Raven's Gate

by Anthony Horowitz

  “What number?” the croupier asked.

  “Five,” Scarlett said.

  The croupier took her chips and slid them into place. At once, there was a rush to the side of the table. A great many of the other players in the room had decided to follow her example. It often happened that way in casinos. One person’s courage would inspire the others. Perhaps she knew something they didn’t. Perhaps she’d been studying the wheel. Number five was red, odd, low. More people crowded in, the chips piling up on those bets. Some of them even followed her, betting on the number itself. Five dollars, fifty dollars, even a hundred dollars. Soon there was a pile of plastic on the square and the croupier was looking very nervous indeed. If Scarlett’s number came up, the entire casino could fall.

  Richard Cole couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It didn’t matter to him very much if Scarlett lost the money. He had no use for it anyway. But she had set herself directly against the sheikh, and by betting with her, his own people had shown they were on her side. They really wanted to see him get a bloody nose.

  “What is going on here? What is going on?” The sheikh hurried forward, pushing people out of the way until he reached the edge of the roulette table. “You do not understand what you are doing, you stupid girl. You do not understand the rules.” He looked around him and saw the sullen faces of the crowd. For once, he was isolated, on his own. “All right!” he exclaimed. “Spin the wheel! In a minute I am going to be very rich!”

  The croupier did as he was told. First he spun the wheel. Then he dropped the ball in, sending it flying in the opposite direction, so fast that it was no more than a blur.

  Richard moved closer to Scarlett. “Are you going to win?” he whispered.

  “I think so,” Scarlett whispered back.

  But was she? The ball was already slowing down. She could see it rolling over the numbers. Seven, twenty, thirty-two, seventeen … and there it was. The number she had chosen. The ball was moving too fast. It couldn’t possibly slow down enough to fall into place on the next revolution.

  The crowd was getting uneasy. Those who had backed Scarlett, particularly with the larger bets, were already wishing they had been less hasty. It wasn’t only the money that they might lose; they had also taken on Sheikh Rasheed and he wouldn’t forget it. There were stories of torture chambers deep underneath the royal palace. It was well known that if you offended the sheikh on one day, you might well disappear before the next.

  The ball was dipping in and out now. It hit one of the pockets and bounced out again with a rattle. Scarlett took a deep breath. The ball had almost fallen into number twenty-seven. It travelled on – past thirteen, one and double zero. Five was coming up again. As if suddenly losing its strength, the ball fell one last time. There was complete silence in the room.

  The ball was being carried round and round. It was in slot number five.

  The croupier was the first to react, looking down at the ball and then up at Scarlett as if she was somehow connected to it by a thread. And once again, Scarlett examined his face: the neat moustache, the round glasses, the gold teeth. She knew him, of course. She had seen him several times in the dreamworld and always he had said the same thing to her. “Five”. Nothing to do with the Gatekeepers, everything to do with the game she would one day play. Scarlett had gambled this evening … but only on her certainty that the dreamworld was there to help her. And she had been proved right.

  Sheikh Rasheed grimaced. His face was a riot of emotions as he was torn between shock, disbelief, the knowledge of how much he had just lost and the need to reassert his authority.

  “What is happening here?” he quavered. His eyeballs were almost bulging out of his head. “How could this be allowed to happen?” He stared down at the scattered piles of plastic chips crowding the number five. Then, without warning, he seized the croupier and punched him hard on the nose. The man was thrown onto the roulette wheel, sending chips flying. “The game is disallowed!” he announced. “The girl is under the age of sixteen. She should not have been permitted to play.” He turned to address the rest of the crowd. “The casino is closed for the evening. You must all go home. The gambling is over!”

  The gamblers didn’t look happy but none of them were foolish enough to complain. The bodyguards were waiting for the first sign of dissent and would have cut them down before they could utter a word. Slowly, they began to move away. The croupier picked himself up. There was blood streaming from his nose. He began to collect the plastic chips.

