Читать книгу The Lost Prince - Cindy Dees - Страница 9

In a ravaged corner of Akuba, in a windowless room lit only by the flickering light of a pair of lanterns, a group convened in secret; a dozen dark-robed women, their faces hidden according to the edicts issued by General Sharaf—leader of the coup—only hours ago. Any woman who did not follow the strict religious dress code he’d declared would be whipped.

In a whisper the self-appointed leader of the group asked, “Has anyone received word whether the king is alive or dead?”

A shrug from a castle insider. “Nobody knows. He was seen sitting on his throne moments before the Army burst into the great hall. But that is the last report anyone has of him.”

“Fool,” the leader bit out. “Nonetheless, he must be found. Sharaf must not be allowed to kill him. All our hopes rest with a Ramsey staying in power. Sharaf will strip away every right women have ever had under the Ramseys.”

One of the others spoke hesitantly. “I heard General Nagheb phone someone he called InterAid this morning. He asked them to come monitor prisoners in Baraq. If Sharaf allows them in, perhaps we can make contact with them. Get them to assist us in searching for Nikolas Ramsey.”

The leader shrugged. “Perhaps. We can try. But most of those groups choose to remain neutral. In the meantime, we must look to our own resources to find the king and extract him from the clutches of the Army. All of us must make this our one and only goal for now. Understood?”

Nods all around.

“Very well, then. Go and be safe. And remember—we must find the king before Sharaf does. Our futures and our daughters’ futures depend on it.”

The twelve women rose silently to their feet and slipped one by one out into the frightened, waiting city.

“Nikolas Ramsey?” Katy exclaimed.

“Good Lord, woman, keep your voice down! You just swore not to get me killed!”

“Nikolas Ramsey?” she repeated in a shocked whisper.

He shrugged. “In the flesh.”

“What in the world are you doing here?” Although, as soon as she asked the question, the answer was obvious. He was hiding from Sharaf. But in prison? “Why here?”

“There was nowhere else to go. We were surrounded and the palace was overrun. It was this or die. Although, I think death is probably inevitable for me, don’t you?”

He asked that last bit conversationally. As if they were talking about the weather. “Death is inevitable for all of us,” Katy retorted wryly. “The question is when.”

“Sooner rather than later for me, I should think,” he said dryly. “As soon as my face heals enough for me to be recognized.”

She examined it critically. “You’re pretty messed up. Honestly you look like Quasimodo.”

He looked pained for a moment, then said lightly, “Thank God for small favors.”

“That won’t protect you forever,” she said quietly.

He met her gaze briefly and then his slid away. “No, it won’t.”

She got the impression he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Sympathy washed over her. What a rotten way to spend your final days—waiting and watching the clock tick until your body betrays you and your captors recognize and kill you.

She said, “If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”

He laughed briefly without humor. “How about a hacksaw and a helicopter?”

She smiled gently and reached out to put her hand on his. Electricity shot up her arm, startling her into jerking her hand away. To cover up her reaction to him, she asked hastily, “Is there any chance the Army would let you live if they found out who you were?”

He shook his head sharply. “Not a chance. They have to kill me to solidify their hold on power. As long as I’m alive, Ramsey loyalists will continue to fight.”

She replied, “The way I hear it, the fighting’s pretty much over and the Army’s in control of the country.”

He shrugged, causing all those gorgeous muscles to ripple across his chest. “The first battle may be finished, but the war is far from over.”

Lovely. And here she was, smack-dab in the middle of it.

She jumped when he grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “Listen. Whatever you do, you can’t tell the Army who I am. They’ll kill me the second they know.”

“I understand.” The zinging energy of the man was shooting through her again, but this time she was ready for it. “Truly. I swear they won’t find out from me.”

For just a second desperation glistened in his eyes. He let go of her fingers reluctantly, like a drowning man slipping into the abyss. He whispered, “Please. Help me.”

She thought fast. “Tell you what. I’ll look into the legalities of it. There might be something we can do. You are a head of state, after all. There might be some special rule of prisoner treatment we can invoke in your case. Tonight I’ll take a look at the Geneva Conventions and see what I can find.”

