I stare up at the window I’d noticed earlier. It’s far too high to see out of unless I can put something under it. Perhaps I can move the bed? I make my way over to see, trying not to trip over the end of the sheet I’ve got wrapped around me. As a cover it’s adequate, but as clothing, it’s certainly not the most practical. But any hindrance it might be is of no consequence; I can’t shift the bed because bolts fasten it to the floor. The window offers no escape route. I sit back down on the bed, the only furniture in the bare room, putting my head in my hands in despair. Why have I been brought here? And where, exactly, is ‘here’?
Thrusting back a wave of panic that this feels like an oubliette, a place where prisoners are thrown and forgotten, I force negative thoughts to the back of my mind and examine my rudimentary prison cell. No plumbing, and no electricity that I can see. An ancient type of torch holder is on one wall, but there’s no light bulb or switch. Christ! How old is this place? How come it’s still in use? How long will I be left here? It’s suddenly difficult to breathe as claustrophobia creeps up on me; I begin to hyperventilate, my mind playing tricks on me. The stone walls seem to be closing in. I squeeze my eyes shut and as much as I want to, I can’t afford to panic. I have to keep myself together. The walls are not moving, I tell myself firmly. It must be the after-effects of the drugs. I open my eyes again and exhale the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
I collapse back down on the bed and try to kick my brain into gear, going back over the thought that they must have discovered my crime – and then the flaw in that thinking hits me. I’m certain the invitation to Amahad predated my actions to divert their funds. But what other reason could they have for bringing me here? I laugh out loud at the thought of white slavery. I’d be the last person anyone would choose to traffic like that! In the emptiness of my cell I smirk, the idea providing some humour, even in this dire situation. Unless someone has very peculiar tastes, that is. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cara, think!
My mind still foggy, I try to recall the exact words the kidnappers had said, and stiffen. Could they have found the genetic link between me and my father, as Hunter suggested? But even if that was a possibility, and they knew of the relationship, why would they kidnap me? The man’s dead – and there’s no one who would pay a ransom for me. I shudder, recalling just how much money Benting had conned out of this Arab country. Did they somehow think I was involved with his business? I had nothing to do with his crimes and nothing to do with the man himself!
Putting my head in my hands, running my fingers up and down my cheeks, I realise I have absolutely no idea why I’m here. I must be losing my mind because I only just manage to suppress an impulse to laugh hysterically. Things like this don’t happen to someone like me; I’m a boring accountant, for heaven’s sake!
The sound of a key turning in the lock and voices speaking outside the door in a foreign language interrupt my thoughts and, at first, I perk up – at least they haven’t forgotten me. Then I have to fight off another wave of panic. I’m not ready to come face-to-face with my kidnappers again, or to learn why they’ve brought me here. But I have no choice in the matter; the door clicks open. Pulling the sheet tight around me, as if it will help hide my trepidation as well as my flesh, I stand tall, ready to face whoever enters.
I’m slightly relieved when a woman enters, instead of the men I’d been expecting. She’s wearing a black abaya that covers her down to her feet, and a hijab covering her head. Only her face is visible, but that’s sufficient for me to see that she’s looking around in surprise, her nose wrinkling in disgust. Feeling mortified, I look away. Although I had no choice but to use the only receptacle they left for me, her reaction is humiliating. She turns to beckon a man in and points to the filthy, stinking bucket, and gives him instruction in a foreign language. He picks up the offending item and removes it from the room.
She gives me an assessing look, and then passes me a black robe, similar to her own. “You wear this.” Her accent is thick, and I have a little difficulty understanding her.
Taking advantage of the fact that she does speak at least some English I try to get answers, something to reassure me.
“Where am I? Why am I here?” I’m ashamed that my voice sounds shrill, my nervousness obvious.
For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to tell me anything, but then she tells me succinctly, “This” – she waves her hand around vaguely – “Palace of Amahad.”
I’d figured out it was Amahad, but the palace? I’d assumed this was a prison of some sort. “Why am I here?”
