Sweet Revenge (46 page)

“I don’t have it. I have a picture. Sometime you will visit me in America and I’ll show you.”

“Visit you?” She waved away impatiently, and imperiously, Adrianne thought, a cup of tea offered by a servant. “When?”

“When it’s permitted.”

“We will eat in a restaurant?”

“If you like.”

For a moment Yasmin looked like any young girl being offered a treat. “Some women in Jaquir eat in restaurants, but my father does not permit it for the family.”

Adrianne took her hand. “We’ll eat in restaurants every night.”

Philip saw little of the king, but he was treated well. Like a visiting diplomat, he thought, after his thorough guided tour of the palace. He was taken into every room, excluding the women’s quarters, while the crown prince gave him a long, often tedious history of Jaquir. While he listened, Philip took mental notes on windows, doorways, entrances, and exits. He watched guards and servants come and go with an eye to the timing and routine.

He asked questions. The book Adrianne had given him had briefed him well enough to know what comments or inquiries would be taken as criticism. So he didn’t ask about the women hidden behind garden walls and latticed windows—for their own good. He didn’t ask about the slave markets that were still in effect, though conducted in secret. Or the beheadings, which were not.

They lunched on caviar and quail eggs in a room that boasted its own rippling pool. Bright-feathered birds trilled in cages hung from the ceiling. Art and literature were discussed. The camel whippings in the suqs were not. Rahman joined them briefly. Once he’d battled back his shyness, he bombarded Philip with questions about London. His mind was like a sponge.

“There is a large Muslim population in London.”

Philip sipped the coffee and longed for good British tea. “I believe so.”

“I would like to see it, the buildings and museums, but in the winter when there is snow. I should like to see snow.”

He remembered how Adrianne had spoken of her first glimpse of snow. “Then you should come next year and stay with Adrianne and me.”

Rahman thought it would be wonderful, to see the great city, to spend time with his sister with the lovely eyes and smile. There would be so much to learn in London, and he wanted badly to learn. He shot a quick look at his brother. They both knew their father’s mind.

“You are very kind. One day I will come to London, if Allah wills. You will excuse me, I must go back to my studies.”

Later, in an air-conditioned limo, they drove through the city. Fahid pointed out the ships in port as he talked of the excellent trade agreements between Jaquir and Western countries.

There was great beauty here; Philip saw it in the dark distant hills, in the harsh blue of the sea. Despite the traffic and mad rush of taxis there was a sense of antiquity, and, more, of a stubborn resistance to change.

They passed a courtyard where less than five years before a minor princess and her lover had been executed for adultery. In the distance Philip could see the silver column of an office building topped with a satellite dish.

“We are a country of contrasts.” Fahid watched a member of the Committee for the Protection of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice grab an unescorted woman by the arm. “There has been much change in Jaquir in the last twenty-five years, yet we are, and will always be, a country of Islam.”

Since the opening had been given, Philip pried it a bit further. “Is it awkward for you, having been educated in the West?”

Fahid studied the
matawain
who shouted at the lone woman and shoved her roughly out of the suqs. He disapproved of such things, but he was not yet king. “It is sometimes difficult to find the balance between what is best in your world and what is best in my own. If Jaquir
is
to survive more progress, more compromise will be necessary. The laws of Islam cannot change, the traditions of men must.”

Philip, too, had seen the exchange in the suq. “Traditions such as manhandling women?”

Fahid gave brief instructions to the driver, then settled back. “The religious police are dedicated, and it is religion which governs in Jaquir.”

“I’m not one to criticize another’s religion, Fahid. But it’s difficult for a man to sit by and watch a woman mistreated.” He was thinking beyond the woman in the suq to Adrianne, and to Phoebe. Fahid had no trouble following the trail.

“On some points you and I will never agree.”

“What will you change when you rule?”

