Читать книгу The Lost Prince - Cindy Dees - Страница 7

Katy McMann ached from head to foot. But then, twelve hours and counting in an airplane seat had a way of doing that. Thankfully this was the last leg of her journey from Washington, D.C. to North Africa and a postage-stamp kingdom called Baraq. Near Morocco somewhere.

She’d tried to sleep on the flight from D.C. to London, but her nerves pretty much shot that plan. This was her first mission as a humanitarian relief worker with InterAid, and she was terrified that she was going to blow it. Every newbie to the organization probably felt that way. But not every newbie lived with paparazzi camped on her doorstep, ready and waiting to catch the tiniest screwup on her part and splash it across the tabloid headlines.

It wasn’t that she’d ever done anything the slightest bit newsworthy in her twenty-six years to date. But her brothers had. The McMann clan had burst onto the legal scene a few years back as the spectacularly successful lawyers to the rich and guilty. And ever since, the press had been laying in wait for them, sniffing like bloodhounds after any morsel of dirt to smear on her brothers’ names—including the private life of their little sister.

The InterAid team leader, Don Ford, a marathon runner and all-around intense personality, stood up in front of the clustered team with a clipboard in hand, effectively distracting her from disparaging thoughts of her brothers and their lack of moral spine.

Ford read off a list of assignments for when they arrived in the country. She would be working on prisoner interviews with a guy named Larry Grayson. She’d met him briefly last night. He was a barrel-chested man with short, gray crew-cut hair, a fleshy face, small eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and no lips to speak of. Rather, a white line of habitually compressed flesh marked his mouth. He’d struck her as a pompous ass who could probably quote large chunks of the Geneva Convention from memory and who took as his personal responsibility enforcing it down to the last t crossed and i dotted.

She caught a few smirks around her. Yup, she’d been stuck with Grayson intentionally. Note to self: Don Ford wasn’t above putting the notorious rookie in her place. She sighed.

Prisoner interviews, eh? She pulled out her training manual and reviewed what it had to say on the subject. The job mostly involved verifying identities, ascertaining the prisoner’s state of health, examining living conditions, delivering letters and care packages to prisoners and making sure no illegal interrogation methods were being employed. None of it sounded too hard.

A flight attendant came around to collect the last trash and check that everyone’s seats and trays were in their upright and locked positions. Katy’s ears popped gently as the plane began its descent into Baraq. She looked out the window at the barren mountains below, brick red beneath a beige layer of haze. A few pockets of green dotted the rocky landscape, but for the most part the forbidding terrain looked startlingly like Mars. And human beings lived in that? Ugh.

The plane planted itself hard on terra firma at Baraq International Airport and taxied up to a modern glass-and-chrome terminal. The ramp was conspicuously deserted. Theirs was the only plane visible on the entire field, in fact. Not exactly a teeming metropolis of activity. Of course, a coup d’état no doubt put a severe cramp on travel-related activity.

A commotion outside caught Katy’s attention. She leaned forward to look out her window and saw a line of soldiers run up, surrounding the airplane. They all had machine guns at the ready, pointed at the plane. Whoa. Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

What sort of idiot escaped an enemy by putting himself into that very enemy’s hands? An idiot with no other options, apparently. Kareem’s plan was audacious. Certainly unexpected. Arguably insane. Doomed to failure. And here Nick was, going along with it like a lamb to the slaughter. Even his natural optimism was stretched to the breaking point on this one. For the first time in his life his family’s money, power, prestige and sheer fame weren’t going to buy him out of this mess. He was utterly without defenses or resources other than his own brains and guts. Lord, he felt naked.

Nick hitched up his bloodied khaki pants and took the machine gun Kareem handed him. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

The advisor nodded solemnly and started to move forward but then froze, looking over Nick’s shoulder. Nick registered some sort of commotion behind him. Not good. Their plan wasn’t in place yet. He opened his mouth to urge Kareem to hurry.

