samir drove Miriam from the market where they’d left Sultana. Miriam watched suburban Riyadh drift by like a dream of mud and brick, her stomach tied in knots. Her voice came out tight and strained, but she managed to blame it on Sita’s death.
Of course, she couldn’t let Samir know the truth. God forgive her. She didn’t dare tell him. Not only because he had a direct line to her newfound father, the sheik, and by association to Omar, but because telling Samir would put Samir himself in terrible danger. When Omar discovered her missing, he would naturally suspect Samir’s involvement and question him thoroughly. The less he knew, the better.
In the morning she would betray the man she loved. This truth made her ill. She repeatedly swallowed the lumps that choked her throat. She couldn’t even tell him good-bye! She slipped her hand over his and squeezed. He blushed. One way or another, she knew they would end up together. She would leave a letter for him with Sultana, telling him of her undying love and begging him to come for her. A tear slipped from her eye.
Miriam told him about Sultana’s insistence that they make a private shopping trip to Jidda the following day. It was a private getaway, only for part of the day, she explained, so she asked for his discretion. Samir agreed with a knowing smile.
She left Samir in the garage, hurried into the house, and walked straight for her room without removing her veil. Nothing must appear out of the ordinary. The last thing she needed was for Haya to see her tearstained face. Fortunately, her young mother wasn’t around.
Miriam locked the door to her room, walked to the bed, and sat slowly. Alone for the first time, she slipped off the veil, lowered her head into her hands, and wept.
An hour slipped by before she wiped her eyes and stood. A full-length mirror showed her standing, still dressed in her black abaaya. The princess.
She walked up to the mirror and studied her face. Her eyes were red and swollen, but the dark tones of her skin hid most of the signs of her crying well. She sniffed and ran her hands through her shiny black hair. A very small black freckle spotted her right cheek. When she was thirteen, she’d wanted it removed. But as she looked through a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine that Sultana had given her, she saw a stunning model with a similar mark on her cheek. She agreed with Sultana that men must be attracted to it, or the magazine editors would have covered it up.
She turned from the mirror, set her jaw, and pulled off her abaaya. It was time to get on with it. She sifted through her possessions, deciding what she could take that would fit in a single carry-on bag and a vanity case. In the end, she settled for what Sultana and she first conceived of long ago: two changes of Western clothes—jeans and blouses that would allow her to blend in with the people of California; basic toiletries; the Koran; one jewelry box filled with her most expensive jewels, well over a million dollars’ worth; and an iPod. The rest of the space would be occupied by the money. With money she could buy whatever she needed in the United States.
She had talked scandalously with Sita and Sultana about one day embracing Western ways, and now that day was here. Jeans might not be acceptable in Saudi Arabia, but Miriam could hardly wait to don them at the earliest possible opportunity. She would distance herself from the abaaya and arranged marriages and smother herself in the symbols of freedom. In the United States she would be anything but Saudi. She would eat and walk and talk like an American. She’d done it before for a summer in California, and she would do it again—this time permanently. Her accent might not be English, but her heart would be American.
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 stacks—euros, 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 skin—the 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 danger—”
“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.