his father said. “We need her alive.”
Shut up, Father.
“Of course.”
But he wasn’t sure he could restrain himself.
Hilal’s sharp bones pressed against his skin in a way that would have earned him the nickname Knife or Edge had he grown up in New York City. He was the head of King Abdullah’s personal security and arguably as deadly as he looked.
Hilal sat to the right of King Abdullah, and Salman faced them both, feeling insignificant despite the fact that he was royalty and Hilal was not. He resented the fact.
He’d been summoned because of Miriam’s flight. Why the king was so interested in the disappearance of one adopted daughter was beyond him. Unless they knew more than he’d told them, which was simply that she fled after witnessing the drowning of her friend Sita.
Hilal lifted thin fingers to his beard and ra
n them gently through the black strands. The king looked at him with a raised brow. “Yes?”
“It’s the question of why that bothers me, Your Highness. Why did she run?”
The king looked at Salman without speaking.
“You’re accusing me?” Salman said.
“If you have done anything I disapprove of, I would know about it. I’m not blind.”
The revelation gave Salman pause. He wondered which of his servants was spying for the king. “I’ve told you why I believe she fled.”
Hilal cleared his throat. “She took great risks in leaving. According to the Berkeley professor who contacted the State Department, Miriam is persuaded that she was somehow being subjected to a scheme that jeopardizes the House of Saud, although she refused to explain herself.”
“I cannot imagine what she means.” He was sweating under his thawb.
“Either way, I don’t like it,” Hilal said. “I would request to collect her myself, Your Highness. We must find out why she fled.”
“She’s only a woman chasing her fantasies,” Salman said. “You’re overreacting.”
“Am I? You should stick your head out of your palace now and then, my friend. Our kingdom isn’t as stable as it once was.”
“And what does this have to do with my daughter? Please.” Salman felt small in the cutthroat’s presence. Why did the king allow Hilal to speak like this to a prince? “I cannot underestimate her spirit of rebellion,” Salman said. “It took some thinking to break into my safe, and it took even more courage to steal the money. If you ask me, Samir was involved in her escape. I always thought she had him bewitched.”
Hilal looked up sharply. “Samir? We questioned him thoroughly. He knew nothing. What do you mean, bewitched?”
Salman hesitated, remembering the occasional glances he’d seen the driver give Miriam. “I mean that they spent time together. Alone. In the car, of course, but if you hadn’t insisted I keep him, I would have let him go years ago.”
“He’s Sheik Al-Asamm’s man, you idiot!”
Salman felt an icy blade cut through his nerves. Hilal either knew more than he was saying or was bluffing. If the former, Salman was being set up. He had no choice but to cover his tracks. Give them something now that would later point to his ignorance of any coup plot.
Salman stood. “The sheik’s man? You’ve allowed a Shia into my house? What if Sheik Al-Asamm has something up his sleeve? Have you thought about that? What if Miriam is part of his schemes?”
“Then she will die,” Hilal said. “But you yourself swore under oath that she was the daughter of Khalid’s servant, spawned by an illicit affair his family hoped to keep confidential.”
“Samir, my driver, is Shia?” He flung his arms wide. “For all I know the sky is about to rain fire on my head.” They looked at each other.
“We must proceed assuming the worst,” Hilal said. “As always.”
“Which is?” the king asked.
“That this woman fled more than a drowning. More likely a marriage.”
Salman’s eyes went wide.
“That she is a pawn in a plot to undermine the monarchy. I’ll contact the Americans and leave immediately.”
“The Americans will help you?” Salman asked.
“We don’t need them; we know where she is. But if we do need them, they would help us. They know what would happen to the Middle East if the balance of power were to shift in Saudi Arabia. They want to keep the House of Saud in power. The fate of one woman is nothing in the large picture.”
Salman disagreed without a word. The fate of one woman was everything.
chapter 11
the Faculty Club may have been one of Berkeley’s oldest buildings, but it was also one of its most stately. A good enough reason for the faculty to claim it, Seth thought. Tonight they had come out in droves, paying homage to last year’s recipient of the same award, Dr. Galvastan from Harvard, and the popular caterer. If Seth had not come he might not have been missed. Black gowns and jackets filled the hall, and Seth had decided to conform. He passed on a tuxedo, choosing instead a tailored black suit, and combed his hair back. On a night such as this, it felt good to blend in a little.
Problem was, as soon as any of the faculty recognized him, they seemed compelled to say something. Anything, no matter how inane.
“Seth! There you are. Lovely to see you.” Grin. “Here’s the official schedule for this evening.”
“Well done, Mr. Border. You’ve made Berkeley proud.”
“Congratulations, young man. We’re so proud of you.”
