My imagination runs away with me to such an extent that one evening, when Asif comes to take me to the small house which has fast become home, I send him away, deciding instead to spend the night in the harem, excited to have a real chance to soak up the ambience and try to get some more ideas on how to replicate the atmosphere of bygone years in the restoration. Spending the dark hours alone here seems an exotic adventure. And it’s perfectly safe. No males would enter under the threat of death. Or castration. Nope, I can’t think there are many men who would risk that particular punishment!
One cubicle remains furnished, and I know the reason has something to do with Cara, but she still hasn’t explained fully why. She’s told me it was the place where she and Sheikh Nijad spent their wedding night, but there seems to be more of a story to it than just that. But in any event, it’s in this fabulous bed, surrounded by ornate hangings, where I am going to lay my head tonight. It does feel a bit awkward bedding down where a marriage was consummated, but I dismiss those thoughts quickly as there’s no other option, and it can’t be unlike staying in any hotel room where goodness knows what might have gone on.
As the skies darken and night falls I use the facilities in the one working bathroom, strip off to just my underwear, and lie on the bed. Although there are covers I deign not to use them, the night is warm, and I have no desire to snuggle under a sheet for the sake of it. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the tropical smelling air, soaking up the romance and imagining how I could enhance the sensuality for the future guests by the use of evocative scents I could bring out with the right planting arrangements in the garden. Roses and lavender would have to be thought about carefully given the dry climate, but flowering plants such as bougainvillea, oleander, hibiscus, and jasmine would probably flourish, their perfumes filling the harem building when the large garden doors were open.
A fountain, with water playing, would form the focal point in the centre of the area. The original has fallen to pieces beyond repair, so I think about commissioning a new one, perhaps with lions’ heads as the water spouts, or maybe I need to find out what’s the national animal here. Money, in Amahad, seems to be no object. Lying still, I imagine the perfume of flowers and the sound of water from the fountains filling my senses. Lost in my thoughts my eyes close. I start to drift off, my reason starting to get jumbled and soon make no sense at all.
Chapter 17
Kadar
A venue for hen parties? Whatever fucking next? As I sit at my desk reading the proposal put together by my sister-in-law, I’m not quite sure whether to laugh or cry. Is this a joke, or is she serious? I wonder. Considering her pitch, I idly tap my pen rhythmically against the cracked leather inlay of the old-fashioned piece of furniture which was my father’s, and his father’s before that. A cumbersome workspace for the modern world, but one which I can’t dispose of or bring myself to replace, possibly because my subconscious thinks it might still hold some of their wisdom from the decades, or even centuries, of use. One thing for sure, I could feel the old emir turning in his grave at the thought of the harem being filled with screaming drunk women. Or then again, perhaps he wouldn’t. Although he kept it in his pants while in his home country, I’d heard rumours that he was a horny old devil when abroad. But I don’t want to dwell on that; he was my father after all.
East meets West. Instead of dismissing the idea out of hand, I begin to think seriously about it. Cara’s proposal is well written and deserves proper consideration. She’s tempting me with the well-known fact I want Amahad to be seen as a progressive, forward nation, and attracting foreign visitors here is one of my topmost aims. The tapping of my pen speeds up as I make a quick decision. I press the button, adding my electronic signature to approve Cara’s request, and allow myself a grin. I can see how she thinks it would work.
Bringing tourists to Amahad. But therein lies a major problem. They won’t fucking want to come if there’s even a hint of any unrest in the country. My vision to make Amahad one of the most progressive of the Arab states is not looking too achievable at the moment. Still, we must plan for the future, and be confident the unrest will be contained—hopefully by the time the renovations to the harem are completed. The loud beep of the intercom interrupts my thoughts.
“Sheikh Nijad is here, Your Excellency.”
“Thank you, Richard. Send him in.”
I stand up to welcome my brother, noticing the drawn look on his face immediately. He seems tired, and his robes are dusty with sand. Apparently, he’s come straight here from Z̧almā, without stopping to change. Whatever it is must be important.
