Читать книгу The Sheik's Safety - Dana Marton - Страница 11

“I need to get to the nearest town.” She drank the grainy water to the last drop, smiled at him as she laced up her boots. “I’d like to get in touch with the American embassy. Do you think I could take the car?”

“You’re not well enough to go anywhere alone.”

“You could…escort me?”

He waited a while before responding. “Tihrin is too far. I’ll take you to the camp, then when you’re better, I’ll take you to Tihrin.”

“I’m really pretty good.” She stood, and prayed he didn’t notice the slight wobble. She had to get to a phone. She had to tell the Colonel what had happened to the team.

“In a few days.” He whistled for the horse again, lower this time as the animal was nearby. “Right now, we’ll be safer at the camp.”

Right. Because he looked safe. Not. “Why don’t you ride the horse and I’ll drive the car and follow you?”

“We leave the car.”

She needed some time to come up with a plan. “Mind if we rest a little before we go? I’m not sure I’m up for horseback riding yet.”

He glanced at the bodies behind him then back at her. “A few minutes,” he said. “There might be more of them coming.”

He was just full of good news. She wondered if the four dead men were in any way connected to whomever had shot down the plane. Where was an M4 when she needed one? “Can I have my knives back?”

“No.”

Not very accommodating, was he? “In case there’s another attack?”

He shook his head. “I will protect you.”

For a moment she considered reminding him who had saved whose life, but decided against it. No sense in appearing too contrary, no point in raising any suspicions.

He took a few steps toward the bodies on the sand, stopped and turned back. “What is your name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m Saeed,” he said, and left her.

She watched him as he went from one body to the next, checking them over, coming up empty-handed as far as she could tell. It took all her strength to make her way to the horse a few short feet away.

“Come on, boy.” She let the animal smell her, patted his head. “What a fine horse you are.”

Purebred Arabian. She remembered her grandfather’s horses on the reservation, a couple of pintos and a half dozen wild mustangs he’d bought through the government program. They were all beautiful in their right. But this one—this one was a prince.

“Here we go.” She moved to his side and checked to make sure the cinch was good and tight. When she tried to put her foot in the stirrups the animal danced away.

“You’re not scared of me, are you?” She kept on talking, utter nonsense in a calming voice, as she tried again. Same result. Horses were supposed to be in her blood. Apparently, someone forgot to tell this one. The stallion had been trained, and trained well. Figured.

“Tayib, hoah.”

The deep voice coming from behind startled her, but seemed to calm the horse. Saeed stepped forward and grabbed the bridle.

“You can get on now,” he said, four AK-47s slung over his shoulder.

For a split second, she considered fighting him for the guns.

His gaze was sharp on her face, steady. She could barely stand. If she didn’t succeed, what would he do? Kill her, leave her to die in the desert or tie her up and take her to his camp anyway? She had to face the truth—she could not overtake him. To try would accomplish nothing but tip her hand and make escape more difficult later.

She mounted, and as soon as she was in the saddle, he vaulted up behind her. His arms, one on each side of her now, held onto the rein and set the horse going with a gentle flick.

As if the moving animal had unbalanced her, she slid to the side, testing Saeed. His arm barely moved, although she’d leaned her full weight against it.

He was strong and in control of his strength. In control of her, too, for the moment. As temporary as it was, she didn’t like the feeling. Dara straightened herself in the saddle. He was taking her, whether she wanted to go with him or not.

Fine. She would ride to his camp, eat, get her hands on a few flasks of water, then sneak away at the first opportunity. Shouldn’t set her back more than a day.

SAEED KEPT HIS EYES on the desert, constantly scanning the horizon, unsure when or from where the next ambush would come, knowing only that they weren’t done with him yet.

The woman in front of him had made a valiant effort of staying upright when they’d first mounted, but was now sagging farther back in the saddle, losing her strength rapidly. Her back touched his chest and she jerked forward, but soon was slipping again.

He let go of the rein with his left hand to pull her fully against him, leaving his arm around her waist to hold her in place, unsure how much longer she could do it on her own. “Rest.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but didn’t pull away.

She felt frail in his arms, but he knew better. She had survived several days in the open desert, taken out an armed assassin with a knife from forty meters. Helpless she was not.

And yet, despite knowing she was probably part of whatever band of thieves had robbed his tribe, he could not quench the surge of protective feelings inside him. Probably because she was a woman, in his arms.