  Sheikh Rasheed came over to Scarlett. His mood seemed to have changed once again. He was smiling. “You are a very clever young lady!” he exclaimed waggling a finger at her. “I have not seen you here before. What is your name?”

  “I’m Scarlett.”

  “Tell me how you did that. How did you know where the ball was going to fall?”

  “I didn’t,” Scarlett said, tiredly. “I was just lucky.”

  “You came here to win money? To buy supplies?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is no need for that. You will come to my palace for dinner. You and your friend will sit beside me as my guests of honour and we will talk. Come, Jaheda! Let us leave…”

  The sheikh examined her one last time, then turned on his heel and left the room. Scarlett looked at Richard. They both knew that she hadn’t received an invitation. It had been a command.

  They watched as the sheikh disappeared through the doors that had brought him here. His wife – Jaheda – followed him, but at the last moment she turned and looked at Scarlett with an expression of intense hatred.

  Then the doors closed and the two of them had gone.

  TWENTY-NINE

  There were thirty people invited to dinner at the palace that night. Like the casino crowd, they were all dressed in their finest clothes and displayed enough jewellery to fill a treasure chest. Many of them were smoking – cigars and cigarettes – sucking in smoke between mouthfuls of food. They sat on cushions around a low table, with Sheikh Rasheed at the very centre so that none of his guests would miss his jokes or his observations. Scarlett had been placed on his right. Richard was concerned to find himself separated from her, some distance away. And to make matters worse, the sheikh’s wife, Jaheda, had been banished from her usual place and placed next to him.

  The palace was a sprawling mass of white marble and gold fittings, where every door seemed to open onto a room larger than the one before. The building had been put together with one single aim: to prove that the owner was the richest and most important person in Dubai, surrounding him with pillars, arches, ornamental balconies, latticed windows, glittering chandeliers, fountains, pools and fish tanks. And yet at the same time it was a strangely ugly place. It reminded Scarlett of a department store, stuffed with expensive objects that nobody wanted to buy. On the way into dinner she had counted no fewer than seven portraits of Sheikh Rasheed. Even the elaborate mirrors seemed to have been positioned so that they would always reflect him.

  The dining room led to a courtyard and a garden. There might not be enough water in the country to serve the people but there was certainly enough to keep the plants and trees blooming. The air was thick with the smell of flowers. A classical quartet wearing dark suits and bow ties, was sitting outside, playing pop songs and hits from American musicals. And inside, waiters – crowds of them – circulated with food piled high on silver plates. Each guest had half a dozen glasses. Red wine, white wine, champagne and spirits were being served non-stop. It was almost impossible to hear anything. The noise of people talking in English and Arabic, the clatter of plates and glasses, the music – all these had blended together into a general din, broken from time to time by a high-pitched squeal of laughter from the sheikh himself.

  He was piling food into his mouth … but only after everything had been tasted by one of the three bodyguards who stood behind him, taking each dish from the waiters and then passing it on. Very little of the food was fresh but all of it was expensive. They
had started with caviar, great mounds of it. Sheikh Rasheed had scooped the oily black eggs out of the tin with his fingers, laughing in delight as the juices trickled down the palm of his hand.

  “Lick it! Lick it!” He had thrust his hand at the woman sitting opposite and she had done exactly that.

  Scarlett was sickened. She was also hugely relieved that he hadn’t asked her to do the same.

  Then there were traditional meze, a selection of Arabic dishes that included stuffed vine leaves, red cabbage, falafel, cream cheese and pancakes. Scarlett had lost her appetite but she forced herself to eat. It had been more than twelve hours since her last meal and she couldn’t say how long it would be until the next. She glanced at Richard, who was also eating without much enthusiasm.

  Then Sheikh Rasheed leant over her. He had been drinking heavily and he was already very drunk, his eyes rolling, his smile crooked. Despite the air-conditioning, he was sweating alcohol. Scarlett could see it on his skin. There were black caviar eggs on his lips and caught in his beard.

