Out of Control (12 page)

“Through the front door.”

There are no words for how I felt at that moment. A testament to my sheer willpower
and to how viscerally I wanted to nail the bastards behind the blowouts and the deaths
of my friends, I dutifully exited the car and knocked on the door, expecting a young
girl to answer.

Instead, a young woman who looked to be about my age, maybe a few years younger, dressed
in very cool jeans and a gauzy, pink blouse swung the door inward and beamed a smile
at me from what may well have been the most beautiful face I’d ever seen.

“Hello, and welcome,” she said in a lilting voice with only a trace of an accent.
When I was inside, she closed the door and grasped my arm, coming very close. “I’m
Ara.”

“I’m Blair. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She was very much in my personal space and
I wished I’d eaten an Altoid while I was in the car.

“It’s lovely to have you in our home, Blair. My father tells me you’re here with your
husband, and I’ll be happy to be your company while he conducts his business.” She
reached for my scarf and unwound it from my head, then lowered her graceful hands
to the placket of my
abaya
and began to undo the buttons. “You must be stifling in this.”

“Am I not supposed to leave it on all the time?”

Her laugh was quiet and reserved. “Only when you’re in public, where the
mutawaeen
may see you. We’re very relaxed at home.” When the
abaya
was gone, she looked over my suit and shook her head, as if she felt sorry for me.
“Chanel is classic, but for much older women. Tell me you brought something besides
suits.”

“A few things, but I was told to dress nicely beneath the
abaya
.”

“By whom? An older woman?”

Thinking of Dorie, in her mid fifties, but with the conservatism of my grandmother,
I smiled and nodded. “I’m not particularly a slave to fashion anyway, so it’s not
important.”

If I’d announced I liked to murder older women in their sleep, she couldn’t have looked
more horrified. “Fashion is always important. It tells others who we are.”

I bit back a comment about how no one in Saudi Arabia could see a woman’s fashion,
hidden beneath the severe black
abaya
. “Where I work, clothing is functional and practical, and because I work so much,
I don’t have the opportunity to shop or worry about clothes.” I didn’t mention that
if I had all the time in the world, I’d rather have my fingernails pulled off than
spend more than ten minutes looking for clothes. Clearly, clothes were a big deal
to Ara.

“What do you do?” she asked, curious.

“I’m a petroleum engineer.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Do you work in the oil industry, as your husband does?”

I nodded. “We met through our work.”

Linking her arm through mine, she escorted me out of the small receiving room and
into a wide hallway, talking all the while. It was difficult to concentrate on her
words, I was so overwhelmed by the house. I’d never in my life seen such extraordinary
opulence. Beautiful rugs stretched across expanses of rose marble and graced by tables
of inlaid mosaics. The walls were covered with butter yellow silk, and every few feet
hung a painting that, even to my less than trained eye, I could see were originals,
some by world-renowned artists.

We passed some sort of salon, an immense dining room, and a mammoth library before
we came to the residence wing of the house. She led me along another wide hallway,
then abruptly turned and we followed a curving corridor until we came to a set of
double doors. She swung them open and announced, “Here are your quarters. If you find
anything lacking, you have only to press the bell and someone will be there immediately
to see to your needs.” She eyed my bag, sitting on a luggage rack next to a door I
assumed was the closet. “Do you need any help unpacking?”

I suspected she wanted to check out my wardrobe, and I wasn’t in the mood to defend
myself, so I said, “No, thank you. I can manage.”

She handed over my scarf and
abaya,
and backed out of the room. “I’ll see you at breakfast in an hour.” Her smile reappeared.
“I’m glad you’re here, Blair. It will be so lovely to visit with an American. I went
to school in the United States.”

I perked up. “Oh? Where?”

“Stanford. Like you, I’m an engineer.” Her smile faltered. “Regrettably, I’m not able
to utilize my education as you do.” Then she was gone, leaving me gaping at the door.

Ten minutes later while I was still exploring the cavernous bedroom, which included
his-and-hers bathrooms and a private walled garden outside a set of French doors,
Robichaud arrived. He looked around and grinned.

“My, aren’t we a happy camper,” I said a bit waspishly. “This country was custom-made
for male chauvinists, and you’re in your element. Are your testicles bigger?”