It had been a while since he’d held anyone. Although her head was covered with her makeshift headdress once again, it would be some time before he would forget her face and the way she had looked at him. Her eyes shone like jewels—black onyx with freckles of gold.

She felt soft in all the right places, all sinuous muscle in others. Her shapely behind wedged between his thighs moved against him slightly to the rhythm of the horse, bringing thoughts to his mind the likes of which he had been too busy to think for far too long.

He brought his focus back to more pressing issues. “Where are the rest of your people?”

She stiffened. “I don’t remember anyone.”

Hard to say if she was lying or not. He would have expected a foreign woman who found herself in the desert in the middle of a gunfight with no idea of how she’d gotten there to be a little more frazzled. Maybe she was in shock, too numb for hysterics. No. Not shock. She had thrown that knife with precision, good and steady. And she appeared fine, save her weakness from exposure and lack of food and water. And of course lack of memory—if she wasn’t faking that.

With his attackers dead, once again she was the only possible source of information he had. As much as she wanted to reach Tihrin, he could not let her go until he found out for whom she worked and what her purpose was here.

She shivered in his arms.

“Here.” He slipped off his kaffiyeh, wrapped it around her head, neck and shoulders as best as he could. “Before today you don’t remember anything?” He tried again.

Her response came slower than before. “Nothing. I think maybe I got lost.”

He chewed on that for a while.

She wasn’t an assassin. She could have let that man shoot him or, for that matter, she could have buried that knife in his chest just as easily as she’d done in the attacker’s back. But if she wasn’t in league with the assassins, chances were she was in league with the thieves. Her proximity to the cave when he had found her certainly pointed in that direction.

She had come to steal from him, then had a fallout with her partners in crime who’d left her in the desert for dead. If that was the case, she could hardly reveal her identity to anyone. But with time, if she came to trust him… For a suitable reward she might be willing to give up those who had betrayed her.

But not anytime soon. She was completely limp in his arms. He tightened his hold on her to make sure she wouldn’t slip out of the saddle now that she was out again.

The wadi they rode in deepened, until he could no longer see out. He didn’t mind. If someone drove across the sand at a distance they wouldn’t see him, but he would be able to hear the noise of their motor. And they were close to camp now. That, too, made him more comfortable.

Soon he would be able to see the small rocky jebel, not even a hill but more of a tall outcropping of stones, that protected the encampment from the wind on the east side. A small path led down, steep but doable. Hawk could manage just about any terrain.

He turned the horse up the familiar incline when they reached it. Another few feet and they were high enough so he could see over the bank. And saw the men. He pulled on Hawk’s rein, and without a word, made the horse retreat, then stopped him when he was sure they were back out of sight again. There were people on the ledge above the encampment, two Jeeps with seven men that he had counted.

Not his people.

Had he been alone, he would have crept closer to investigate; as it was, he had to go around, miles out of his way, to get all the way behind the camp without being seen.

He managed, pushing Hawk more than he should have, worried he might lose the stranger in his arms.

DARA STARED at the enormous weaving to her left that hung from the black ceiling of the opulent tent, dividing it in half. Willing the pain in her shoulder to go away, she let her gaze glide over the vibrant colors that made up the slightly off, ornate pattern in the badly woven material. She had fleeting memories of a woman, wrapped in black from head to toe, bending over her. What happened to her?

Sunlight filtered through the cloth panels, the voices of distant chatter coming from outside. Déjà vu. She shook her head to clear it of the memories of summers she had spent on the reservation when she was young. She had loved her mother’s Lenape heritage as a small child, hated it as a teenager, denied it as an adult. Maybe if her mother hadn’t abandoned her father and her when she was twelve, it would have been different.

She sealed off the thought and the feelings it brought with practiced ease and sat up, noticing for the first time the indigo dress of fine linen that reached to her ankles. And panicked. Somebody had dressed her, which meant she’d been undressed first. The voices rose outside. Women. There were women around. She relaxed and straightened her dress, letting her fingers glide over the soft material. It had been a while since she had worn one. She was used to army fatigues.

Because she was a soldier, she reminded herself, annoyed because she liked the dress. She didn’t miss that kind of stuff. Didn’t need it. She stood and looked around. She had the skills to get out of here with or without help, trained for not only fight but escape and evasion. Other than her shoulder and a mild burning sensation around her right eye, she was fine.

