Panther's Prey

by Doreen Owens Malek

  He puffed away contentedly, gazing around his luxuriously appointed living room with satisfaction. One of his finest silk rugs was the centerpiece of the salon, which was decorated in the cluttered Victorian manner with objets and bibelots Bea had selected over time, culling many of them from his own inventory. His wife was proud of her home, but she still missed her New England roots and she still suffered monstrously from the heat. It was at its worst now in July, and it was one of the few problems James’ wealth could not solve. But all in all, James was content, and he did not expect that the new arrival would disturb his peace or prosperity very much.

  He rested his pipe in its holder and got up to pour himself a snifter of brandy.

  * * *

  Malik dropped the last coin into the pile and said, “Three hundred and forty-three kurush.”

  Anwar grinned.

  “And five rings, three gold bracelets, several watches and an emerald brooch,” Malik added, gesturing to the glittering tangle of jewelry next to the money. “Take it to old Gupta at the bazaar in the morning and see what you can get for the lot. Should be at least two hundred more.”

  Anwar nodded.

  Malik rose and stretched, glancing around the cave, where his men sprawled in various attitudes of relaxation, enjoying a respite after the successful raid. A fire burned in a corner, and several figures crouched around it; despite the searing heat of the day, the desert nights were cold. Malik wondered how long they would be able to remain in this mountain crag, for the Sultan’s janissaries were always looking for their hideout, and they were forced to change locations frequently.

  He looked back at the stolen hoard with satisfaction. That should be enough to buy arms and supplies for another couple of months, as well as outfit the new recruits. The rebel numbers were increasing daily. With each new outrage perpetrated by the Sultan, each new massacre or rout or execution, more volunteers came to join Malik’s band. Some of them were barefoot and in rags, but all had one thought: to depose the Sultan and replace him with a democratically elected ruler. It was their only hope for a better life.

  One of the camp women approached him and held out a jug of raki, the fiery clear liquor which turned white when water was added to it. Malik drank it straight, taking a slug from the bottle, and then handed it back to the woman. Her gaze lingered on his face, but he didn’t look at her, merely went back to his reverie.

  The woman turned away in disappointment.

  Malik raised his head and watched his server walk away, aware of what she was thinking. It seemed cruel to treat her so brusquely, but he knew that the slightest encouragement would have her trailing after him like a puppy, and he had no time for such entanglements. He was planning a raid on the next train likely to be loaded with Western gold, but in a different spot to thwart the escort the Sultan had ordered.

  Malik had read about it in the Constantinople paper, which faithfully described each rebel raid as if documenting the exploits of a foreign army. Unlike many in his band Malik could read, thanks to the education his brother Osman had provided. Before Osman Bey ran off to Cyprus with the Sultan’s daughter, Princess Roxalena, he had been the Captain of the Sultan’s Halberdiers. This privileged0 position had allowed him to pay for a British tutor for his siblings at home and a maid for his mother. Malik took great satisfaction in knowing that the largesse the Sultan had provided through Osman was now enabling his younger brother to fight that tyrant more effectively. And now that Osman was established on Cyprus, thanks in part to the jewelry Roxalena had smuggled out of the Sultan’s palace when she left, he often sent contributions to Malik’s cause.

  Osman’s hatred for his former boss was no less than his brother’s.

  Malik retrieved a folded, handmade map from his cloak and spread it on the ground before him.

  He had to organize the next raid very carefully, because both the rail company and the Sultan’s men were now on the alert.

  He smiled. They didn’t know he was planning to expand his operation to include the passenger coaches that ran from Bursa and Constantinople to the outlying districts, to Pera and Meerluz and beyond, carrying well heeled travelers from the cities to their destinations elsewhere in the Empire.

  He was smarter than all of them.