“Ni, sit. Refreshment?” I’m concerned about him. While I sit safely behind my desk to find a resolution for our issues, he’s exposed on the front line, and the situation seems to be getting more dangerous by the day.
He grins as if it’s the most welcome question anyone’s asked him for a while and nods, “Could murder a beer.”
I open the fridge behind my desk—an addition since my father’s times—and extract two bottles. My two brothers and I had picked up certain habits in the West which we continue, discreetly, in our homeland. Using the bottle opener, I snap off the tops and pass one to him. He takes a long drink, apparently thirsty. I wait for him to finish and take a breath before I start to interrogate him.
“What’s the latest?”
“We’ve got a fucking problem.”
I arch my eyebrow; I would have thought we had more than one, but curb my impatience as to which is currently causing the most worry as he takes another gulp of beer, and wait for him to enlighten me.
“Abdul-Muhsi.”
I breathe out a long sigh, resting my head down into my hands, drawing my fingers up and over my headdress and grimace. “What’s he done now?” I dread hearing the latest about the man who’s a constant thorn in my side.
“Disappeared.”
“What?” For a second I wonder whether that could be good news.
Nijad quickly disillusions me, “He’s up to something. Just don’t know what yet. I’ve got Rais looking for him, but we think he’s crossed the border and not just for a short visit.” He slams his bottle down in disgust. I know his hatred for the rogue Sheikh is even greater than mine; at one time Muhsi had been very vocal in calling for Cara’s execution.
Narrowing my eyes, I ask for the confirmation I don’t want to hear. “Into Ezirad?”
Nijad nods, and I frown. Ezirad is not friendly to us. Being an underdeveloped country with poor leadership, they are responsible for the route via which jihadists enter into Amahad. Although I still believe Abdul-Muhsi’s influence over the rest of the desert is weak, if he’s teaming up with external forces we may have serious trouble ahead. Which, reading between the lines seems to be what Nijad appears to be suggesting. Following the Arab Spring, Syria, and the terror of ISIS no country is safe. Forewarned though is forearmed, and with our neighbour and ally, Alair, we’re fighting the constant battle to keep the terrorists out. Abdul-Muhsi on the loose is not what I wanted to hear.
“Is it affecting the new oil field development?”
Nijad shakes his head. “Not at present. We’re still in the stages of drawing up a production and development plan with the operator. Jasim’s working with his counterpart from Alair. I understand plans for the pipeline are well underway, though.”
Having discovered billions of barrels of oil under the sands of the Southern Desert not only do we need to extract it, but we also need to transport it to the coast for distribution. It’s one hell of a project, which Jasim is directing, liaising with the major oil companies from his base in London. The oil field is mostly in Amahad with a good portion in Alair, but a small section is in Ezirad. The knowledge of the latter is a fact we’re withholding at present.
“I can see problems, Ni. When we start laying the pipeline and constructing the wells, we’ll need to guard all the workers, as well as the structures themselves. They’ll be visible targets, and I don’t want them to be easy ones
.”
“Hunter Wright is down there keeping an eye on what’s going on. Carter will assign more men from Grade A if we need them.”
“Cara’s hugging friend?” I bark a laugh, referring to Hunter and the intimacy with which he treats my sister-in-law.
Nijad grimaces, making me chuckle knowing he has to bite his tongue whenever the two old friends meet. Being possessive, my brother doesn’t like anyone but family to get that close to his wife. Then my own eyes narrow, “Aiza said she had plans to visit. I knew there had to be something behind it. Well, she’ll stay in the fucking palace, and he remains in the desert.” I tell him, as the reason for my sister’s sudden desire to return home falls into place.
“You noticed how they got on at my wedding, then?”
“I’m not blind, Nijad.” I’m not at all happy, “She’s too young to be interested in any man.”