Kilim carpets covered some of the sand; colorful bags hung from the tent posts; a handful of large pots and pans lay around the ashes of the cooking fire. A strange loom stretched to her right, a half-finished black-and-red cloth on it. She looked for a weapon. A small kitchen knife would have done. Nothing.

She rubbed her right eye, her stomach growling. God, she was hungry. And thirsty. She glanced at the plastic containers in the corner and hoped they held water.

Some kind of funky butter in the first, tea leaves in the second, an aromatic spice in the third. She popped the lid off the last one and sighed in relief.

The water going down her throat felt like heaven. She drank as much as she dared and stopped far from being satisfied. She was in the middle of the desert. When she left, she had to take as much water with her as she could.

She remembered the men at the oasis, the fight, Saeed. She needed to figure out where she was, get her hands on some food and water, borrow or steal a car, or at least a horse. She wasn’t sure she could manage a camel, but if it came to that, she’d sure as hell try.

Voices rose and fell outside like music. She could make contact and hope they were friendly and would help her with supplies, or sneak away before anyone realized she had come to. She looked through a small gap in the outer panel of the tent where time had loosened the threads of the weaving.

She could see another dozen tents from her vantage point, a couple of men around an open fire, armed as if for war, with bullet-studded belts looped over their shoulders and rifles lying across their knees or in the sand next to them.

A sudden noise behind her made her spin around into a crouch, ready to fight.

A small boy of five or so stood by the tent divider, wearing a colorful dress, his large brown eyes rounded at the sight of her. She straightened and smiled, not wanting to scare him.

He watched her with open curiosity, unruly black curls framing his head, gold glinting at his ears. After a few seconds of perusal, he spoke in Arabic.

Dara smiled and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m Salah. Are you my new teacher?”

“No,” she said.

His big brown eyes rounded even larger. “Is my father going to marry you?”

“Absolutely not. I’m just visiting.”

He visibly relaxed. “That’s what Fatima said. She says Father will marry for alliance between the tribes. He can’t marry a foreigner. It wouldn’t be any use at all.”

Dara blinked at so much practicality coming from such a little person. Who was Fatima? Probably one of the boy’s father’s wives.

“Is your father Saeed?”

The boy nodded.

The fact that there were women and children around set her at ease. She didn’t think it would be so at a renegade terrorist camp. Saeed had saved her life by carrying her out of the desert. And he had said he would help her to get to the city once she was better. She would just have to convince him she was better now. She had no time to waste.

“Can you take me to your father, Salah?”

The child shook his head. “He’s with the elders. I’ll call Fatima and Lamis and then he can talk to you when he comes back.”

Of course. Although Beharrain was a progressive country, in most regions the old traditions held fast. Women did not keep company with men unless they were related. She had read the culture advisory report, all twenty pages of its dos and don’ts before deployment.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that.”

The child ran off, and Dara stepped to one of the tent poles, felt around inside the woven bags that hung from it. Clothes, yarn, some funky tools she couldn’t recognize—maybe for cooking or weaving—none of them suitable as a weapon. Damn it. She needed to be ready in case she couldn’t bring Saeed around to take her to Tihrin right away. She needed food and water, transportation, and weapons for self-defense.

She stepped away from the bags a split second before two young women came in, one around twenty, the other a year or two younger, introducing themselves as Fatima and Lamis. They wore beautiful dresses, one purple, one dark green with gold thread designs. They brought food and water, and set it in front of her.

“How are you?” Fatima, the older one, asked with a pronounced accent. She was stunning. Her ebony hair reached to the middle of her back, visible through the sheer black scarf that covered it. “Please let me know if you don’t like this.” She pointed to the tray of food. “I can bring something else.”

Dara sat by the plate when the women did, and gave herself points for not tackling them and diving for the food as soon as they’d come through the flap. “Thank you.” She reached for a piece of fruit first, a thick slice of melon, wanting to ease her stomach into eating, trying to avoid being sick.

The melon juice tasted like honey, its aromatic flavor flooding her taste buds. Tears sprung to her eyes at the relief of having food again. Until this moment, no matter how much she had refused to let herself think of it, she hadn’t been sure she would survive. And still, it was a long way to the city yet. She reached for a boiled egg. Protein. She needed that to regain her strength.

When she finished eating, Fatima rummaged through one of the woven bags and brought over a black scarf and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” Dara ran her fingers through her hair, surprised to find it washed and combed. “When did I come here?”