It seems that’s the extent of the information she’s going to give me; she ignores my question, telling me, “Come. Put on robe.” I stare at her. Her face is blank, difficult to read. She’s neither friendly nor unfriendly, just matter-of-fact. Perhaps she knows nothing more.
Is she my gaoler? What does she think of the way I’m imprisoned here? I’m frustrated with the lack of information. I work with data; I need facts to process, and details to try to make sense of why I’m here.
“Who are you?” I try.
“I am Tahirah. I palace maidservant. You wear robe. Come.”
Breathing deeply, I summon up some inner strength, telling myself I don’t want to stay in this bloody cell a moment longer than necessary, and anything has got to be better than this. Swallowing down my fear of the unknown, I turn my back and struggle into the robe, trying hard not to drop the sheet until I’m dressed. Somehow I manage it. Turning back to the maidservant I nod, and then regret it as the action causes a stabbing pain in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You ill?”
“My head hurts.” There doesn’t seem to be any point in hiding it.
“Come. I help.”
This time there’s a touch of sympathy in her voice, so I move to follow her, walking slowly, trying not to jolt my head. Outside the door, a heavily armed guard is waiting. He wears a long white robe and under his belt has a holstered gun together with a long curved sword, a scimitar. As I walk alongside Tahirah, he takes up position behind us and I shiver, his presence curtailing any thoughts of possible escape. Able to do nothing but go with the flow, I walk with my new companions through cold corridors and grasp that they have housed me in what probably was a dungeon. The worn flagstones underfoot show evidence of the thousands of feet that must have passed by here. I follow on past open cells similar to the one where I’d been kept; my not entirely rational mind summons up images of prisoners and torture, and I can almost hear imaginary screams of pain echoing from the walls. I close the gap between myself and the maid, wanting the comfort of human company, whoever it might be. There are too many ghosts here. At last, we come to a flight of stairs and ascend, leaving the cold stone cells and forgotten souls behind as we enter a newer section with white painted walls. More modern features appear. I can see wiring tacked to the walls, although there is still an aura of emptiness and disuse, and our footsteps on the flagstone floors are the only sounds I can hear.
Tahirah stops in front of a door. “Here bathroom.” She enters a large room and indicates a smaller room off it. I peer in; the plumbing looks ancient but serviceable. There’s a large bath with a shower over it. Someone has laid out a selection of bottles containing shampoos and soaps, evidently for my use. The idea of being able to wash the cell’s stink from my hair and body is very attractive.
Tahirah leaves my side but quickly returns, this time carrying a glass of water and two white tablets. I eye them warily, baulking at the thought of being given drugs again. She sees my reluctance.
“Help head.” She holds the foil packet containing the tablets out on her palm, and with her other hand pushes the glass towards me.
I hesitate, but the thumping in my skull has become almost unbearable, and at that moment being drugged again is possibly preferable to the pain. I take the risk and swallow what will prove to be, hopefully, just painkillers, and drink all the water.
“I stay? Help wash?”
Ho
rrified, and despite the pain, I shake my head emphatically. No one is ever going to see me naked! “No, I can shower on my own.”
She studies me and then nods her head. “Clothes on chair.” She waves her hand behind her. “I come soon.” With that comment, she turns to leave and I hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.
What do I do? I still have no answers as to why I’m here, and the only certainty is that I’m in Amahad. How can I escape, and what happens if I do? I’ve no passport. Maybe there’s a British embassy here. But making an attempt to leave has got to be better than staying and awaiting my fate. I try the door, though I’m sure it’s bolted. It is. I move quickly to the window, but that’s locked as well, so I satisfy my curiosity with looking out, trying to get my bearings. The view doesn’t tell me much, being only that of a walled courtyard, beyond which there is sand. Miles and miles of sand. My shoulders fall. Even if I got out of the palace, I would have no idea where to go. Disheartened, I resign myself to the fact that I’ve no choice but to let things play out as they will. I decide to shower and dress, knowing I’ll feel better for it. Whatever lies in store for me, I’d prefer not to face it with dried vomit stuck in my hair.