  “So, Miss Scarlett,” he asked. “Where have you come from?”

  “I was in Cairo,” Scarlett replied. It seemed the easiest and the safest answer.

  “Cairo! I hear things are very difficult there. The people are at each other’s throats. I will tell you the mistake they made. Not enough fear! The people of Dubai love me but they are afraid of me. Tomorrow you will see why.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?” Scarlett asked.

  “There is a man, an Australian, who tried to steal from me. His name is Larry Carter.” He spoke the two names slowly, with distaste. “And tomorrow, at midday, I am going to have him executed at the Meydan Grandstand. I am going to have him boiled alive. It is not something I have seen before. I think it will be quite a spectacle.”

  One of the bodyguards handed him a stuffed vine leaf. He had already bitten off one end. The sheikh pushed the rest of it into his mouth.

  “Would you like to come?”

  “I’m not very interested in executions,” Scarlett said.

  “You’ll get used to them in time.” The sheikh chewed and swallowed. He drank some champagne. “You are a very attractive girl, Scarlett.” He leant towards her and took hold of her wrist. Scarlett had to fight not to show her horror and disgust. “I want you to stay with me.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Scarlett said. Everything about this man made her recoil. It was like sitting next to a slug. “Richard and I have to get back to Cairo.”

  “I don’t think you understand me.” Suddenly his eyes were very black, the madness all too obvious. “I do not want you to leave. There is something about you that fascinates me. You come here from nowhere. At the roulette table, you win a great fortune…”

  “I didn’t win anything,” Scarlett reminded him. “You took it away.”

  “Only because you cheated. It seems to me that, somehow, you glimpsed into the future. I will be fascinated to know how you did that, Scarlett. I am looking forward to getting to know you better. I want you at my side.” He tightened his grip. The idea had come to him all at once. “I want you to be my wife!”

  “I thought you were married.”

  “Jaheda bores me.”

  “I’m only fifteen!”

  “In Yemen, in Egypt, in many parts of the Gulf, girls get married as young as ten!”

  Scarlett jerked her hand free. “It’s very kind of you,” she said and there was nothing but scorn in her voice. “But I’m not interested.”

  Rasheed’s face darkened. He stared at her, his black eyes burning into her. Suddenly his lips were very close to her ear so that only she could hear. “This is my kingdom,” he said. “Everything that I want, I take. Nobody argues with me. I have made my mind up about you, Scarlett, and if you try to leave here, I will have you locked up and your friend – the man who came with you – beheaded. Do you understand? You should not have come here if you were not prepared to stay. And I, only I, will be the one who will tell you when you can leave.”

  He picked up his glass and thrust it out, demanding to have it refilled. A waiter hurried forward but in his haste he spilled some of the champagne. The yellow liquid splashed down. Some of it splattered onto Rasheed’s sleeve. His reaction was so instant, so fast, that Scarlett thought of a snake lashing out from behind a rock. The sheikh cried out. He brought the wine glass down and smashed it against the table, then sliced it through the air. The waiter cried out as the jagged edge missed him by inches. “You fool!” the sheikh screamed. “You idiot! You’re fired. Get out of here!”

  There was a sudden silence in the room, apart from the quartet outside who were halfway through “The Sound of Music”. Scarlett sat there, rooted to the spot. Across the table, Richard was about to get up to go to her, but suddenly he felt a hand grab hold of him, pinning him down. It was Jaheda. “Do not give him an excuse to kill you,” she said.

  The sheikh seemed to realize what he had done. He suddenly laughed and clapped his hands. “Time for pudding!” he crowed. “And more champagne.”

  The guests cheered and applauded. The meal went on.

  Richard looked more closely at Jaheda, wondering why she had changed her mind and suddenly decided to help him. The two of them had barely spoken throughout the meal and he remembered how angry she had appeared as they left the casino.

