Читать книгу The Ice Maiden's Sheikh - ALEXANDRA SELLERS - Страница 10

There was little sleep for anyone in the palace that night. The phones rang constantly, with family and friends in the country and abroad calling for news, calls from officials organizing the search team, and journalists around the world clogging up the line asking for details of Princess Noor’s Fatal Peril.

Everybody felt worse when the couple’s disappearance began to be announced on repeated television news bulletins in the early evening and the announcer’s voice resonated with the kind of gravity that meant he thought Princess Noor was probably dead.

But they couldn’t just turn it off. It was entirely possible that some reporter would get wind of a search team discovery and broadcast the news before the family was notified. The regular announcements became a horrible kind of compulsive listening for them all as more and more journalists joined the fray.

On the breakfast terrace early the next morning, bleary-eyed but unable to sleep, and fed up with the constant insensitive badgering, Jalia delivered herself of a few blistering comments to one journalist and hung up the phone to find Latif watching her.

He was silhouetted against the morning sun, and she couldn’t see his expression. She dropped her eyes and picked up her coffee.

“Is there any news?” she asked. The question had taken on the impact of ritual. They were all constantly asking it of each other.

“Have you heard that the Barakat Emirates have sent a couple of planes to join the search this morning?”

Jalia nodded.

Latif set something on the ground, then moved over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Then there’s no news.”

“God, how I hate sitting here doing nothing more productive than fielding calls from the media. If only there was something to do!” she exploded. Part of the emptiness she felt was the letdown after the blizzard of wedding preparations, of course. But Jalia was also missing the hard, rewarding work of her university life.

Latif remained standing, resting his hips back against the table, gazing out over the courtyard. He swirled the coffee in his cup.

“Well, why not?”

Jalia looked up, and his eyes turned to her with a hooded expression she couldn’t fathom. “What do you mean, why not?” Suddenly her eye fell on the case he had set down by a column. She frowned in sudden dismay.

“Are you leaving?” How could he go when they were in such trouble? Bari was one of his closest friends!

He took another sip of coffee. “I’m going to drive up into the mountains to ask in the villages whether anyone saw or heard a plane coming down in the storm.”

She stared at him, the fog of a sleepless night abruptly clearing from her brain. “What a brilliant idea!” she breathed. “I wish I could do something useful like that!”

Latif shrugged as if she impressed him not at all. “Why don’t you?”

“It would take me a week to decipher the answers.” The mountain dialects of both Bagestani Arabic and Parvani, Bagestan’s two languages, were very different from what was spoken in the cities, and Jalia had trouble enough even in the city.

Latif said nothing, merely turned, set down his cup, and rang the bell. A servant came out and asked what he would eat. Latif shook his head.

“I don’t want food, thanks, Mansour,” he began in Arabic. “You have a son named Shafi.”

“God be thanked. Fifteen years old, a strong healthy boy. A very good son.”

“I am going into the mountains to help the search,” Latif explained. “I will need another pair of eyes. Would you allow Shafi to accompany and assist me? I may be gone several days.”

Mansour’s expression was pained as he clasped his fist to his chest. “Willingly, Lord! But alas, he is not at home! As you know, he—”

“Thank you, Mansour,” Latif interrupted him.

The servant turned to go, but Jalia called him back.

“I beg that thou be so good as to bring His Excellency some food wherewith to break his fast, if it please thee,” she said in her formal, antiquated Arabic. And to Latif, “You ought to eat something if you’re going on the road.”

Latif laughed aloud and turned to the servant. “An omelette, then, Mansour.”

Mansour bowed and went back inside. In the tree a bird sang entrancingly, but could not lighten the gloom and worry in Jalia’s heart.

“What are you going to do?” Jalia asked.

Latif pulled out a chair. “I have no specific plan,” he said, sitting down opposite her. He reached for the warmed bread left on her plate with a kind of intimate assumption of her permission, and tore a bite-sized piece off with long, strong fingers. “The mountain villages don’t get television and they don’t have phones. So the only way to—”

“I meant, who will you take with you to be the extra pair of eyes?”

He shrugged. “It’s not important.”

But of course it was. How could his search be effective if he had to watch the road the whole time?

“I’m not doing anything. I should have been going home tomorrow, but I can’t leave with Noor missing,” she offered hesitantly. “I could go with you, if you liked.”

Latif’s mouth tightened. “I expect to search until something definite turns up,” he said stiffly. “I may be away several days.”

“Where will you sleep at night?”

“Sometimes in village rest houses, sometimes under the stars. Whatever comes. It won’t be comfortable. And there may be fleas in the rest houses.”

Maybe it was his obvious reluctance that hardened the momentary impulse into determination. This was her chance to get away from the media, the phone and the helpless speculation and do something actively useful.

“Better fleas with a chance to help,” she said, who had never had a fleabite in her life, “than sitting with my mother and aunt, worrying uselessly.”

She could see that Latif didn’t like the idea, and of course she didn’t relish being with him, but what would that matter if they found Noor and Bari?