Blink of an Eye (10 page)

She lifted her hand to the collar of her canary blouse. It froze there. She was practically naked! What did she think she was doing? She couldn't walk out there like this, baring her skin to the world! She should at least keep the abaaya as a backup.

She reached into the trash, closed her hand around the robe, and pulled it out. Now she stood facing the mirror with a wadded black garment in her left hand, looking like a fool.

Miriam grunted and pushed the cloak back into the bin. She covered her face with her hands.
Calm down, Miriam!

The door opened. Her eyes sprang open. Light seeped through her fingers, but she did not remove her hands.

A woman walked past her and then stopped. “You okay?” she asked in French.

Miriam lowered her arms. “Yes,” she said.
“Oui.”

The woman smiled and stepped into a stall.

Miriam turned back to the mirror. That was it. Just “You okay?” and “Yes.” The woman was only concerned, not suspicious. And Miriam had responded. All was well.
You okay? Yes!

Yes, yes! I am okay.

It was then, standing in front of the mirror, that Miriam realized her plan was going to work. She was going to escape Omar.

Miriam picked up her two bags and walked out. People filled the busy terminal, but no one was focused on her. No one at all.

Miriam cleared immigration in ten minutes and immediately purchased a ticket to Chicago. Her destination was San Francisco, but as planned, she bought her tickets with cash and in single legs to slow any pursuit.

She spent an hour walking the terminal, browsing the shops, feeling more alive than she could ever remember. She changed a few dollars for francs and bought a mug with
Paris
etched in gold. She wanted a memento of her first truly free day.

The transatlantic flight to Chicago on United Airlines was a joy. She flew first class, because the royal family always flew first class, and an escapee deserved nothing less. She watched an in-flight movie titled
The Lord of the Rings
,
full of magic and strange creatures that made her laugh. A bit scary in parts, but magical. Several passengers kept looking her way, and she finally apologized for her outbursts, unable to hide her grin. She wanted to tell them more. That she was escaping from a terrible man named Omar, and they should be glad that she was sitting here laughing at trolls and goblins instead of marrying one. She wanted to say that, but she didn't.

She wasn't sure if it was the relief or the wine or the growing contentment, but she finally fell asleep.

A friend of Sultana's who lived in Spain had modified Miriam's student visa two years ago, insisting that it was good for four more years. For a few horrible minutes in the immigration line at O'Hare, Miriam began to have her doubts. But then she was smiling politely at an officer and walking through, stamped passport in hand.

She was in the United States. Wearing jeans and a canary blouse. Free to go where she liked. Carrying $500,000 in her bag. She nearly screamed out her thanks to God right then, fifty feet beyond the immigration line, but she settled for a subdued prayer of gratitude.

By now, the wheels would be turning in Saudi Arabia. Sultana would be sticking to her denials; Samir would be vowing ignorance and dying of worry. Dear Samir. Salman would be pacing in rage, and the sheik would be wringing his hands. And Omar . . .

Omar would be considering that perhaps women could do more than make babies and cook and please their masters.

A group of young men whom she recognized from the flight passed her. On the plane the four talking heads had laughed loudly and sworn regularly. Now she saw they wore baggy jeans that threatened to fall around their ankles. She'd never seen the like! The sight made her feel vulnerable and alone in this sea of humanity. She had been set free, yes, but into what kind of ocean?

Miriam purchased a ticket to San Francisco and spent two anxious hours waiting for the plane's departure, vacillating between the thrill of her accomplishment and worry that she had escaped only to be eventually dragged back to Saudi Arabia. What if Omar had beaten the truth out of Sultana and was even now waiting for her in San Francisco?

No. Sultana's husband would not allow Omar to touch his wife.

Her flight landed in San Francisco at three o'clock in the afternoon, and Omar wasn't there. Then she truly was free, wasn't she? Jidda, Riyadh, Paris, Chicago, and now San Francisco. She had really done it.

Miriam hailed a taxi at three thirty.

“Where to?” The driver looked Indian or Pakistani. She wondered if he was Muslim or Hindu.

“Do you know where Berkeley is?” she asked.

“University of California at Berkeley? Yes, of course.” His accent was British Indian and she loved it.

“There is a house on a street near the university. Could you take me there?”

“To where? Do you have the address?”

“No.”

“Then I can't take you there, can I?”

“But you can take me to the university. I think I will remember from there, although last time I had a driver who knew where to take me.”

“But I've never been there, have I? So how can I take you where I've never been?”

He looked her over, smiled politely, then pulled into traffic. His name was Stan, he informed her, although she doubted it. He should be American if he wanted to be, however. She was doing the same. Stan drove her north on the 101 and then traversed the Oakland Bay Bridge—a bridge he clearly resented, judging by the “fool drivers” who hindered his progress.

She laughed at this, which got him laughing too, and by the time they exited University Avenue for a small university street she recognized, Stan was very friendly. Practically in love with her. She knew because his eyes said so. They were watching her and speaking in the same way Samir's eyes spoke to her the few times she hadn't worn her veil.

Ten minutes later they found Hillary's house, only three blocks from University Avenue, as it turned out. Miriam paid Stan his fee and gave him an extra hundred dollars for his kindness. For affirming her.

Professor of Middle Eastern Studies Hillary Brackenshire was a tall, skinny woman with skin that looked three times her age and gray, wiry hair that she hardly bothered to brush. She reminded Miriam of a walking thistle. The professor had been fascinated by Miriam during Miriam's summer months at Berkeley—a natural reaction, considering Hillary's field of study and her infatuation with Islam.

Miriam hoped the woman would be glad to see her. If not, she would go to plan B, which was hardly more than starting out in a hotel. She set her cases down, glanced around nervously, and knocked on the door.

Within ten seconds the knob rattled, and then the door swung inward. Hillary stood there, dressed in a house robe despite it being only five in the afternoon, looking as much the wrinkled porcupine as Miriam remembered.

“Yes? May I help you?”

Miriam hesitated. “Do you remember me?” Obviously not. “Miriam. I studied at Berkeley two summers ago.”

Hillary's eyes widened. “Miriam? The princess?”

Miriam smiled. “Yes, although I'm not sure that I'm a princess any longer.”

“Come in! Come in.” Hillary waved her in with a flapping hand. “My dear, it isn't every day a princess comes to my door.” She saw the suitcases and glanced up at Miriam, then past her to the street. “Where's your ride?”

“I came in a taxi.”

“Let me help you.”

“Thank you.”

Miriam entered and looked around at the rather humble setting. An ungainly papier-mâché bell sat on the mantel. Dried leaves glued together to form picture frames hung over a brown threadbare couch. The lampshades looked like they were made of pillowcases—the same yellow ones Miriam remembered from her last visit. Hillary, a self-proclaimed naturalist, did no better with her living room than she did with her hair, Miriam thought.

“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

o
mar 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?”