  * * *

  Amy shot forward on her seat as the coach hit a rut. She clutched at her straw hat and glanced across the way at Mrs. Spaulding, who seemed unperturbed by the bumpy ride. The glories of Paris had faded fast in the haze and heat of the dusty train trip, and now Aunt Bea’s husband had failed to meet them at the Constantinople station. He had sent a message instead, saying that they should take this coach to the suburban district where the Woolcotts lived.

  Amy and her companion were sharing the short jaunt with four other travelers. There were two businessmen in vested suits, named Ames and Harington, and two spinster sisters in their fifties who sat staring straight ahead with delicate lace handkerchiefs pressed to their noses. Amy couldn’t imagine what the Misses Ransome were doing in Turkey and didn’t care; her whalebone corset was pinching her mercilessly and her lightweight silk traveling costume seemed to weigh fifty pounds. The bolero jacket with its leg-of-mutton sleeves was suffocating. The sun beat down mercilessly on the canvas top of the coach and the unpaved road they were traveling had more holes in it than a tinker’s stockings. Amy felt as if she had been traveling forever and would never, ever reach her destination.

  She glanced out the isinglass window at the sandy desert spreading before them, dotted occasionally with patches of dry grass.

  The Woolcotts’ settlement was supposedly just beyond the next bend in the road, but it might as well have been on the moon as far as Amy was concerned. If the wheels beneath her jammed into one more gully she was going to scream.

  Suddenly she saw two riders approaching from the open plain at a gallop. She stared at them curiously, aware from her reading that there was nothing out there except scrub and rocks. Her idle interest changed to alarm when the driver above them suddenly reined in the coach horses, and both arriving riders vaulted off their animals while they were still moving.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Spaulding said as they jolted to a rough stop, looking around at the others in consternation.

  “There are two masked men out there,” Amy began in a frightened voice, her reply ending in a gasp as the taller of the two arrivals pulled a pistol from his waistband.

  “Oh my God,” she said, her eyes widening.

  “What?” one of the sisters said, going paler than she already was. “What is it?”

  “I think we’re being robbed,” Amy whispered.

  The second sister screamed, just as the coach door was yanked open on Amy’s side and the travelers were confronted by the two armed men.

  The taller one locked eyes with Amy and said curtly in English, “Out.”

  Amy glanced at Mrs. Spaulding, who looked like she was going to faint.

  “Get out,” the man said again, and Amy had no choice but to obey, moving to the door and then glancing uncertainly at the ground, which seemed very far away. The portable steps used by the coachman were still stored up on top with the luggage.

  The bandit stepped forward and reached up swiftly to lift her down to the ground. Amy had a quick impression of supple strength before she landed on the packed dirt and yanked herself away, dusting her skirt with her hands.

  “Now the rest of you, out,” the bandit said, gesturing with his pistol for the remaining passengers to disembark. They did so, slowly, too terrified to object, as the second bandit hovered silently nearby. Amy looked back at the first bandit, whose gaze was fixed on her face. She stared back, mesmerized by the huge dark eyes, the glossy black curls tumbling over the smooth brow, the arched bridge of the nose partially concealed by his mask. He’s young, she thought irrelevantly, and then gulped aloud as Mr. Ames lunged for him, grabbing for the robber’s pistol hand.

  What happened next took place so fast that Amy hardly had time to
register the scene before it ended. The bandit danced out of reach easily and then whirled instantly to crack his pistol over the back of the traveler’s head. Ames dropped to the ground bonelessly and the bandit looked up at the rest of the passengers, asking soundlessly if anyone else cared to try. They all stared back at him in horror, and after waiting a few beats he said, “Give me all of your valuables. Now.”

  Amy stripped off her rings and bracelet, tossing them into the scarf the highwaymen had provided. She looked up while removing her garnet earbobs and saw that the coachman was gagged and tied to his seat above the cab; she hadn’t even seen the second bandit at work. She glanced away quickly.

  The first bandit waited until the pile of money and jewelry at his feet was complete and then said, “Back inside. Now.”