  “What does he want with her?” Richard asked.

  “What do you think he wants with her?” Jaheda was angry again. “If you care for her, why did you even bring her here?”

  Richard’s first instinct was to lie. He knew nothing about this woman. He didn’t know if he could trust her. But at the same time, he wondered if she might be able to help them. She seemed to have an agenda of her own. “We came here to get the pilot,” he said. “That’s all we want. We need him to fly us out of here.”

  “That is not possible. He is in prison. He is being executed tomorrow.”

  “Can you talk to him?”

  “To Rasheed?” She shook her head and when she spoke again, she didn’t attempt to conceal the bitterness in her voice. “Not all the men in this country are like Rasheed,” she said. “And even he was not always like this. He was cruel. He was always spoilt. But when he lost control of his world, that was when he turned into this … child!”

  “Why do you stay with him?”

  “Because I want to. Because it is my duty. I am his wife!” Jaheda’s eyes flickered towards Scarlett and at that moment Richard understood exactly what was in her mind. “I will not be replaced by a child,” she said. “I knew that this girl would cause trouble for me the moment I saw her in the casino. And look at him now.” The sheikh had his arm around Scarlett, trying to force her to eat a piece of Turkish delight. “He is besotted by her. It makes me sick!”

  “Then help us leave,” Richard said. “Do you know where Larry Carter is being held?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then get him out. Bring him to us. There’s a plane at the airport and we have a car just down the road.”

  “I cannot do as you say. Rasheed will kill me.”

  On the other side of the table, Rasheed threw the Turkish delight in the air and caught it in his mouth. He was doing tricks for Scarlett, trying to entertain her.

  “I don’t think he’ll kill you,” Richard said. “I think he’s forgotten you.”

  Jaheda nodded slowly. “We will see…”

  THIRTY

  By midnight, Jaheda still hadn’t come.

  Richard and Scarlett had been given adjoining rooms in the palace. They were certainly comfortable enough. The beds were enormous, covered with Egyptian cotton sheets and silk duvets, buried underneath an avalanche of pillows. Anything that could be made of gold turned out to be just that – from the mirror frames to the light fittings to the bathroom taps. They had hot and cold water too. The baths were deep and surrounded by oils and shampoos. It was like staying in the most luxurious hotel in the world, apart from two s
mall details: the windows were barred and the doors were locked.

  They were both still awake. After everything that had happened during the course of the evening, sleep would have been impossible. Scarlett could still feel the clasp of the sheikh’s fingers on her wrist. She saw his black eyes and the food caught in his beard. She remembered what he had said. The one thing she hadn’t done was to tell Richard the threats that he had made. He would kill Richard to make her change her mind. Maybe that was why he had allowed them to stay near each other tonight, to remind her what her refusal would cost. But she had already decided that she wouldn’t let it happen. She would marry Sheikh Rasheed if she had to – but she would deal with him in her own way before she allowed him to touch her again.

  For his part, Richard was angry with himself.

  It had been his idea to come to the palace. What had he been thinking of? Martins had warned them that the sheikh was unstable. Had there really been any chance that they could persuade him to hand over the pilot and let them fly out of here to Antarctica? Richard had allowed them to walk in here without any plan at all and now they were both prisoners. His position was bad enough but from what he had seen at the dinner table, Scarlett’s was worse. He had brought her to this. It was his fault.

  It seemed so long now since he had been a writer, working on a local newspaper in the north of England. The Greater Malling Gazette … he could see it so clearly, the drab offices set behind the High Street, filled with cheap furniture and computers that were forever crashing. It had been his first job after leaving university. Not The Times, not the Telegraph, not even the Yorkshire Post but his next step towards a career that he had wanted since he was a boy. Richard had always been fascinated by the news, by the way people’s lives all over the world could be changed and moulded by events over which they had no control. Why should a flood in Bangladesh mean anything to a housewife in Yorkshire? It was the journalist’s job to make the connection, to make people care.