King's Ransom

by Diana Palmer

  "I don't have any cousins from Chihuahua!"

  "Now you do. Lucky girl," Lang added.

  Brianna's fists clenched beside her neat gray skirt. She glared hotly at Ahmed's stiff face. "I don't even have male visitors. My reputation would be shot!"

  "A relative can hardly be considered a blight on your reputation," Lang told her.

  "You'll be under constant surveillance, and you'll be safe. More important, so will he."

  "No." She dared Lang to argue.

  He moved closer, looking apologetic. "You have a twelve-year-old brother in a coma," he said quietly. "He's in intensive care in the local hospital and your insurance is about to run out. If the insurance stops, he'll have to be moved, and the specialized treatment he's been getting will also stop."

  Brianna's heart climbed into her throat. "How did you find that out?"

  "I'm a secret agent," Lang said calmly. "No secret is safe from me."

  She drew in a rough breath, aware of Ahmed's curious stare. "What point are you trying to make?"

  "If you help us, we help you. Ahmed's government is prepared to incur the expense of your brother's treatment, hospitalization and eventual rehabilitation if and when necessary."

  It was almost too much to believe. Brianna moved to a chair and sat down heavily. All her worst fears were being brought into the light and vanquished. Tad was all she had left of her family. She adored him. It was like a miracle. Almost. Having to have Ahmed in her apartment was not going to be pleasant.

  "Think about it," Lang advised. "Take a day or so to deliberate. Then we'll get back in touch. But we can't waste much time, you understand. If you refuse, we'll have to take other measures. That will negate our agreement to look after your brother."

  Brianna winced. She couldn't refuse. Her brother's well-being was everything.

  "If he moves in with me," she began, glancing uneasily at Ahmed, whose dark face was totally without expression, "how long will he have to stay?"

  "Until we catch the two escaped assassins," Lang said. "We're pretty sure that they'll come here to Wichita and make a try for him. We'll be waiting if and when they do."

  "What if they don't?"

  "You'll have had the opportunity to learn a lot of Arab customs and your brother's bills will have been paid."

  She lowered her eyes to the floor. She was going to regreat this. Living with a man like Ahmed would be terrible!

  "I'll be back in touch," Lang said when she was silent.

  "I don't need to think about it," she said, raising her eyes. "I can't refuse. You knew it, too."

  "I like to think I've planned well," he said, nodding.

  "I won't be his personal slave," she added shortly, and her eyes shifted to Ahmed.

  His dark eyebrows lifted. "God forbid," he said fervently. "I have very high standards for servants."

  Her eyes narrowed. "And I have high ones for house guests. I won't be imposed upon. You won't interrupt my routine."

  He shrugged. "My requirements are few."

  She didn't know why, but the way he said it made her uneasy. She had a suspicion that behind that tranquil expression, he was already plotting ways to upset her.

  She was right. Ahmed moved in that very day, arriving with a virtual entourage of people carrying furniture, suitcases, trunks and other items.

  Lang was with Ahmed, and two men accompanied him.

  "This is great," Brianna said, glaring at all of them as she stood aside to let them into her apartment. Down the hall, doors had opened and two curious faces peered at the excitement. "Just great. Why didn't you hire one of those lighted signs to put outside the building and announce that you were moving him in here?"

  Lang grinned. "Because we all look like poor working cowboys, don't you think?"

  She stared at them intently. Well, they did rather look like working people.

  None of them was wearing a suit, including Lang, who was dressed in a pair of the most disreputable-looking, faded, tattered jeans she'd ever seen, with boots and a denim shirt. He didn't look like a secret agent at all.

  Lang intercepted that curious look and grinned. "It's the latest thing in spy disguises. In this sleeve is a TV camera," he said, holding out a big, long arm, "and in the other is a miniature guided missile."

  She glared at him. "What amazes me is that you still have a job at all!"

  "Oh, they can't fire me," he said confidently. "I have an aunt in Congress and an uncle in the President's cabinet."

  "I'm impressed," she said.