  The passengers scrambled to obey, happy that it seemed like they would survive. The second bandit assisted the women into their seats, then hoisted the unconscious businessman to his shoulder and dumped him on the floor on the coach. As Amy moved to take Mr. Harington’s extended hand the taller bandit said in his clipped English, “Not you.”

  Amy’s heart sank and glanced desperately at Mrs. Spaulding, who rose to her feet once more.

  “What do you mean?” that good lady demanded. “You have what you wanted, let her go.”

  “She comes with me,” the bandit said shortly, urging Amy toward his waiting horse.

  “I must protest,” Harington said. “This is an outrage...”

  The tall bandit raised his pistol over his head and fired it. The travelers shrank back, stunned into silence. Then Mrs. Spaulding started to cry.

  “The next one is for her if there’s any more trouble,” the bandit said shortly, then stuffed his pistol into his belt as the second robber continued to cover him. The first one put his hands on either side of Amy’s waist and lifted her onto his horse. He then vaulted into place behind her and kicked the horse’s flanks.

  Amy waited until she sensed that he was distracted with controlling the animal and then flailed her arms, striking him in the face and trying to jump off the accelerating horse. The bandit seized her about the waist with an arm that felt like an iron band and said into her ear, “Try that again and you will be very sorry.”

  Amy subsided in despair as the ground sped by beneath the horse’s hooves, the sound of Mrs. Spaulding’s hysterical sobs ringing in her ears.

  * * *

  “Hold the smelling salts steady, Listak, the fumes will wake her up,” James said to the servant, who wafted the bottle under Beatrice’s nostrils. The older woman coughed and stirred, wrinkling her nose.

  “Thank you, Listak, you may go,” James said.

  The servant padded silently from the room as Beatrice struggled into a sitting position, memory flooding back as she eyed her husband, then the sobbing woman who sat slumped in an armchair. Mrs. Spaulding’s face was crumpled with misery and her red rimmed eyes were wet and swollen.

  “Tell me it was a bad dream,” Bea whispered to James, who was hovering over her, his expression concerned. “Tell me the man from the embassy was not just here, tell me that Amy has not been kidnapped.”

  “It was not a dream. Amy has been kidnapped.”

  Beatrice moaned and closed her eyes. “Oh, why do we remain in this cursed country where a Western woman is not safe? First Sarah, now Amy, it’s like a recurring nightmare.”

  Mrs. Spaulding broke into fresh cries and bowed her head dramatically.

  “You can’t compare what happened to Sarah with this incident. Sarah volunteered to stay in Sultan Hammid’s harem to teach the Princess Roxalena English, then was sold to Kalid Shah under Ottoman law. Amy was kidnapped by highwaymen.”

  “What’s the difference?” Beatrice cried. “They were both treated as chattels by these Turkish infidels. Why can’t we return to Boston where it is safe to walk the streets?”

  “We can’t return to Boston because my business is here,” James replied patiently. “And bad things happen in America too, Bea, the war between the states was evidence of that.”

  Bea looked across the room at Mrs. Spaulding. “Don’t give me a history lecture now, James, I will not be able to bear it. And where the devil is Listak? She should show Mrs. Spaulding upstairs so that she can rest.”

  “I’m all right,” Mrs. Spaulding said in a small voice. Then, pressing her hand to her mouth, “I feel so responsible.”

  “Nonsense,” James said briskly. “There was nothing you could have done under the circumstances, getting yourself killed would not have prevented what happened.” He strode to the door and summoned the servant, then helped Mrs. Spaulding to her feet and led her to the hall, as the distraught woman leaned heavily on his arm.

  “Go upstairs with Listak and lie down in the guest room. I have summoned Dr. Hilway, perhaps he will be able to prescribe some laudanum for you so that you can sleep. If we hear any news I promise I will come up and tell you.”

  Mrs. Spaulding nodded unhappily, then walked toward the stairwell with the servant. James waited until she had climbed the stairs and disappeared along the gallery before he went in to his wife.

  “An official protest will be lodged with the embassy today,” James said to her.