“It is not so much what I will change, but what the people will allow to be changed. Like many Europeans, you believe it is the government that makes the people what they are. That oppresses or that frees. In many ways, perhaps in most, it is the people themselves who hold off change. They struggle against progress even as they rush to embrace it.” Fahid smiled. There was a jug of chilled juice which he poured into crystal goblets for both of them. “Would it surprise you that many women enjoy their veils? It is not the law. They became popularized by the elite many centuries ago. What became fashionable during Mohammed’s time has become tradition.”

When Philip drew out a cigarette, Fahid took a gold lighter and flicked on the flame. “You see that no woman is permitted to drive in Jaquir. This is not a law, but a tradition. It is not written that it is unseemly for a woman to operate a car, but it is … discouraged, because if she were to have a flat, no man could assist her. If she were to drive recklessly, the police could not detain her. So it is tradition that becomes more solid than the law itself.”

“Are your women content?”

“Who knows the mind of a woman?”

Philip grinned. “On that East and West can agree.”

“This is what I wanted to show you.” As the limo stopped, Fahid gestured out the window “Ahmand Memorial University. The woman’s college.”

The single building was constructed out of good American brick. The windows were latticed as much for protection against the sun as to discourage prying eyes. Philip saw three women dressed in traditional garb hurry up the steps and through the door. He also noted that beneath the
abaaya
the women wore Nikes and Reeboks.

“Families are encouraged to have their women educated here in Jaquir. Traditions can be flexible, you see. Jaquir needs women doctors, women teachers, women bankers. For now, this is to make it less complicated for our women to receive medical treatment, to be educated, and to handle their money. It will not always be so.”

Philip turned back from his study of the building. “You understand that.”

“Very well. I work closely with the Minister of Labor. It
is an ambition of mine to see the people of my country, men and women, strengthen Jaquir with knowledge and skill. With education comes knowledge, but discontent comes as well, and a need to know more, to see more, to have more. Jaquir will be forced to adjust—and yet blood does not change. Women will wear the veil because they choose to wear it. They will cling to the harem because they find comfort there.”

“You believe that?”

“I know that.” After signaling to the driver, he folded his hands on his lap. He was a poised, erudite man not yet twenty-three. He would be king. Not from the moment of birth had he been allowed to forget it. “I was educated in America, loved an American woman, enjoyed many American things. But I have bedouin blood. Adrianne had an American mother and was raised in the West. But she has bedouin blood. It will course through her veins until the day she dies.”

“That makes her what she is. It doesn’t change her.”

“Adrianne’s life has not been a simple one. How much does she hate my father?”

“Hate’s a strong word.”

“But apt.” Fahid lifted a hand, palm up. It was an important question, and the main reason he’d insisted on having this private time with Philip. “Passions of love and hate are never simple. If you love her, take her away after the marriage. While my father lives, keep her out of Jaquir. He, too, does not forgive.”

The prayer call sounded, a deep-throated song. With little confusion and no questions doors closed and men knelt to lower their faces to the cracked ground. Fahid stepped out of the car. His robes were silk, but he blended with the other men who submitted themselves to Allah.

Restless, Philip stepped out into the afternoon heat. He could see the muezzin on the steps to the mosque calling the faithful. It was a strong scene, almost humbling, with the baking sun and the hot smells of sweat and spice from the suqs, the robed men with foreheads lowered to the ground. Women stood back huddled in what shade could be found. They might pray in silence, but were not permitted to answer
the call. A few Western businessmen waited with the patience of the resigned.

As he watched, Philip began to understand Fahid. The people didn’t merely adhere or submit to tradition. They embraced it, they perpetuated it. This way of life revolved around religion and male honor. Buildings could spring up, education could be offered, but nothing would change the blood.

He turned away from Mecca and looked toward the palace. Its gardens were a mist of color in the distance. Its green-tiled roofs shone in the sun. Somewhere within its walls was Adrianne. Would the prayer call draw her to the window?

The device Adrianne carried was very sensitive. For this brief rendezvous she left the rest of her tools hidden in her room and took only the small amplifier, the brass key, and a file. For caution’s sake her black slacks and shirt were also left behind. If she were stopped tonight, it would be best if she were found in long skirts.