Nijad chuckles, “She’s twenty-one, Kadar, I don’t think she’d agree with that assumption.” Then he frowns, “But even I don’t like the thought of our little sister with the likes of Hunter. He’s far too worldly for her.”
For a moment I wonder just how much we do know of our little sister, and what she gets up to unchaperoned abroad. But that’s a problem for another day. “Anyway,” I return to the original subject, “Aiza won’t be going anywhere near the desert,” I reiterate, “It will be enough for us to ensure the protection of the foreign workers.”
“I agree.” Like me, Nijad’s returned to the business at hand, “In this, most of the tribes are behind us and united. Once the oil fields are up and running, they stand to gain tremendous benefit—a return on the investment they initially made. That should apply to the Qaiquw tribe as well, so there’s no reason for them to upset the apple cart. But Abdul-Muhsi is after more.”
“My throne,” I say, drily. Is this the start of an outright challenge, the coup I’ve been dreading? How many others he can raise behind him? And even if he’s little support amongst the other tribes, if he’s crossed over the border into Ezirad he might be returning with an army to convince people by force.
Nijad and I spend some time mulling over the situation, but the overriding issue is to locate Abdul-Muhsi and to find out what the hell he’s up to. There’s not a lot of advice I can offer my brother as he’s already got the same plans in place that I would have suggested.
After we’ve talked it to death and we realise we’re going round in circles, Nijad takes his leave to go and visit with his very pregnant wife. He’ll be going back to the Desert City in the morning; his work is too important, taking precedence even over family. An insurrection is the last thing we need.
Left alone I realise how I’m lucky to have him by my side. Briefly, I muse that four years ago I’d never have believed he’d come back from his playboy lifestyle and make his home in his native country, let alone become such a valuable right-hand man to the emir.
Returning to my paperwork, I catch up with the backlog that has built up during the day. Most of my time is taken up with people calling or visiting, assuming I’ll always have the solution to their problems as though I’m some divine being rather than just a man. Alongside the interruptions, there are also numerous emails to answer and, before I met with Nijad, a late meeting with Sadiq, our new Minister of Finance, also helped to set me behind. So it’s close to midnight before I’m finally able to put down the documents and close my laptop, at last, feeling I’ve done enough and my conscience allows me to leave for the night. Just a typical day in the life of an emir.
As I stand, stretching my tired muscles, rolling my neck to try to get the knots out, I recall how weary my father would often look. After walking in his shoes for four months, I’m coming to understand him a little more. Everyone wants a piece of you; everyone depends on you, and there’s nowhere to hide.
My legs are stiff with sitting for so long. Knowing I won’t be able to switch off and sleep unless I do something, but too tired to hit the gym, I decide I’ll just walk to stretch my legs.
I leave my office, my guards following at a discreet distance, tracking my progress through the palace. I can hear them in radio contact, passing their responsibility along as I walk from one section to the next. Despite the fact I’m in my official residence, security is, and will remain tight, at least until we find out what the insurgents are up to and can make a realistic assessment of the risk.
The palace of Al Qar’ah is vast, and I get sufficient exercise by just treading the ancient corridors, keeping to the interior so I won’t faze my protection by walking in the dark outside. I pace through the modern areas, the seat of government, into the habitable parts, and then come to the more abandoned areas which have become disused over time. I’m deep in thought and not sure or caring where I’m walking to. My feet move automatically, one in front of the other, propelling me along. I might be walking in circles for all I know or care.
I didn’t want this role. Although primed from birth to follow in my father’s footsteps it’s a burden that, in today’s world, is outdated and outmoded. How can one man have responsibility for a whole country? Why should I have the responsibility for the life and death of my subjects? How can anything I do be without question, however ridiculous my decree? The country’s so old fashioned I could proclaim the sky is pink, and anyone who disagreed with me would do so at the risk of losing their head! Every decision rests with me, and that weight I carry means I can have no personal life nor can I be ruled by any emotion other than a love for my country.
