Blink of an Eye by Ted Dekker

of mad men in remote desert regions. Never could she have imagined seeing her best friend drowned by Musa. Wicked, wicked Musa.
    The Nizari sect lived and they were an insane lot!
    Haya awakened her before noon. Samir was waiting to take her to her appointment, she said. Miriam had almost forgotten. The sheik Al-Asamm wanted to see her. Why? Did he have a son for her to marry? Then he would approach Salman, not her.
    She didn’t care. Sita was all she could think of. She washed away her tears and readied herself.
    Samir drove her through the streets of Riyadh, seeming to understand her need for silence, past new structures designed by Western architects. Nearly a quarter of Saudi Arabia’s population was expatriate, imported labor and expertise to build the city and serve the House of Saud. The foreigners were effectively cut off from the lives of most Saudis, sequestered in communities designed for them, but their touch could be seen everywhere. To many fundamental Muslims, the slow Westernization of this, Islam’s birthplace, was a blasphemous tragedy.
    Today, for the first time, Miriam thought it symbolized the hope of freedom.
    They wound through the suburbs, sandstone brick-and-mortar construction. Square. Everything square. And then they were in the desert, which stretched endlessly to Dhahran on the Persian Gulf. The Americans had used Dhahran as a base during the Gulf War.
    â€œSita was drowned by her father this morning for defying Hatam,” she said.
    â€œWha—No!”
    â€œYes.” She lifted her hand to her mouth, afraid she might begin crying again. The tires droned under them.
    â€œThe savage!” Samir said. “He is a pig!”
    Miriam swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
    â€œHow is that possible?”
    â€œHer father is Nizari.”
    He gripped the wheel and shook his head, clearly surprised. “The Nizari hardly exist. Not among the respectable.” He seemed to be at a loss for words. “I’m so very sorry, Miriam. Some men can be beasts to their women.” He looked out his window, jaws flexing. “I could understand a beating, but drowning? It’s not—”
    â€œA beating?” she cried. “No man should have a right to beat a woman! What gives a man that right? It’s inhumane to drown your daughter, and it’s inhumane to beat your wife!”
    They were the strongest words she had ever spoken in Samir’s hearing. He mumbled his agreement, but her words obviously stung his ears. She sat next to him, as she frequently did when they were alone, for the rest of the trip. But today she sat dazed and numb.
    Fifteen minutes after they left the city, Samir turned onto a small sandy road that led to a solitary Bedouin tent. Two Mercedes rather than camels formed a kind of gate in front of the main canvas flap.
    Samir stopped the car. Dust drifted by.
    â€œHe’s waiting inside.”
    Miriam stepped out. A Bedouin woman dressed in a traditional black abaaya, but without the full-face veil, exited the tent and watched her. Bedouin veils rode on the bridge of the nose, allowing the world free access to the eyes.
    Miriam reached the tent and gazed into the smiling eyes of the strange woman.
    â€œYou may remove your veil in here,” the woman said.
    Perhaps the sheik was not so concerned with tradition. Not wanting to be rude, Miriam removed her veil and entered.
    Abu Ali al-Asamm, a white-bearded holy man, sat on a large silk pillow and talked in hushed tones to a woman on his right. A maroon carpet with gold weaving covered most of the floor, and on this carpet was a single low table. Otherwise there was only a stand for tea and a large bowl of fruit—hardly the furnishings of a typical tent. Apparently, they had come on short notice with only what would fit into the cars outside.
    Talk stilled as the tent flap fell behind her. The sheik was on the heavy side, and getting to his feet was not an easy task. He