I shower, dry myself, and then move to inspect the clothes left out for me. There’s a pair of silk trousers and a tunic, both in jade, with intricate embroidery around the edges. Silk underwear, the likes of which I’d never considered wearing before, and which would probably cost more than I earn in a week, has also been laid out. The clothing looks strange; pretty and delicate, but made for someone much slimmer than me. They apparently didn’t know who they were expecting. Reaching out my hand, I wistfully caress the beautiful-looking fabric. What would it be like to get away with wearing something so exquisite? A very far cry from the masculine business suits I usually wear when out, or the loose-fitting sweatpants I lounge around in at home.
I laugh softly, mocking myself. I can’t wear that. It’s not my size. Or style. But what alternative have I got but to try it on? The black abaya is stifling and oppressive, and I don’t want to wear that all day. It couldn’t hurt to try these garments on. With that thought, I put on the underwear. Hmm, it fits. That’s strange. Must be some kind of one-size-fits-all. Then I slip the tunic over my head and decide the material must be stretchy, or have hidden pleats, because it doesn’t feel tight; in fact, it seems as though it’s been tailored especially for me and is, I have to admit, extremely comfortable. The trousers too. The silk whispers around my body as I move; its touch caresses my skin. The costume screamed quality and elegance and probably would have looked wonderful on the right person. But it’s light and cooler than the abaya, so I keep it on, even though it makes me feel like mutton dressed as lamb. I shudder to think what I look like.
Forgetting for the moment the mystery of the fit of the clothing, and resolutely ignoring the mirror in the corner of the room, I turn to discover that a trolley, laden with breakfast food, must have been delivered while I was showering. I can’t believe I’ll be able to force down any food, but I wander over to see what delicacies are available. As I lift the covers off the tureens, my stomach seems to be at odds with my brain and growls loudly at the smells emanating from the spread in front of me, a sweet mouth-watering aroma – as if the offerings had come direct from a bakery. I make myself take a croissant and a little pastry which is stuffed with feta cheese, as well as pouring a glass of fresh orange juice. As the flavours hit my taste buds, I appreciate the freshness and buttery flavour of the flaky pastry and I find myself taking a second cheese delicacy. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days. Once full, I sit back in the chair, realising I feel more settled with something in my stomach, and my headache has completely gone.
I finish my breakfast just in time to hear the door opening again. Tahirah is back. She looks at me carefully, and I flinch under her scrutiny. Then she smiles, the first I’ve seen from her.
“Lovely, miss.” She nods at me in appreciation, and then recoils at the glare I can’t prevent. She looks puzzled, and then it’s back to business. “Come now. Meet princes.”
I start. Princes? Oh damn! A meeting with the princes? That is serious business! I’d looked into the country when I was offered the work contract, so I know the princes are the government of Amahad. It sounds like I’ve upset people at a very high level. This is not good. As I rise, I can feel myself start shaking again. It crosses my mind that no one, absolutely no one, knows I’m here.
Opening the door, Tahirah gestures for me to follow her. I hang back. Meeting people is always difficult for me. My heart is racing and I’m panting. The breakfast in my stomach is threatening to make a reappearance, and my vision blurs. As I recognise the symptoms of the panic attacks which plague me when faced with new situations, I make a concerted effort to take deep breaths to stave it off, needing to be in control, not a quivering wreck. I lean against the wall for a moment. Tahirah turns but waits for me, noticing my plight, but I wave her on, showing I’m getting myself back together. Gradually, the blood returns to my head and I no longer feel quite so sick and faint. But while my body calms, my mind remains in shock. Princes? If they’ve discovered I’m a hacker, I’d expect them to take me in front of a police officer, or whatever the equivalent is here. But to be summoned by the highest authority in the country? Well, I suppose the emir has the ultimate power, but his sons rate pretty high. Frighteningly high!
Continuing to concentrate on taking air into my lungs, I inhale deep breaths and take my first step outside the room, noting the unsmiling guard again standing outside, looking steadfastly ahead. As Tahirah turns and beckons me forward, telling me only, “Come,” the guard once more falls into step behind us. My steps falter.