  "So am I," he assured her. "I tell people about them all the time―especially my bosses in D.C."

  "Why does that not surprise me?" she murmured.

  He chuckled. Ahmed came in behind the rest of the load carriers and looked around disdainfully, with his lean hand palm down on his hips and a disgusted look on his mustachioed face.

  "To think that I should come to this," he muttered haughtily. "By Allah, a tent would suit me better!"

  "Not half as well as a narrow box would," Brianna begun.

  Lung dragged her off to one side. "Now, now," he soothed. "He's just not used to American apartments. You'll have to give him time to adjust. He'll get used to it."

  "I won't," she assured him darkly. "Having to spend even a week with this man is going to require every thread of patience in my entire body!"

  "There will be compensations," Lang promised. "Your brother's medical bills will all be paid, and you have to admit that it would be worth most any sacrifice to have that."

  "It would," she had to agree. "You can't imagine how worried I've been―" She stopped and took a deep breath. Tad's very special to me."

  Is that his name, Tad?"

  "You know it's Timothy Edward," she mused, smiling knowingly at him. There wasn't much that got past Lang. "But I've always called him Tad for short."

  "He's twelve, right?"

  She nodded, averting her eyes. "He was so young when" she paused "―when we lost our parents."

  "Never give up hope," he said quietly. "I've seen miracles. Even the doctors admit that they still happen."

  "I guess so. But after three years, hope dwindles."

  He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly. "You might enjoy having our friend here for a while," he said. "He's not bad company."

  She stared at him without blinking.

  "Give it a chance, anyway," he coaxed. He glanced up at one of the men with him, who'd gone over the place with some sort of electronic equipment. "Anything?" h asked the man.

  His colleague grinned and shook his head. "Clean a ice."

  It was a small electronic instrument. Brianna glanced at Lang's sleeve with real curiosity.

  "I was kidding about the TV camera." He chuckled. "And maybe exaggerating a little about the missile launcher."

  "I saw a movie with one of those fiber-optic camera things," she remarked. "I was impressed."

  "I'll wear one the very next time I come to visit," promised with a wicked grin.

  "What do I call him?" she asked with resignation.

  "Ahmed?" He pulled out a brand-new ID card and driver's license and passport and green card, all of which were intended to grace the pockets of her house guest "Pedro Rivera," he said. "Age thirty-four, native Chihuahua, Mexico, occupation, farm laborer."

  "Is he really going to work on a farm?" she ask hopefully. Her smile was evil.

  "Ahmed?" Lang found that hilarious. "No, he's sort of between jobs, and he's depending on you to support him while he looks for work. He'll look very hard, we'll see to that. Applications in all major local businesses, a so forth."

  "You could get him a job translating," she said. "That would be tricky." "Oh?"

  Her blue eyes were curious. "Why?" "Well, he, uh, doesn't speak any Spanish."

  Her face widened into a gleeful look of triumph. "None? None at all? How interesting! And he's supposed to be a Mexican laborer?"

  "He said Spanish tastes terrible in his mouth and he refuses to learn it," Lang
admitted with a grimace. "He speaks French quite well."

  "Then why not let him pose as a Frenchman?"

  "It would take too long to explain. Trust me," he added. "This will work. It's almost foolproof."

  "Like the Titanic was almost unsinkable."

  "Pessimist," he accused. "Think of the service you're doing your country!"

  "By harboring a Middle Eastern cabinet official? How In the world does that help my country? I'm not Arabic," she added coldly, glaring toward Ahmed, who was still muttering about his inferior surroundings.

  "His country's strategic location makes it of great value to us," Lang explained. "The Middle East is a lighted stick of dynamite right now, with all sorts of factions lighting for control. We depend on oil from that part of the world."

  "We shouldn't," she pointed out.

  "I realize that," he said. "But the fact remains that we depend on foreign oil and we have to have it or our technology goes down the drain. We have to keep a lot of people happy overseas to ensure our continued supply. Ahmed is one of the people we have to keep happy."

  "I thought his country had a king. Why don't we have to worry about keeping him happy?"