“Don’t talk to your boss about me. Don’t talk to anyone. Trust no one.”

Why the heck not? Aloud she said, “InterAid is not in the business of getting anyone killed. My boss will keep your secret.”

He surged to his feet, looming over her. “Swear to me you will not tell anyone who I am. It must remain our secret. My life depends on it.”

She stared up at him for several seconds. He knew something he wasn’t telling her. Currents of intrigue flowed all around this place, this man. One thing she knew to be true—Nick was really worried about being double-crossed. Although that was probably part and parcel of being a prince his whole life. A rich, handsome, eligible one.

“I said I won’t tell anyone and I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

His simple words were a caress. A reverent touch gliding across her skin. And she was losing her mind. The guy was bruised and battered and filthy, and she was panting after him like a dog in a sauna.

But then he did touch her. And it was a hundred times more seductive in the flesh. His fingertips brushed the back of her hand lightly. Beseechingly. Desperately.

“Be careful. The very fact that you know who I am places you in grave jeopardy, as well.”

She blinked, alarmed. “How? I’m just a random relief worker.”

“This is Baraq. Nothing is simple here. There are plots within plots everywhere. Layers within layers to every plot. If I am killed, you could bear witness to the fact that I was murdered by the Army well after the coup itself was over. They can’t afford to have that information become public. The Baraqi people and world opinion will not tolerate a bunch of murderers ruling this country. That is why they’ll kill you, too.”

She absorbed his words in silence. Damned if what he said didn’t make perfect sense. Foreboding clutched at her throat like a cold, bony hand.

He murmured urgently, “I’m not exaggerating. Trust no one. Both of our lives depend on it.”

His golden gaze bored into her in uncomfortably intense entreaty. He certainly believed his warnings to her, at any rate. Should she?

He exhaled a long, slow breath and said beseechingly, “Please. My life is in your hands.”

He didn’t sound as though he used the word please often. And that was the second time he’d used it with her. Despite his breezy charm, this guy was scared stiff. And she couldn’t blame him. Sharaf’s men hadn’t exactly made the world’s friendliest first impression on her.

Saying “please” was probably a big concession for him. The guy was a king, after all. At least he’d sounded sincere when he’d said it. Maybe she was wrong to protect this guy. Maybe she should ignore his advice and tell her boss who he was after all—

His voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. “I believe you were going to put a bandage on my nose?”

“Right,” she mumbled. “Bandage. The bigger, the better.”

“Exactly.” His relieved smile lit up the room like a floodlight. He added under his breath, “Thank you.”

She got the distinct feeling she’d just stepped over some sort of invisible line. And, once crossed, there was no going back.

Katy stumbled through the rest of the day’s work in a daze, mechanically treating prisoners and recording their condition on her clipboard. Alive! The king of Baraq was alive! And she was the only person who knew it. Was her life really in danger? Or was Nikolas Ramsey just trying to scare her into silence? Should she ignore his warning and tell someone of her discovery or was discretion the better part of valor? One thing he was right about: palpable currents of intrigue flowed around her as she made her way through the palace toward the exit a few hours later.

Unseen eyes glared at her, and she caught the furtive looks and snide comments the Army soldiers cast at her when they thought she wasn’t looking or listening. It was one advantage of the veil over most of her face. Nobody could see her reaction to their jabs, uttered mostly in Arabic they thought she wouldn’t understand. She’d studied the language for four years in college, and it was coming back to her rapidly. She got the distinct feeling her well-being might rest on her secret comprehension of the tongue. Nope, not gonna let on that I understand them just yet.

The Army didn’t deign to provide the aid workers transportation to their hotel, so Katy, Larry and two other team members, who’d been treating the more seriously wounded prisoners housed in the palace proper, convened at the main drawbridge at dusk to walk to their lodgings. Soldiers all but pushed them out a man-sized postern gate within the larger drawbridge. The good news was the walk was steeply downhill into the crowded city streets. The bad news was the hike back up the hill tomorrow morning was going to be a bear.