He never saw the blow coming. One moment he was looking into the eyes of his father’s friend and the next pain exploded in his head like a starburst. The marble floor rushed up to slam into him, and then his world went black.

Their plane sat on the ramp with no one entering or leaving it for long enough that Katy finally dozed off. How long she slept, she didn’t know. But it was morning when she woke up to the sounds of a commotion. A portable staircase had arrived and the front door of the jet had just opened.

A scowling soldier boarded the aircraft as if he owned it. “Everybody out!” he shouted.

The team disembarked onto the tarmac while machine guns followed their every movement. Surely this wasn’t a typical welcome for relief agencies! She glanced around, and even the team’s veterans had their shoulders up around their ears and looked tense. Not good.

They were herded down the stairs and into a tight group, with soldiers pressing in on them from all sides with those darned weapons. Katy didn’t know about anybody else, but she was intimidated.

And then they stood there and waited some more. The tension built like a Beethoven symphony, rising higher and higher until she felt as if it might explode any second. If her brothers had been here orchestrating this confrontation, she’d accuse them of intentionally creating a crisis atmosphere in order to throw their opponents off balance.

Something incongruous struck her as she stood there. The smell of orange blossoms. It hung in the air, light and sweet, perfuming every breath she drew. And then something else struck her. The blinding blue of the sky overhead. This was actually a lovely little corner of the world. The sun already shone with an equatorial intensity that promised to burn her fair skin when it got a little higher in the sky. She sincerely hoped she lived long enough for that to be a problem.

When the standoff had reached the breaking point, a Baraqi Army officer strolled out to the tarmac and perused them scornfully. In Arabic he gave his troops a short order to stand down. At least that’s what Katy, with her rusty college grasp of that tongue, thought he said.

The machine guns finally rose up and away. Along with the whole InterAid team, she sighed in profound relief.

The officer snapped at them to get their bags. She filed over to the British Airways jet and duly took her place in the bag brigade that passed their gear from the belly of the plane to the big pile of suitcases beyond the wing.

A large, heavy-duty Army truck drove up. It could’ve pulled up right beside the luggage, but no. It parked far enough away to make them carry their gear over to it. Clearly the Baraqi Army wasn’t thrilled to have InterAid here. Katy hefted her duffel bag, carried it to the open-bed truck and tossed it up to the team member standing there.

She fell into the line of InterAid workers headed for another truck, this one sporting wooden benches along its wood-slatted sides. She was about to climb up into the transport when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, startling her.

“You do not go with men,” a soldier growled behind her in heavily accented English.

Now what? Was this more random harassment? Or maybe these guys had heard of her brothers, too? Sheesh.

“Over there.” The man nodded at a smaller truck with canvas sides and roof. Her internal alarm system jangled wildly at the idea of being separated from the rest of the team. But it wasn’t as though the rough hand crushing her shoulder gave her any choice in the matter. The soldier propelled her toward the enclosed truck.

She caught sight of Phyllis Estevaz, one of the team’s other females, already seated inside the truck, wearing a head scarf and a shapeless black dress of some kind. Aah. An abaya. The black, concealing overgarment worn by women throughout the Middle East. Her guidebook had said that although the majority of the Baraqi population was Muslim, there was no official state religion in the secularly governed principality. None of the pictures of this region had indicated that women were expected to wear traditional garb.

Another soldier emerged from the far side of the truck and shoved a wad of black fabric at her. “Cover body.”

She could swear he muttered the word for harlot in French as she took the pile of cloth from him. It smelled of sweat and dust and smoke and maybe a hint of some cooking spice she couldn’t identify. She held up the abaya, turning it in several different directions, trying to make sense of its voluminous folds.

A female voice from behind her startled her. Hazel Whittaker, the team’s third female member. “Find the neck hole and put it over your head. The opening goes in the front and ties shut. Once you’ve got it on, I’ll show you how to put on the hijab—the head scarf and veil—so they don’t drive you crazy.”