“You wanna check and see?”

“I hate you.”

He walked into the room and dropped onto one of the matching bergére chairs, stretching
his legs and crossing his ankles. “Nice bed,” he said, his dark gaze surveying it
with a great deal too much enjoyment.

“Maybe now would be a good time to tell you about my rule against having sex in other
people’s homes. It’s tacky.”

His grin widened. “Rules are made to be broken.”

I eyed the bed speculatively. “It’s gi-normous. If I get a head start, I can outrun
you in it.”

He was still grinning like a fool and I realized it wasn’t just the bed and the prospect
of getting me in it that had him so happy. I chose to ignore my deflated feminine
pride and went to sit on the other chair. “What’s up, Robichaud?”

“Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

I gave it only a second of thought before I stated the obvious. “Hakeem.”

“Bingo. Kaliq thought he’d enjoy visiting with us, since he spent so much time in
the States, so he invited him.”

“Let’s hope there aren’t any unusually loud clocks in the dining room. I may be tempted
to search for bombs.”

He removed his shoes, leaned back, and stacked his socked feet on the ottoman. “I’ve
been debating how we can get information out of him. I think I should get him alone
and tell him I know Dylan, that he told me about a plan he has to jack up the price
of oil. I can gauge his reaction and go from there.”

“Way to be obvious. He’ll be onto you before you finish the sentence.”

“Okay, smart girl, what do you suggest?”

I thought for a moment. “At dinner, talk about things that wouldn’t ring any bells
to an innocent man, but would scare the hell out of a guilty one. Tell everyone that
you worked for the security firm that designed the controls at Ras Tanura. Say you
found it gratifying to be involved, and brag how confident you are that the port is
completely secure. Mention some off-the-wall feature of the system—hell, make it up
if you have to—and carry on about how the technology is so amazing no one could possibly
breach it. If Hakeem really is planning something, he’ll figure out a way to ask you
about it privately.”

Robichaud looked vaguely impressed but still shook his head. “It would work except
that Kaliq will be there, and being on the Aramco board, he knows all the security
measures in place at every oil infrastructure in the country.”

“Then we’ll have to get rid of him.”

Robichaud laid his head back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “That won’t be
easy.”

“Sure it will. I’ll spill something in his lap and he’ll have to go change his clothes.
While he’s gone, you can blather on about Ras Tanura and the awesome security system.”

Rolling his head toward me, his lips quirked. “You really are pretty smart. For a
girl.”

I shot him a fake scowl. “For a boy who wants to get lucky, you’ve got an interesting
approach. Maybe later you can make some moronic jokes about PMS.”

“I would if I knew any. Only joke I can ever remember is the one about the rabbi,
the priest, and the duck.”

I waited for him to tell it, but he just stared at me. “Well?” I prompted.

He laughed. “Hell. I’ve even forgotten that one.”

I started to roll my eyes but my stomach growled, embarrassing me. So I jumped up
and went to unpack.

Robichaud didn’t mention it, but he stood and headed for the door. “Come on. We’re
expected for breakfast. Afterward, Kaliq offered to take me on a tour of the Aramco
Riyadh offices, to meet some of the key personnel.”

“Cool. While you’re making contacts and learning interesting stuff about Saudi oil,
I get to chat about clothes and make-up. Would you kill me now?”

“Would it make you feel better if I tell Kaliq the prototype is your design?”

I looked up at him. “You’d do that?”

He hesitated a moment. “Yes, but only after he’s agreed to buy. Otherwise, he might
suddenly lose interest, you being a girl and all.” He smiled apologetically.

I didn’t. “That would be mildly amusing if it weren’t true.”

He dropped the smile. “Yeah. I know.” Bending a bit, he brushed his lips across mine.
“Is it wrong that I’ll enjoy the hell out of his shock when I tell him?”

“Take pictures,” I mumbled, returning the kiss.

My stomach growled again.

“Let’s eat,” he said, turning to open the door.