“You’ll make a good professor yet. Good job, man.”
These were invariably followed by a look at his attire and a pointed smile that betrayed self-righteous satisfaction. About time, boy. It took him fifteen minutes to work his way past enough of them to find breathing space in the Great Hall.
He paused at the entrance to the Kerr Dining Room, poked his head in, and scanned the hall. Round tables covered in white linens dotted the floor, each one candlelit and set with antique silverware. The room simmered with a gentle hubbub, two hundred heads of hot air expanding the significance of their small worlds. It was a wonder there was any oxygen left in the place.
Seth slipped in through the side entrance and headed for the long table set up at one end for the guest of honor and other notables.
“Seth.”
He turned to the low voice. It was Dr. Harland, holding a drink.
“Glad you could make it,” Harland said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Evening, Professor.”
“They’ve come in force for you, haven’t they? You okay?”
“Never better,” Seth said.
A faculty member he didn’t recognize walked by, stuck out her hand, and offered her congratulations. Seth took the hand and nodded.
Harland took a sip from his glass. “I see you dressed the part.”
“I’m here to play ball, right?”
Someone slid behind him, and he turned to see a woman with hair going every which way but down. Professor of Middle Eastern Studies Hillary Brackenshire. He knew her because of his interest in the region and the single class he’d suffered through under her instruction. She turned to see whom she’d brushed, and her face reddened.
“Seth! Congratulations. You must be very proud!”
“Hello, Dr. Brackenshire. Thank you.”
She opened her mouth as if to say more, but then thought better of it and just smiled. It wasn’t until she turned to leave that Seth saw the young woman standing several feet to her right. Her round, haunting eyes peered into his for a moment, and then she turned with Hillary and walked away. She wore a white dress fitted to her slender frame. Her hair hung below her shoulders, jet black and shiny. Arabic, if he were to guess. Middle Eastern at least.
“I haven’t seen her before,” Harland said, following Seth’s gaze.
“I haven’t seen half these people before.”
Harland nodded and sipped his drink. “Please tell me you’ve given some thought to our little discussion.”
“You know me, Professor. I always give whatever you say a little thought. In this case, much thought.”
“And?”
“And”—he nodded at a passing professor—“I think you’re right. I should finish my formal education.”
“They’ve brought the big guns in tonight; tread carefully.”
Seth had thought about telling Marisa to can the dance—had actually picked up the phone an hour ago to put an end to it.
But he hadn’t.
“Remember the pigeon that hit your office window?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“I thought I saw it before it hit.”
A waiter passed by and Harland set his empty glass on the tray. “The mind’s a curious thing,” he said.
“It happened again.”
“You saw another pigeon hit my window?”
“No. I saw a girl fall before she f
ell.”
“Interesting. It happens.”
“Yeah. Well, it happened all right. In living color.”
“Hmm.” Harland obviously thought nothing of it. He was right, it did happen. People would swear they’d seen a certain thing before, despite knowing they hadn’t.
They walked toward the podium. Baaron was up there already, and his glance met Seth’s.
“Just in case things do go badly tonight, I want you to know something,” Seth said. “When I think of a man I would like to call my father, your face comes to mind. I owe you my gratitude.”
“I would gladly accept the position were it not filled.”
“It isn’t filled. I once knew a man, a sperm donor who brought me into this world and then made sure I regretted it. I don’t know anyone I would call a father.”
“Then as your newly adopted father, let me reiterate my advice. Be nice tonight, Seth.”
Seth stopped by the head table. Baaron was dinging his fork against a crystal wineglass by the podium. The heads began to turn his way.
Seth stepped up on the platform. A spontaneous clap spattered and then swelled across the dining room. Seth gave them a quick bow and walked for his seat. The guests took their seats and Baaron began his spiel.
Dr. Galvastan stood from his chair next to Seth’s and spoke quietly. “Well done, Mr. Border. Well done. It’s genuinely an honor to meet you. I’ve heard your name floating around Harvard for a couple years now.”
Seth took his hand. “Thank you. Probably the source of all those UFO reports in the region.” He winked. “Floating names are often mistaken as alien ships.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Galvastan chuckled.
Seth took his seat and waited while Baaron droned on. They looked like a convention of penguins, seated in nice round circles and dressed in black and white. Maybe he was too hard on them. The two hundred or so minds gathered here represented more academic achievement than some entire countries could claim. Who was he to say that his mind really saw things any more clearly than theirs? Sure, he saw things involuntarily that most of them were incapable of seeing at all. The relationship between simple facts, for example. How numbers worked and how logical constructs were formed on the most fundamental levels. But did that make him better than these penguins smiling up at him?