When they arrived at the hotel, Katy was segregated from the men and given a room on a floor allotted only to women. Her room was sparse and in need of a good cleaning, not to mention stuffy with the remnants of the day’s warmth. There was one toilet for the entire floor of twelve rooms and one bathroom with an old claw-foot bathtub. At least it was clean and in good working order.

She sat down on her bed and winced at the sag in the mattress. But, hey, it was better than the stone ledges the prisoners were sleeping on. She stripped off her abaya, considering whether it would be dry by morning if she washed it right then. She opened her suitcase, which had magically appeared in her room. And stopped cold. Someone had searched it. The clothes weren’t folded right, and her things weren’t in the same places she’d put them when she’d left home.

She went next door and knocked on Hazel’s door. The older woman stuck her head around the jamb. “Oh, it’s you. Come on in.”

Katy stepped inside and grinned at Hazel’s shorts and halter top. No wonder the woman had hidden behind the door. She’d be arrested if any Baraqi Army type saw her in such lascivious garb. “Was your suitcase searched, Hazel?”

The older woman looked up at her quickly. “No. Was yours?”

For some reason, a twinge of foreboding made her reticent to tell anyone about it. Maybe it was Nikolas Ramsey’s warning. Or maybe it was a gut instinct. Her brothers swore by them. She shrugged. “I guess I’m just getting paranoid after the way the Army’s treating us women.”

Again Hazel shot her a strange look. “They’ve been exceedingly polite to me and Phyllis. Did you do something to make them mad?”

Katy blinked. “Not that I know of.” On yet another hunch, she asked, “Do you speak Arabic?”

Hazel nodded. “Fluent in it. I can argue politics and cuss out a cab driver with the best of them.”

“And there haven’t been any nasty comments or innuendos flying around you from the soldiers?”

“Nope.” Hazel looked at her closely. “You going to be able to hack it in this country?”

Katy drew herself up straight. “Of course.” Why in the world was she being singled out for harassment by the Army? Surely they didn’t know or give a flip for who her brothers were!

The older woman nodded. Paused. Told her sagely, “Don’t go out by yourself. Eat in the hotel or go with a group into the bazaar to buy food. And don’t touch any of the meat from the street vendors. It’ll give you a case of Montezuma’s revenge you’ll never forget.”

Katy smiled at the small overture of friendly advice. “Thanks.”

Hazel nodded briskly.

Thoughtfully Katy wandered downstairs to snag a couple pieces of fruit and returned to her own room. She unlocked the door and let herself in. Night had fallen while she’d been gone, and she had to cross her room to reach the lamp in the corner. The white gauze curtains billowed in the breeze, and again she stopped cold.

She hadn’t left her window open.

She turned around slowly, scanning the dark corners and shadows dancing in her room. Nothing there. She was alone. She let out a slow breath. Still in the dark, she moved over to the floor-to-ceiling casement windows and shut them. She made a special point of locking them, as well. Only then did she move over to the lamp and switch it on. It bathed the room in soft yellow light.

She looked around again. And froze. There was something on her pillow. A note. She moved over to it and looked at it without touching it. It was a single sheet of beige linen stationery folded in half. In cramped cursive were the letters M-l-l-e, the French abbreviation for Mademoiselle. Gingerly Katy picked it up. Unfolded it. More of the cramped cursive.

She translated the French quickly in her head.

King Nikolas is not dead, and we desperately need your assistance in finding him. Please help us in this vital endeavor, mademoiselle. We shall wait with utmost urgency until you succeed. We will contact you soon. Be warned—there are those within the lion who would use you to gain their own ends.

Within the lion? Of course. Il Leone. The palace. So, rumors were already floating around that King Nikolas lived, were they? That didn’t bode well for the man she’d met earlier. Of course, the warning in this note didn’t bode well for him, either. If his enemies were already watching her, then she’d have to be extremely careful not to lead them to the hidden king.