  Bea shot him a furious glance. “Official protest, my eye. What good will that do? It’s obvious the Sultan can’t subdue these rebels or they wouldn’t be terrorizing every traveler in the country! This is all your fault, James, if you had gone back to the States to get Amelia none of this would have happened.”

  “I couldn’t leave the business that long, Bea, it doesn’t run itself.”

  “At the very least you should have met the train instead of asking two women to take the coach alone.”

  James sat next to her on the divan and patted her hand consolingly. “Don’t be silly, Bea, these bandits are everywhere. Amelia could have been seized at any time, and my presence would not necessarily have made a difference. There were two men in the coach with her, remember.”

  “That’s just my point, it isn’t safe for any of us to be here!” Beatrice replied, her thin face pinched with worry. “And why did we have to move out of the city? We used to live within walking distance of the station. Being so far away makes us easy prey for these hoodlums.”

  “You wanted to move, Bea, to escape the heat,” James replied wearily. “Don’t you remember?”

  Beatrice made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind that, can’t you exert some pressure through your business connections to get Amy back?”

  “Not until we know who did it.”

  Beatrice threw up her hands in exasperation. “Everyone knows who is responsible for these raids, it’s that wild brother of Osman Bey’s, the one who thinks he’s going to depose the Sultan.”

  “We can’t prove that.”

  “You don’t need proof. Even the papers say that he’s financing his anti-government activities by robbing Western travelers and selling kidnapped women into slavery. And that’s the fate in store for my brother’s girl unless you do something about it!”

  “If he’s Osman’s brother he must be a decent sort,” James said mildly. “I don’t think he will hurt Amy.”

  “I’m sure he won’t, she’s much too valuable a commodity to damage. She’ll be worth more in good condition, don’t you think?” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Calm down, Bea.”

  “You’re calm enough for both of us. It strikes me that you were a lot more upset when Sarah disappeared. Is that because she’s your cousin and Amy is related to me?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Bea, I know very well that there is great cause for concern. But both of us getting into a state is not going to solve this problem. As soon as the embassy opens in the morning I will be there, and I promise you I will do everything in my power to get Amy back.”

  “Have I been talking to myself, James? The embassy isn’t going to help you, didn’t you learn that ten years ago when Sarah was taken? Diplomats can’t affect the be
havior of rebels who don’t care about anything except raising money for their cause.”

  “Then what do you suggest, Bea?” James asked in a tired voice.

  “Call in the only person who might have a chance of negotiating with them.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Kalid Shah.”

  Chapter 2

  “Mother, why is the Sultan of the United States called the President?” Tariq asked, looking up from his book. His wide dark eyes, so like his father’s, were lively with interest.

  “There is no Sultan in the United States, Tariq, the President is chosen by the people, who vote for him. The office of head of state is elected, not inherited,” Sarah answered.

  “So there is no crown prince, like me?”

  “No.”

  “But then the people don’t know who their President will be until the last minute,” Tariq said, puzzled.

  “That’s true. But they have a chance to change things if they don’t like their present leader, they are not stuck with him until he dies.”

  The boy shook his head. “It’s very different from Turkey, isn’t it?”

  Sarah sighed. “Yes, it is. Now go back to the geography lesson, please, I’ll have a quiz ready when you’re done.”

  The boy groaned but bent his head obediently. Sarah smiled to herself and walked down the aisle of the Orchid Palace schoolroom, built for her by her husband. She was now teaching about twenty students, three of them her own children, the rest a continuously changing group of palace tots whose parents took advantage of the free education. She stopped next to the desk of her daughter, Princess Yasmin, who was laboriously copying out a list of English words, which were lined up next to each other like little soldiers. She had inherited Sarah’s mania for neatness, as well as her fair coloring and independent nature. At the back of the room Sarah’s servant Memtaz played with Prince Nessim, 4, who was too young for school but liked to play “letters”, calling out the names of English and Arabic characters with similar enthusiasm.