In no time, Katy was swathed in what turned out to be some sort of polyester georgette fabric. It actually wasn’t nearly as hot or uncomfortable as she’d expected. It looked like an oversize choir gown, with long loose sleeves and a baggy fit over her clothes. However, it was a royal pain in the rear trying to climb up the narrow metal steps into the back of the truck with it swirling around her legs. She collected the fabric in big handfuls, hiking it up as far as she could, but still she couldn’t see her feet. A soldier snarled something at her in Arabic. As best as she could tell, he was growling at her for showing too much of her ankles. Something about being a lewd American. Tough. He could just look away if her ankles were so offensive. She had no intention of breaking her neck on these stupid steps.

The interior of the truck was airless and close. Were it not a cool, pleasant day outside, it would have been sweltering. Katy looked over enviously at the men in their open truck.

The caravan of trucks set out. They drove for nearly two hours up into the mountains, where people still lived as if it were the twelfth century. The one constant of the trip was that every woman she spied looked scared.

Finally square white-stucco structures began to cluster more and more closely together. They were coming into a large city. It must be Akuba. The capital of Baraq. Seat of the Ramsey dynasty for a thousand years, according to Katy’s guidebook.

The streets were narrow and crowded. Nasal shouts of Arabic mingled with car horns. Turbaned men, young and old, stared suspiciously at them as the trucks rolled by. Women peeked fearfully from shadowed doorways, and Katy caught occasional glimpses past them into gated courtyards with colorful mosaic paving and dancing fountains. Heavily carved wood decorated the shop fronts, and a dusty smell of cumin hung in the air. She identified cinnamon and allspice, pepper and a hint of the rare and expensive spice saffron seasoning the smoke rising from pots over open-air cooking fires.

The truck turned a corner, and she caught her first glimpse of the royal palace, called Il Leone, towering over the city on its nearby mountain peak. It was an imposing pile of gray granite perched over Akuba like a hulking sentinel. Its walls were high and thick, topped by crenellated teeth of stone. A huge drawbridge was pulled shut, a medieval iron portcullis crisscrossing in front of it.

Circular towers rose up from each corner of the fortress, and striped red, black and green flags fluttered above them. The Baraqi flag pictured in her guidebook was white with the crossed swords and lions of the Ramsey family crest emblazoned upon it. She assumed what hung now were improvised flags from the Army regime that currently held the country.

As their trucks wound deeper into the city, the streets grew even more congested and turned to cobblestone, which was incredibly uncomfortable, even in a rubber-tired vehicle with modern shock absorbers. The medieval buildings were taller here, made of stone and crowded in closely upon them, creating deep, mysterious shadows all around. Music drifted out of an open doorway—drums and a whiny, nasal horn of some kind. Katy half expected a camel caravan carrying a sultan and his harem to overtake them any second.

She felt like a well-shaken martini by the time the trucks wound through the ancient streets up to the foot of the great fortress of Il Leone. Chains clanked, and she risked lifting the canvas side of the truck to peek at the source of the noise. She saw a gigantic drawbridge ponderously folding down to admit them to the palace, its chains unwinding from great spools on either side of the cavernous entrance. The truck lurched forward, and she watched in awe as they passed over a no-kidding, murky, water-filled moat and drove into a palace courtyard. The place teemed with soldiers, and she quickly dropped the canvas flap lest she get chewed out for indecorous peeking or some such dire crime.

A soldier’s face appeared abruptly at the back of the truck. In Arabic he ordered her and the other women to get out. These Baraqis were certainly not long on courtesy. Fearing a broken neck, she groped blindly for the steps with her feet and climbed down out of the truck wielding great armfuls of black fabric.