And then there was the direct threat to her. Someone in the palace wanted to use her for some reason, eh? Why was that just not a surprise? Who could this note be warning her of? Major Moubayed and the Army? Nikolas himself?

The more relevant question at the moment was who had gotten into her room to leave this cryptic little message? And how? She was sure the door had locked shut behind her when she’d gone next door to talk to Hazel. And there was no way she’d left the window open. She even remembered thinking the room was too warm and closed it before she went out. Surely nobody had climbed up the face of a five-story building to sneak in her window and deliver this note! Someone on the hotel staff with a master key, then?

She picked up the phone. A female operator answered in English. Now how did she know to do that? She must have a list of the room numbers the Americans were staying in. Katy asked, “May I please speak to the manager?”

“Regarding what, Miss McMann?”

Katy replied, “Someone has broken into my room. I need to report it to the manager and the police.”

The operator answered without any noticeable surprise, “I will report it to the manager right away, ma’am.”

That was weird. Shouldn’t a break-in alarm a hotel employee at least a little bit? And the woman didn’t ask if anything was stolen or if Katy was okay. Katy replied, “I really would prefer to speak to the manager myself.”

“That is not possible, mademoiselle.” The woman’s voice shot up by at least half an octave, and now definite alarm rang in her tone.

Katy blinked. Had the operator just called her mademoiselle on purpose? She replayed the sentence in her head. That was definitely a special emphasis the woman had placed on the word. What in the world was going on here? She could understand the hotel not wanting to involve the police. Especially with the city under martial law. But why was the operator running interference on her at least speaking to the manager?

“I swear to you, mademoiselle, no harm will come to you in this hotel.”

There it was again. That heavy emphasis on the word mademoiselle. And real desperation coursed through the operator’s voice now.

“Uh, okay. I believe you. I will leave it in your hands to report this to the manager and the authorities.”

Katy frowned through the woman’s gushing thank-you. “What’s your name?”

“I am Hanah.”

“Thank you for your help, Hanah.”

“You are welcome. And thank you.”

Katy hung up the phone, roundly confused. The hotel operator had left her this note? Clearly if Hanah wasn’t the author, the woman was at least aware of its existence. Why would someone in the hotel feel obliged to warn her about treachery in the palace?

Speaking of which, she had some homework to do. She checked the window latch again and carefully locked the door behind her as she stepped out into the hall. Hopefully there was no law against women going to a men’s floor to visit in this backward country. She made her way downstairs and knocked on Don Ford’s door. He opened it immediately. A group of six men from the team were seated on the floor, a large picnic spread out on a cloth between them. It looked as if they were having a great time. A pang at being excluded stabbed her gut.

“What can I do for you, Katy?” Don asked.

“Do you have a copy of the Geneva Conventions with you?”

“Which one?”

“The one pertaining to treatment of prisoners of war,” she answered.

“Do you want all one hundred and forty-three articles plus annexes or one part in particular? Did you run into a problem today?”

Again her internal alarm bells went off, shouting at her not to answer that question. “I just want to read up on a few things,” she answered with what she hoped was casual ease.

“I’ll get it.” Ford went across the room to dig in a big leather satchel.

One of the other men looked up at her slyly. “How’d it go working with Larry?”

She smiled pleasantly and said without missing a beat, “He was an absolute dear. I’m so glad Don paired me up with him.”

Everyone gawked in surprise and she bit back a grin. There. Let them chew on that. Nothing like killing ’em with kindness.

Ford held out a sheaf of papers about sixty pages thick. “There you go. Holler if you have any questions about what it means.”

As if after growing up in her family she couldn’t read legalese and make sense of it? She smiled politely and said smoothly, “Thanks. I’ll be sure to ask if anything comes up that’s beyond me.”

Good ole Don blinked rapidly a couple times, as if he’d just remembered who she was. A little red around the gills, he showed her to the door and wished her good-night.

She fumbled loudly at her door for long enough to let someone climb out her window. She entered her room cautiously, gun-shy at the idea of accidentally surprising an intruder. But all was as she’d left it.