…

It wasn’t that Ara didn’t try to be good company, or a charming hostess, but her constant
chatter about the shopping in America, and the nightclubs, and pretty much everything
I disliked and never did despite how ‘lucky’ I was to live there, began to wear on
me. She was surprised when I said I worked only with men, that I’d never had a manicure
or a massage, and I didn’t wear five hundred dollar jeans. I thought she’d faint when
I confessed I ordered my jeans from an online outlet, and that most of my shirts and
sweaters were from the L.L. Bean catalog. I worried I’d have to find her some Pepto-Bismol
when I admitted I’d never read
Vogue
but preferred the
Oil and Gas Journal
and
Time
. At one point she actually said, I was rather mannish, wasn’t I?

That’s when I’d had enough. “At least eighty percent of my time is spent in extreme
locations, a lot of them without any bath facilities at all. Killing well fires is
hot, dirty, dangerous work, and my biggest concern when I’m working one is making
sure the team and I don’t die. How I look is never, ever, a consideration. Besides,
I have to fit in with the men as best I can. If I wore expensive jeans and pink nail
polish, they’d lose respect.”

In the blink of an eye, she lost her seemingly empty-headed, shallow persona. We were
strolling around the extensive gardens within the walls of her father’s home. She
stopped and laid a hand on my arm. “I have offended you, for which I beg your forgiveness.
We’re from different worlds, you and I.” She looked wistful. “Do you have any idea
how fortunate you are? Even if I was allowed by the government to work as you do,
my father would never countenance it.”

I took a breath. “I’m not offended. And for all that I’m allowed by society, it’s
not as though everyone approves. My family was very unhappy with my choice, and I’ve
met my fair share of men who pretend I’m invisible.”

Her smile returned, but it seemed much more genuine. “Men, I suppose, are the same
everywhere.” Then she shocked me completely when she added, “Must be the penis. It
robs the blood from their brains and renders them idiots.”

After that, Ara and I settled into a more comfortable camaraderie. She asked a lot
of questions about my work, and told me what she’d studied at Stanford. Her focus
was mechanical engineering, with an emphasis on transportation. She proudly told me
she could build any kind of engine. It was a far cry from five hundred dollar jeans.

We talked about our respective childhoods, and found it funny that they were alike
in so many ways. Overbearing, conservative parents are pretty much the same everywhere,
I suppose.

At lunch, she introduced me to her brother, Faisal, a warm, friendly guy who said
I could pass for Arab, with my dark hair and eyes and tanned skin. He offered to take
us around Riyadh, and produced an ID card that declared my name was Raina Al-Fulani.
If we were stopped by the
mutawaeen
, I was their cousin from Jiddah. Otherwise, I might be arrested for going out without
a male member of my family. I mentioned that I didn’t speak Arabic, and they told
me I was their deaf, mute cousin from Jiddah. I laughed, and for the first time I
actually relaxed.

So we spent the afternoon exploring Riyadh, ensconced in the back seat of one of Kaliq’s
fleet of Mercedes. They took me to a market and I enjoyed walking through the stalls,
browsing through silver jewelry, looking at the pigeons for sale, inhaling the delicious
scent of large bags of coffee beans. Mid-afternoon brought the call to prayer and
I stayed in the car while the driver retrieved a rug from the trunk, spread it on
the ground, and he, Ara, and Faisal dropped to their knees, facing southwest, toward
Mecca.

Thirty minutes later, we were on our way to the King Fahd Cultural Center, a grand
building filled with art and artifacts of Arabia. I was keenly interested in everything,
and several hours passed in a flash. Finally, Ara and Faisal had to make me leave,
because it was time to go home and rest before dinner.

On the way back, we came close to having a wreck, which wasn’t surprising, really,
because the drivers here appeared to be the worst on the planet. All men, of course,
because women aren’t allowed to drive in Saudi. So much for jokes about women drivers.

To keep myself distracted from the insanity on the roads, I asked Ara and Faisal about
their cousin, Hakeem. “Nick says your father invited him to dinner, that he spent
some time in the United States. I’m curious where he lived.”

They exchanged a look before Ara said, “Hakeem went to boarding school in Virginia,
and college in Texas. He stayed there afterward, and worked for several oil companies,
gaining experience that would allow him to come home and take a place at Aramco. Now
he’s competing with Faisal to fill a recently vacated board seat. Because of his education
and his mother, who is a princess, he’ll most likely get the position,” she said neutrally.