  "If we keep Ahmed happy, it will keep him happy," Lang assured her.

  She shrugged. "Okay by me. But for my money," she added, "they could boil him in oil and serve him on a bed of lettuce."

  "What a mind. And you look so sweet," Lang commented dryly.

  "I was sweet, until you and the Valentino clone over there invaded my life!"

  Lang had to bite back laughter. He didn't dare show amusement, especially since Ahmed had overheard her and was joining them, spoiling for trouble.

  "I beg your pardon?" he asked Brianna, and his liquid black eyes made her feel intimidated.

  "I said, I hope you'll be comfortable here," she lied. "I'm going to cook my specialty for supper tonight."

  "Not barbecue, please," Lang said out of the side of his mouth.

  She gave him a speaking look. "Actually, I thought something Spanish might be in order. Chili, for example," she added, smiling at Ahmed, "with jalapeno peppers and refried beans."

  "Ah, spicy fare," Ahmed said, smiling back.

  She hesitated. "You ...like... spicy food?"

  "Indeed," he agreed readily. "I have no taste for bland meat."

  She'd have to remember to cook him some unsalted spaghetti.

  "Are we through?" Lang called to his cohorts.

  "You bet!" One tall man came lumbering up. "Everything's in place―bugs, surveillance equipment, the works."

  "You're going to spy on us?" Brianna choked.

  "They might as well," Ahmed said haughtily, giving her an appraisal that spoke volumes. "Or were you hoping they might have something to look at?"

  She clenched her small fists at her sides and forced thoughts of paid medical bills to the front of her mind.

  "I'd rather eat nails," she assured him.

  "No doubt you could, with a mouth like that," he agreed politely.

  Lang got between them. "He's your adored cousin," he told her. "You love him. You're going to take wonderful care of him because your country wants you to."

  "Then why can't my country live with him?"

  Lang shook his head. "Believe me, I'd like nothing latter," he said with a diplomatic smile in Ahmed's direction. "But I have some leave coming and I thought I'd go down to Texas and visit my brother and his family."

  "Why can't he―" she pointed at Ahmed "―go down there with you? There are plenty more Mexicans in Texas than you're likely to find in Wichita."

  "Oh, I'd hate to deprive you two of the opportunity to get to know each other," he said, tongue-in-cheek. "Think what it will do for international relations. Besides, my plans may change."

  They stared at each other coldly. Lang moved out of the line of fire, motioning to his colleagues.

  "Well, here you are, then," he said. "Nice and comfy, make yourself right at home. I'm sure Brianna will take excellent care of you."

  "Are you?" Ahmed asked. "And what of my bodyguards?"

  "They'll be around. So will our people," Lang said somberly. "Just don't take any unnecessary risks or deliberately make yourself a target. Mostly we'd like you to stay in the apartment while Brianna's at work. If you go out, mention out loud that you're going, and where. We'll have you trailed."

  "This is outrageous," Ahmed said curtly. "I see no reason why my own bodyguard could not..."

  'Because you're on American soil," Lang reminded him. "In this country, we're responsible for the welfare of foreign nationals. So be kind to government workers and let us do our jobs. Okay?"

  Ahmed shrugged. He moved toward the window and stood there, looking out as if he felt too confined already.

  "And don't spend a lot of time in front of the window," Lang pleaded. "You make an excellent target. We can't possibly watch every window in every building in Wichita twenty-four hours a day."

  Ahmed moved back into the room, nodding his consent.

  Lang was the last of the group out the door. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

  "One moment," Ahmed called. "Who is going to unpack for me? I have no servants here."

  Lang hesitated. He glanced at Brianna, who took up a belligerent stance that no one with normal perception, could mistake. "Uh, well, we'll see about that later. Good day."

  "I've been stabbed in the back by my own government," Brianna muttered once he was gone, her blue eyes spitting at her house guest. "Don't expect me to help you push the knife in farther. I am not a servant. I do not unpack for my guests. You have two perfectly good hands. You can unpack for yourself."