The castle walls rose around her, dark and ancient, with tiny leaded-glass windows here and there, the only relief to the stone facades. No wonder Nikolas Ramsey had preferred to run around on the French Riviera and party in London’s wild and wacky West End rather than stay home and learn how to be king—if the tabloids were accurate. This place was depressing her, and she’d been here less than two minutes. Of course, he’d paid for shirking his duty in blood. And in the loss of his country.

An Army officer strode up to the InterAid team and said arrogantly in excellent French, “I am Major Moubayed. You will begin cataloging the prisoners and casualties immediately and report to me the names of every one of them.” His sharp condescension reminded her of her brother Travis when a reporter was being a moron around him.

The team leader stepped forward and replied evenly, “I am Don Ford, and we will proceed according to international protocol. In due time we will, indeed, give you a complete list of casualties from both sides of the conflict, in addition to notifying the families of said casualties. We will also interview all of your prisoners and wounded to ascertain their status and treatment within the Geneva Conventions.”

The major scowled, his black eyes narrow and menacing. Ford stared right back at the guy. Patience, Don. Patience, Katy urged silently. Finally the Baraqi officer looked away. Nicely done, Don.

The major growled, “Do your work quickly and be gone with you, then.”

Ford nodded pleasantly and turned to face his team. “You heard the man. Let’s get to work. We still have a couple hours of daylight left.”

Larry Grayson materialized beside her and shoved a leather satchel into her surprised hands. “Med kit,” he announced. “We’re allowed to render minor first aid. Clipboard, paper and pens are in there, too, along with a spreadsheet I worked up for recording vital stats on each prisoner.” She had to give the guy credit—he was organized.

“Come with me,” he threw over his shoulder as he strode forward and approached Major Moubayed.

Katy hurried to catch up with her partner and reached him just in time to hear him tell the major imperiously in English, “Show me to your prisoners.”

She flinched. Not the best way to handle a pissed-off authority figure like Moubayed. Sure enough, the major scowled and threw a spate of angry French at Grayson.

“Do you understand what this guy’s saying?” Larry asked her, thinly veiled contempt in his voice.

She cleared her throat and said delicately, “Let’s just say he’s commenting on the state of American etiquette.” She’d swear the Army major understood what she said, because she was sure a ghost of a grin flickered across his face.

She spoke hesitantly to Moubayed in French, being sure to look down at his shoes all the while. “Please forgive my colleague for his abruptness. He is eager to get started on the work you have requested of us. Perhaps one of your men can show us the way to any prisoners you might be holding here?”

Apparently mollified by her humble attitude, the major signaled to a soldier, who stepped forward silently. Moubayed told the guy to take them to…someplace…a quickly uttered Arabic word she didn’t recognize. The soldier nodded briskly and gestured them to follow him.

The soldier stopped in front of a bulky wooden door with a curved top, banded by iron hinges and set low in the base of a round stone tower. It looked like something straight out of the Dark Ages.

“What is this place?” she tried in French to the soldier.

“Le cachot,” he replied. The dungeon.

Get out! A real, live, honest-to-goodness dungeon? This country was like some sort of weird time warp. She took a deep breath. Here went nothing. Her first mission as a relief worker.

The reality of standing in a tiny country halfway around the world from home, about to visit actual prisoners of war, hit her. Dauntingly. The scowling soldier beside her, casually toting a machine gun, was a whole different ball of wax than the smiling and grateful faces of hungry children she’d envisioned when she signed up for this job. A creeping sense of being an impostor stole over her. Maybe she was just a spoiled little rich girl playing at being a social activist, assuaging her conscience over the advantages life had granted her.

“Come on, girl!” Larry snapped. “You don’t want to make these guys mad, especially since you’re a female.”

Like he was anyone to talk. She jumped and followed her partner hastily. Her black abaya flapped around her like an unruly sail, and she batted at the billowing fabric. How did Muslim women function in these stupid things, anyway? And she couldn’t see squat out the veil swathing her head and covering most of her face. No wonder women weren’t allowed to drive in this part of the world! In these getups they were half-blind.