She settled on her bed to look for a loophole in the document Ford had given her. Nada. The only thing the document had to say about treatment of heads of state as prisoners was that they should be afforded quarters fitting to their station. Big freaking lot of good that would do Nikolas.

And then she ran across the bit about prisoners of war withholding their identities from their captors. Failure to identify oneself truthfully negated one’s right to full protection under the Geneva Convention. Great. Nikolas could tell the Army who he was, get a great room for a night and then get killed. Or he could not tell them and be subject to abuse or even torture. He’d have to continue to be Akbar Mulwami for the time being. It was flimsy protection, but he didn’t have any other options.

As for telling her boss who Nikolas was, something in her gut said the fewer people who knew Prisoner 1806’s secret, the better.

While she rinsed out her abaya, she debated whether or not to sleep with the window closed and opted not to let the mysterious note intimidate her into being miserable. She lay down on top of the sheets and let the evening’s cool breeze waft over her, carrying that faint, lovely smell of orange blossoms again. A siren sounded in the distance, a distinctive up-down-up-down wail. A few vehicles rumbled past, rattling on the cobblestones. How a night this peaceful and quiet should follow so closely after the violence she’d seen on television just two days ago was hard to fathom. Grateful for the lack of mortars and explosions, she fell asleep.

And dreamed of a handsome prince with golden eyes carrying her off to an enchanted palace and making love to her all night long.

Nick lay on the cold stone shelf that was his bed for long hours after the American left, nurturing the tiny spark of hope she’d ignited deep within him. If he had an ally on the outside, maybe, just maybe, he might get out of this alive. And then he might get a chance to set this mess aright, to make up for everything he’d failed to do before.

But first things first. He had to get out of here. And that wasn’t in the cards for him. Eventually his face would heal, the swelling would go down and then he’d be recognized. He was a dead man walking.

The problem with being locked up in a silent, dim cell like this was it gave a guy plenty of time to think. He’d spent the last two days in this black hole damning himself to hell and back for neglecting his duty for so many years. For much of his thirty-four years, he’d jetted all over the world, living as fast and playing as hard as he could, running away from the responsibilities that came with his family’s wealth and position. Hell, just running away from his family.

He bitterly regretted now never having spent time with his father after college, never trying to talk to him about how he ran his country, about his vision for Baraq. Lord knew, Baraq had been his father’s passion in life. To the exclusion of all else—including his wife, who’d eventually left, and his only son, whom he’d mostly ignored.

Nick knew far too little of his Ramsey legacy. But he did know he’d failed that legacy. For thirty generations—almost a thousand years—dominion over these lands had passed from father to son in an unbroken line. And he was going to break the chain. He would go down in history as the last Ramsey. The one who failed. Spectacularly. The thought galled him.

His father might have been a bad parent, but in the clarity that came with staring death in the face, he admitted to himself that he’d also been a bad son. And obviously the Army believed he was going to be a bad king or else they wouldn’t have overthrown him before he could prove them wrong. Not only had he failed the Ramsey dynasty, he’d failed himself.

His remaining life span could no doubt be measured in days rather than weeks or years. Surely someone would recognize him soon. And then the Ramsey line would end.

Unless…

The idea was preposterous. The American aid worker would never go for it. It wasn’t fair to ask her such a thing. He barely knew her, for goodness’ sake! He had no right to put an innocent young woman’s life at risk any more than he already had.

But what other choice did he have?

He couldn’t sit by and watch his family disappear without a trace. He couldn’t leave his countrymen with no hope at all of continuing Baraq’s proud heritage, which was so closely tied to his family’s. If there was even a chance of salvaging the line, he had to try.

He wrestled through the night with his misgivings, examining his idea from every angle, analyzing its chances for success, anticipating the pitfalls and planning how to get around them. And his idea was full of holes. Huge, gaping craters. Starting with the fact that it all hinged on the American woman.

But after a long, sleepless night, he finally came to a single conclusion. He had no choice. He must try.