The Secret Soldier

tank to get here? Is that what happened? Did you see my tank outside?”

A few women tittered. Most were silent, too aware of the importance of the occasion even to laugh.

“A year ago, I read a sermon by a famous cleric — I won’t say his name — who says what we want is un- Islamic. But we can read the Quran, too. And I ask you, does the Quran say that women can’t drive? Hardly, my sisters. The wife of the Prophet — peace be upon Him — we know that she rode a horse with him. The very wife of Muhammad. Why, then, can’t we drive? We don’t ask for anything that the Quran forbids. In other Muslim nations, we drive freely. And this law, forbidding driving, it’s foolish. Male servants must drive us. Does that make sense? I tell you it doesn’t. If we could drive ourselves, there would be no need for this.

“I’m proud to be Muslim. I know that Islam doesn’t fear women’s rights. We should wear our burqas by our own choice. Not because the muttawa force us. If we choose to wear an abaya and show our faces, the police shouldn’t interfere. As to whether we work or stay home, we and our husbands can decide.”

The princess paused, looked out at the crowd. “I know you don’t mistake what I’m saying, my sisters. I don’t want to live immodestly. But let’s not confuse what is haram”—forbidden—“with what is allowed. Drinking alcohol is haram. Eating pork is haram. Eating during the fast, that’s haram. But driving and working, those are allowed. I know some of our brothers and fathers don’t agree”—a few in the audience laughed—“but they’re allowed.”

Alia went on for another twenty minutes. Her arguments weren’t new. But she spoke with a regal authority. And slowly the crowd warmed, lost its fear. The women leaned forward, interrupted her with applause and laughter. She came to her last page knowing she’d won.

“My sisters, this won’t be a short fight. In fact, I shouldn’t even use the word fight to describe it. We’re all believers. Let’s call it a conversation. It won’t be a short conversation. It’s going to happen in bedrooms and living rooms and even bathrooms”—more laughter—“all over our kingdom. It will happen one husband at a time, one brother at a time, one father at a time. But it will happen. One day we will drive and work and sit with men in public. I believe with all my heart, as a woman and as a Muslim, that day will come in my lifetime.”

THE ASSASSIN SAT IN the third row of the audience, no more than seven meters from the princess. He wore a black burqa with a full veil that covered his face. His hands — small and hairless, with manicured pink fingers — rested lightly in his lap.

The assassin was a short man with sloped shoulders, narrow hips, light brown skin. He had a valid Jordanian passport that didn’t show up on watch lists. On his Saudi visa application, he called himself a religious tourist coming to the Kingdom for an umrah—a pilgrimage to Mecca that occurred outside the annual hajj period.

He arrived in Jeddah eight days before the princess was due to speak and booked a room at the InterContinental, a junior suite that looked east toward Mecca. He left after two days. He’d used a debit card from a Lebanese bank to guarantee his stay, but he settled his bill in cash. No surprise. Arabs liked paying cash. Tax collectors couldn’t trace it.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit,” the clerk said.

“Jeddah’s very pleasant.”

“This time of year, yes.”

“I may be back as early as next week.” The assassin handed a fiftyriyal note to the concierge — almost fifteen dollars, enough to be remembered favorably without really being remembered.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

Sure enough, the assassin returned four days later. Two nights before the princess was due to speak. Again he booked a junior suite. Nineteen hundred Saudi riyals a night, about five hundred dollars. He traveled with two roller suitcases, small enough to fit in an overhead cabin compartment, the kind that experienced travelers everywhere used. The first held men’s clothes, Western and Arab. A long gray robe. Khaki slacks.

The second case would have been of greater interest to the security agents downstairs, if they’d seen it. Its top compartment held a burqa, a modest dark blue dress, a full-face veil, a padded bra, pink nail polish, and a cell phone that looked ordinary but wasn’t. Beneath the clothes, a second compartment contained what looked like a thick, stiff piece of cardboard in a plastic bag. The cardboard was actually made of two kilograms of RDX, military- grade plastic explosive.

The assassin had spent nearly a year practicing for this day. Long before he learned of the princess’s speech, Ahmad Bakr realized the value of having a suicide bomber who could convincingly pass as female. Saudi society was so sexist that women weren’t viewed as threats. And though security officers knew that men could hide themselves in a burqa, they had never addressed the threat. The police hesitated even to speak to a woman in full burqa. They would make her remove it only in extreme circumstances.

Bakr had found a man perfect for the task. The Jordanian was skinny, high-voiced, with thin arms. He might have been one of those. Bakr didn’t care, as long as he passed as a woman. And surely they had an easier time passing.

STAYING AT THE HOTEL allowed the assassin to penetrate the outer cordon of Alia’s security. Still, he faced additional defenses, including the second metal detector and a potential pat-down, a disaster he had to avoid. He had learned that the breasts and the hips were the key. Breasts couldn’t be too large. A padded 34B bra worked best, with small silicone pads taped to his chest to fill out the cups. For his hips, he favored black spandex stockings that pushed his behind up and out.

While the princess prepared for her speech, the assassin was preparing, too, following a routine he’d practiced a dozen times in hotels in Lebanon and Jordan. He didn’t have a heavy beard or body hair, but he shaved himself smooth anyway. After he put on his bra and stockings, he sprayed eau de toilette on himself, Dior, just a few drops, enough to cover him in a light citrus scent.

The next part was the trickiest. He took the explosive plate from its plastic bag, taped it to his stomach, pulled its straps tight around his body. The plate was large, a rectangle fifteen centimeters long, ten centimeters wide, and two centimeters thick at the center. It tapered at the sides, so that its silhouette wouldn’t be obvious under the dress. Even so, the assassin would have preferred a smaller plate. But because of the metal detectors, the explosive couldn’t be covered with buckshot to create shrapnel. The explosion itself had to be powerful enough to be lethal in a ten-meter radius. Bakr had insisted on two kilograms of explosive.

The assassin made sure the plate was tightly bound and that the holes for the detonators were where he wanted them. Then he pulled the blue dress over his skinny body, making sure the holes he’d cut into it matched the holes in the explosive plate. He strolled around the suite, adjusting his stockings and bra. He stopped in front of the mirror, studied himself. He smoothed the dress over the plate, turned sideways. His hair was too short, and his Adam’s apple protruded. The explosive wrinkled the belly of the dress. But his burqa would hide those flaws. He knew it would. He had walked through Baalbek and West Beirut dressed this way without being noticed.

The burqa’s veil was made of a thick fabric that looked like black mosquito netting. The veil smudged his features but didn’t completely hide them. The outlines of his eyes and nose and cheeks were visible. He needed to be sure nothing about them was masculine. He stroked his cheeks with foundation, plucked his eyebrows until they were pencil-thin. He plumped his eyelashes with mascara, smoothed the circles under his eyes, painted his nails.

He was ready.

He pulled on the burqa, hid himself in its rich, black folds. The fabric was a wool-cotton blend, heavier than usual, the better to hide any trace of his body. He leaned close to the mirror, studied his face. The makeup had done the job. He was a woman now.

The assassin was not a reflective man. He didn’t question why he liked dressing this way, didn’t question why he felt such hatred for this princess. When Bakr had told him about the mission, he had accepted immediately. Alia couldn’t be allowed to spread her lies. She wasn’t Muslim at all. He knew that she had lived for years in Europe. No doubt she had behaved shamefully there. Now she would pay for her sins.

He unrolled his prayer rug, faced Mecca. The holy city. Just over the horizon. He’d had the chance to visit it three days earlier, to circle the Kaaba seven times and spend the day praying. A blessing. A vision of the Kaaba filled his mind, and he knew that he’d succeed today.