She and Larry followed their escort into a round room with a desk and a couple chairs, all occupied by lounging soldiers. Their escort stepped across the space to another iron-studded door and knocked on it. A peephole slid open. Fluid words of Arabic were exchanged, and the door squeaked open ponderously. She followed Larry inside. A second soldier fell in behind them.

The sense of walking into a time warp intensified.

The passageway stretching away into blackness before them was dark and dank, lit only by torches in iron sconces on the walls. Straw littered the stone floors, and shiny black water dripped down the rock walls, its noise the only sound interrupting the heavy silence. The hallway looked carved out of the bowels of the earth itself. Katy swore she saw a rodent of some kind scurry off into the dark. Huge ancient padlocks adorned rows of ironbound doors that wound away into the gloom. An otherworldly chill skittered down her spine. This was the kind of place that touched souls. Changed them. Crushed them.

Larry glanced over his shoulder at her, grinning. “Some cool dungeon, huh? You take the doors on the right and I’ll take the doors on the left. It’ll go faster that way. Holler if you run into an injury you can’t handle. I’m a trained trauma first responder.”

“Uh, okay,” Katy mumbled. She had to go solo right from the start? She gulped. This would be just like her work at the homeless shelter back in Washington, D.C., where she took care of minor bumps and bruises and lent a sympathetic ear as needed. The only difference here was that she was dressed like a mummy and standing in a medieval den of torture.

The first soldier peeled off with Larry, and the second guard went with her. She gestured at the first door, and the guy unlocked it.

She stepped forward, but the guard blocked her way. “Infidel bitch,” he snarled. “Do not pollute a son of God with your filth.”

She blinked, startled. Now what was that supposed to mean? That she wasn’t supposed to recruit the prisoner to become Christian? Or she wasn’t supposed to touch him, maybe? But she had to touch these guys to treat any injuries they might have. Crud. She’d just have to brazen it out. She had a job to do, and if this solider didn’t like it, he could just lump it.

She stepped around the guard and into the tiny cell. And then she turned and shut the door in the guard’s face. She took deep satisfaction from the look of surprise she glimpsed right before she all but whacked him in the nose.

Alone. Thank God. The prisoner—part of the house guard of Il Leone, judging by his khaki uniform—had a minor concussion and some minor blunt-injury trauma. She wrote down his name on Larry’s spreadsheet and took note of his injuries, describing them in detail. Nothing to write home about.

At the second door, her soldier escort drew a breath to say something to her again, but she held up a hand, surprising him into silence. In resolute French she told him, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell me how to do my job.” To soften her words, she added, “And in return, I will not tell you how to do yours.”

He seemed so offended by the idea of her even suggesting what he do, that he appeared unable to come up with a snappy comeback. She slipped into the second cell alone. This prisoner had a broken finger that needed splinting.

Apparently she’d achieved a hostile but silent truce with her escort guard, for he merely opened doors for her now—still glaring at her, of course, lest she think she’d won. By the fifth prisoner or so, her nerves calmed down and she fell into a groove of treating minor injuries while the men babbled out their fears, mostly over dying at the hands of their Baraqi Army captors. She couldn’t blame them for the sentiment.

And then she stood in front of the sixth cell. Her escort unlocked the door and stepped aside while she entered. The padlock clicked shut behind her.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she squinted into the semidarkness. The small cell was just like all the others, a ten-foot-by-ten-foot cube carved out of stone. The single tiny window high on the back wall must open onto some sort of air shaft, for indirect light filtered through it. A bucket of drinking water stood in one corner, and another bucket in the opposite corner served as a restroom facility, from the smell of it. She made out the shape of a man lying on the hip-high stone ledge that passed for a bed. He looked asleep.

The torch in her hand guttered as a cool finger of air whisked down her spine. Premonition roared through her, nearly knocking her off her feet. This prisoner is different.