I’m expected to procreate in such a way as to produce another clone to be trained from birth to be an absolute monarch. Fuck! Who’d want to be me? Perhaps I should just turn it over to Abdul-Muhsi—at least he wants the job. Then I could leave, go where I want, be who I want. But no, I can’t even fucking think about that. I love my country, my fellow Amahadians. I couldn’t abdicate and leave them with a religious zealot ruling over them. But fuck me, sometimes I wish I could.
Suddenly I look up, recognising my wanderings have brought me to the oldest parts of the palace and the original Sultan’s suite of rooms, uninhabited since my great-grandfather’s time. My subconscious must have driven me here. I had, of course, recently been considering Cara’s proposal so that could have influenced the route I’d taken. Oh well, I’ve come this far; I might as well explore. Pausing, thinking back, I don’t think I’ve been this far into the palace since I was a child playing hide and seek with my brothers.
My interest spiked, I move forward into the suite, now unfurnished and with only flaking gold leaf on the walls giving a remaining hint of its former glory. Sparing just a quick glance into the empty rooms, I head for the door at the end of the hallway, my memory reminding me that behind it is a hidden stairway. Coming up to it I stop and pause, imagining times past. Where it leads is the hub of the magic that Cara wishes to embrace in her plans, but for me, is heritage and custom I’m being asked to despoil. Although, perhaps, it’s well past time to put that part of our history behind us.
I stand for a moment, staring at the discreet entrance, knowing if I enter through the small, inconspicuous door it will take me to the lookout point where in times past the Sultan would sit, looking down on his harem below deciding on which concubine he would call to his bed that night. Having made his choice, he would summon a eunuch to bring his favourite to him.
Lucky him! My destiny is to be tied to just one woman with nothing that passes for choice in the matter. I’ll be selecting my life partner based on little more than looks and breeding.
Damn it! Everything that I am loathes the position I’ve been put in. But to keep the peace I need to prove myself as a stud able to produce sufficient progeny to continue my line. But will selling myself achieve the desired outcome? If I was in a sombre mood before, I’m in an even blacker one now. As I stand in the sultan’s suite, surveying the empty rooms that once were filled with such luxury, I slowly shake my head. I’m expected to live in the past but move Amahad into its future. I’m not
a man, merely a pawn.
A guard hovers behind me. Having lived with the presence of such security all of my life I don’t generally notice that I’m not alone, but tonight I have the need for solitude. It could well have been that desire which has drawn me to the small doorway in the wall. Making a decision I enter, closing the door behind me. Tradition dictates I will not be followed here.
Suddenly it dawns on me that I’ve never actually seen this part of the palace before. Only the Ruler was ever allowed to see his concubines, so up to four months ago the rooms below belonged to my father as emir, except for that short period when he turned them over to Nijad. But now that I’ve inherited the position the harem is mine. Seriously, fucking seriously, I’m going to have to decree the harem deconsecrated, or whatever the right word is, to even allow the workmen to enter to do the renovations. Until then, the only man allowed inside is me. Quickly I decide to take advantage of the one place in the palace where I can be guaranteed the privacy that tonight I seek.
I walk the two steps down to the peephole. Fuck, Cara was right; it’s a shambles down there. Everything is crumbling away. For a moment my conscience gives me a pang of guilt; was this where we incarcerated my sister-in-law for weeks? It’s hardly habitable! Although we had managed to set up one of the rooms, so it was just about able to be lived in, we hadn’t provided much in the way of comfort. I suppose, at that point, thinking her a thief, keeping her in luxury was far from our minds. But even so, what a depressing place; tapestries fading and crumbling, walls threatening to topple over, the central feature, the bathing pool, empty and cracked; dust covering everything. I can’t imagine why Cara’s so enamoured of the place.
Closing my eyes for a second, I imagine how it might have been in its heyday, the women sleeping below, babies crying; children restless in their sleep, all the female members of the family and concubines of the monarch. At least I’m only going to be responsible for the one wife; I suppose I should be grateful for that!
Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Page 20