She used the tunnel, making her way as women had for generations from their quarters to the main palace. Some would have gone gladly, others resignedly. Always with purpose, Adrianne thought, as she did tonight. Her sandals were silent on the worn floor. The way, as it had been from the beginning, was lit with torches rather than with electric light. Their low, sputtering flames added shadows, and romance.

A man might pass there, a king or a prince. But at this hour the palace slept and she walked alone.

She worried about Philip. It was always possible his rooms were watched. If he were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, he would be deported before they could exchange a word. She might be beaten or confined to the women’s quarters, but that was a small price to pay for the ultimate goal.

She came out of the tunnel into the king’s apartment. He would be asleep in the bedroom beyond. Alone—whichever wife he had chosen for the night sent back to her own bed after her duty was done.

She could smell him here faintly, in the sandalwood incense he preferred. And she wondered how many times
her mother had been summoned to these rooms like a bitch singled out for breeding.

For a moment, just a moment, she was tempted to fling open the door to his bedroom, to wake him out of smug sleep and tell him everything she felt, everything that had sprouted and grown out of those early bitter seeds. But that satisfaction would last only as long as the words did. She wanted more than that, much more.

The guards didn’t change until an hour before dawn. Adrianne glanced at the luminous dial of her watch and gauged the time she had. Enough, she thought. More than enough.

The hallway was deserted, dark, silent. From the blueprint in her mind she turned down it and made her way to the adjoining wing. She moved to the door of the vault room and, crouching, began to pick the lock. Her hands were steady enough, but they were sweating. Annoyed, she wiped them on her skirt before she finished the job. With a quick look right and left she slipped inside, then shut and locked the door behind her.

When a hand clamped over her mouth, her heart stopped. When it started again, she swore at Philip. Jerking away, she switched the narrow beam of her flashlight in his face.

“You do that again, you’re going to lose that hand.”

“Glad to see you too.” He bent to kiss her. “Had a little trouble with the lock, did you?”

“No.” She started to brush by him, then turned and threw her arms around his neck. “Philip, I didn’t know I’d miss you so much.”

He nuzzled into her hair, into the scent, into the texture. “Well. It gets better and better. What were you doing all day while I was getting a tour of the city?”

“Drinking endless cups of tea, listening to a recital on fertility and childbirth, and being fitted for my wedding dress.”

“You don’t sound as if you enjoyed any of it.”

“It’s difficult, I didn’t know how difficult to deceive my grandmother. And I don’t like being pinned into white satin for a wedding that’s only a show.”

“Then we’ll make it more.”

He said it lightly, but she couldn’t find any amusement
in his eyes. “You know how I feel about that, and this isn’t the time to discuss it. Have you looked at the vault?”

“Top to bottom.” He shone his light on the steel door. “From the specs, there’s an alarm wired to each lock. Time-consuming, but fairly straightforward. We’ll clamp those as you suggested. I’ve a good feel for combinations, so it shouldn’t take long.”

“This should help.” She handed him a dial as thick as his thumb and half again as wide as a quarter. “It’s an amplifier. I’ve been working on it for a while. Put it against the door there and it should pick up a sneeze three rooms away.”

Thoughtful, Philip played his light over it. “You designed this?”

“Redesigned, really. I wanted something compact as well as sensitive.”

“For someone who didn’t finish school, you do have an amazing knack for electronics.”

“Natural talent. I estimate an hour to open the vault.”

“Forty minutes, fifty on the outside.”

“Let’s give it sixty.” She smiled and touched his cheek. “No reflection on your talent, darling.”

“A thousand pounds says I do it in forty.”

“Done. Now then, you won’t be able to start safely until three. At two-thirty I’ll start on the alarms. It’ll work more smoothly if you come directly here. Don’t touch anything until three. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“I don’t like the idea of your handling that part alone.”

“I’d be handling the entire job alone if I had my way. Start with the top dial and work down.”