  He linked his hands behind him and stared at her. The intensity of the look made her very nervous, and she retreated to the kitchen. "I'll start working on something to eat."

  He lifted the edge of a hand-crocheted doily and examined it. "I prefer shrimp cocktail for an appetizer," he remarked absently. "And with Mexican fare, I should think an aged Bordeaux would suffice."

  She came out of the kitchen and looked at him. "Now listen," she said. "I do not have a wine cellar. I drink an occasional glass of sweet sherry or white wine, but I know nothing about vintages or which color wine goes with which food."

  "A minor impediment," he said with a careless wave of in hind. "You can learn."

  "I have no wish to learn, much less do I want a staggering Arab to put to bed at night," she added, pleased at the shocked lift of his eyebrows. "Furthermore, my budget doesn't run to shrimp cocktail. I make a good salary but after I pay the bills, there isn't a lot left over for fancy food. You'll have to make do with what I can provide.

  He sighed wistfully. "From caviar and Brie to this," he said in a long-suffering tone. "Mon Dieu, how are the mighty fallen."

  She went back into the kitchen, muttering under her breath about how she'd like to fell him herself.

  Chapter Three

  Brianna went to the hospital to see her brother that night, leaving Ahmed complaining about the meager channels she had on her cable TV. He didn't ask where she was going and she didn't volunteer any information.

  She sat by Tad's bedside, as she did most nights, watching the face that was so much like her own. His eyes were closed. But when they had been open, they were a blue as hers. It seemed so long ago now that Tad ha laughed and played like a normal boy his age. She missed his mischievous personality. He'd been such a happy child. Why, oh, why had this to happen?

  Sometimes she felt old when she sat with him. H hadn't wasted too badly. They fed him intravenously, an the nurses turned him and checked his vital signs to make sure he was getting what he needed to support his young life. Once the doctor had talked to her about shutting off the life support, but Brianna couldn't do it. She couldn't give up hope, not after they told her that his brain seemed lo be functioning with some normalcy. She refused to quit. The last thing her mother had said to her, in the wrecked car, bleeding and gasping for air, was, "Don't let Tad die." It had been
an odd thing for her to say, but Brianna hadn't forgotten. Tad was in no pain, and Brianna had hope. She couldn't give up.

  She talked to him. She held his frail hand and told him all about her life, about her job, about what she was doing, She didn't tell him about Ahmed. It was the first secret she'd kept, but it would do him no good to know. She talked about the apartment instead and how she was going to redecorate the guest room for him when he could come home.

  By the time she got home, tired and dispirited, Ahmed was in bed. She went into her bedroom and, on an impulse, locked the door. She was too tired to worry about having a man in her apartment and soon fell asleep.

  When she got home the next afternoon, after a particularly long day, she was totally unprepared for the fierce thudding sounds coming from her bedroom. It sounded as if the whole place were coming down around her ears.

  She got a bigger surprise when she made it to the door and discovered that he was supervising four dark men in business suits, who were putting away his clothes. In the process, they had unearthed half of Brianna's possessions and had deposited them in chairs, on dressers, and in the hall.

  She dropped her purse in the middle of the floor and gasped, "What are you doing?"

  "Making room for my things," he said from his lounging position in her best easy chair. "These quarters are hopelessly inadequate. That closet in the guest room barely holds all my suits. The other things must go in here."

  "This is my room!" she wailed. "You can't move my things out!"

  "I am your tenant," he said comfortably. "You must accommodate me." He stopped and called out something in curt Arabic. The men stopped what they were' doing.

  One spoke for the rest in what sounded like an apology. Ahmed rattled off some more Arabic and made a dismissing sign with his elegant hand. The men went back to work.

  "Tell them to stop," she said. "They can't do this. I have to have clothes to wear to work. I can't wear them all rumpled...!"

  "Your clothes are hardly of any concern to me," Ahmed said, surprised. "It is my own appearance which is of prime importance."

  She counted a long way past ten. It didn't help. "You get those men out of my bedroom!" she shouted. "And you follow them right out the front door!"