“Come,” Tahirah instructs again, this time sounding impatient.
Berating myself for my stupidity in exploiting my access to the Amahadian finance systems, I force my feet to move, putting one foot in front of the other. Hacking, to me, is like a drug. I know that. As my dear friend Hunter so accurately pointed out, just because I can do something doesn’t mean I should.
Although mainly concentrating on getting myself under control, I can’t fail to notice my surroundings as the maid leads me through the hallways that seem to go on for miles, or so it seems in my weakened state. The further we go, the more it starts to look like a palace; heavily ornamented walls and ceilings with plaster carvings covered in gold paint appear. Never in my life have I seen anything as stunningly decadent. Marble staircases lead to the lower floors and the ceilings grow loftier. As the opulence of my surroundings increases my concern intensifies. What have I got myself into? Who exactly am I dealing with here? My stomach churns. If the plan is to overwhelm me, they’ve succeeded. This building I’m walking through is the Palace of Amahad.
But why the elaborate plan to kidnap me? Why didn’t they just hand me over to the police in England? That would certainly have been my preference. The English legal system I can understand, but here? I doubt I’ll like Amahadian methods of retribution; waking up in that cell was bad enough. A cold shiver runs down my spine as I remember the emir – Sheikh Rushdi – is an absolute monarch. Now I’m in Amahad, I’m completely under his power.
Chapter 4
Nijad
Pulling back sharply on the reins I bring my Arab stallion, Amal, to a skidding halt, sending clouds of dust up from his heels. Sheikh Rais, the leader of the largest of the desert tribes, draws his mount up beside me. We look down at the ground as if seeing the southernmost border of Amahad marked by a line in the sand. If only it were a visible line it would make patrolling the border easy, but the shifting sands would obliterate any physical boundary within minutes. The border can be found only by geographical coordinates, or the innate knowledge of descendants of those who had lived in the desert for generations. Both Rais and I, friends since childhood, having spent many of our formative years roaming the sands, can sense the exact location of the border, and this morning we’d ridden a portion of the central part. Loo
king one way and then the other, I speak once our warriors have caught up.
“We wasted our damn time today.” I’m as disappointed as I sound.
Rais narrows his eyes and, with his left hand, shields them from the harsh sun. We are all armed with semi-automatic rifles and have long scimitars in our belts. The swords are not ornamental. “We had reports of sightings in the area yesterday.”
“My gut tells me the jihadists are planning something.” I’m worried. “The rumours suggest there’s something building. Did the prisoner say anything?” I add, referring to the man we captured hiding in one of the border villages a couple of days ago. He was holding a family at gunpoint but, in a well-practiced manoeuvre, we managed to extricate both him and the tribespeople alive. Well, in his case, alive enough to remain of use to us.
“Muzaffar is still softening him up. I’ll take over when I return.” Rais sounds like he’s relishing the prospect. I grimace and turn my face away. Interrogation is a necessary evil but, to be honest, I haven’t the stomach for some of the methods I know the Haimi tribe use. I prefer to see a man die quickly if there’s a need to kill him, not to see a man tortured to within an inch of his life. There’s only one outcome for the prisoner; the only question is how long it will take. “He’ll talk,” Rais continues confidently.
I incline my head in agreement. I’ve seen Muzaffar’s work before and even thinking about it makes me shudder. But the civilised world seems a long way from the hostile environment of the desert. Here, I just accept the importance of intelligence-gathering in keeping on top of what our enemy is doing. I just don’t like how we go about it. Since the war with Ezirad ended some years ago it’s not even another country that’s threatening us, but the extremists who want their interpretation of the Muslim religion imposed across the globe – or, in my opinion, just want an excuse for violence. Amahad is liberal compared to some of our neighbours. My job is to coordinate the effort to stop radicals invading our country so we can keep it that way. And protecting the southern border is key to that aim. Unfortunately, Ezirad remains a weak country and is unable, or perhaps unwilling, to block jihadists from using their lands as a springboard to invade the more tolerant northern states.
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 7