Fatima looked at her with surprise on her face. “Yesterday. Our brother found you in the desert.”

Our brother. They were Saeed’s sisters. She wondered where the little boy’s mother was. She fumbled with the scarf. A mirror would have helped.

Lamis came over, took the sheer material from her and secured it with ease. “It is our custom to cover our hair.”

“But not your face?” Dara thought of the images she’d seen on TV.

“Not our tribe. It is different in every region. When we’re in the desert we follow the tribal customs, when we’re in the city, we follow the customs of the city. There we cover everything. Wahhabism.” She made a face as she said the word, then leaned back to survey her handiwork. “Very pretty.” She smiled.

“Thank you.”

The little boy ran in, stared at Dara for a moment, said something in Arabic, then ran out.

Fatima rose. “Our brother is ready to see you.” She stepped to the divider, parted it and stepped through first, holding it for Dara.

She followed, ready to make her case, to bargain or manipulate, whatever would be needed. Then she saw Saeed. He sat cross-legged in front of the glowing embers of a fire.

His headdress rested in a relaxed loop around his neck now, his face uncovered. Kaboom. His cobalt-blue eyes shone from his tanned face, above the straight nose and masculine lips. Strength and power radiated from him like heat and light from the fire. He had a paralyzing effect on her. She could hear blood rush in her ears, loudly like a waterfall. She was not going to faint. She pressed her short nails into her palm. God, this was ridiculous. Her reaction to the man was absurd.

Fatima and Lamis sat, and she sank onto the carpet next to them, the air leaving her lungs with a whoosh as a strange sensation sucked in like quicksand every coherent thought in her mind. The rest of the tent dimmed then began to spin slowly. The food, she thought. She had eaten too much too fast. She held fast to his piercing gaze, clear and steady.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” His deep voice filled the tent as well as her chest cavity.

She nodded, unable to form words. If only he knew.

“Exposure can tax the body,” he said.

Of course. That was why she was feeling so discombobulated. She needed to drink more, eat enough to regain her strength.

“Have you remembered anything?” His gaze was mesmerizing.

“No,” she croaked out her first word at last, and hoped to hell it sounded convincing.

He nodded. “You will stay here until you do.”

“No.” The protest flew from her lips. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She tried to temper it, to give him a good, logical reason. “I need to contact the embassy as soon as possible. There might be people worried about me.”

He gave her a long, hard look.

She pushed on. “How far are we from Tihrin, the town you mentioned?”

“About three hundred kilometers. What is your name?”

“I don’t remember.” He’d asked her that before. Was he trying to trip her up?

“I can help you hide from those who seek to harm you.”

His words sounded sincere. Too bad she had no idea what he was getting at. Did he know about the plane crashing? Was whoever shot it down hunting her? All the more reason to get to Tihrin fast. “Thank you,” she said. I think.

“There are those who seek to harm me. A friend who might lead me to my enemies would prove a good friend indeed and would be well rewarded,” he went on.

Huh? The oasis. Did he think she knew the men who had attacked him? “I would help you if I could.”

This much was true. She did not wish to see him dead.

Voices rose outside the tent, men yelling.

“When your memory returns, I want to be told at once.” He sat without moving, his gaze not leaving her for a second. Indeed, it had not left her since she had come in.

A woman called out and Dara glanced in the direction of the voice, realizing for the first time that the entrance flap of the tent was open to the outside. Saeed responded in Arabic and the woman stepped in, carrying a pail.

“This is Shadia. She took care of you when you arrived,” Saeed said. “She wishes to take care of your eye infection.”

Dara rubbed her eye. Eye infection. Great. Damn this stupid sand that got in everywhere and irritated everything.

The woman, her clothes worn but clean, settled down next to her, dipped a scrap of wool into the dark yellow liquid in the pail.

And then Dara got a whiff of it. “What’s that?”

The intensity on Saeed’s face relaxed into watchfulness, with some humor glinting around his eyes. “Camel urine. It’s a very strong disinfectant.”

Okay then. She came to her feet startling the woman. “No, thank you.”

“She already treated you with it several times when you were unconscious.”

Dara made a note not to pass out ever again as long as she lived. People did weird stuff to you, abusing your weakness.

“Thank you.” She bowed to the woman. “I’m much better now.”

Shadia looked confused, then shook her head with disapproval when Saeed translated, but picked up her bucket and left the tent.

Dara sat back down. Close call with camel urine averted. What else had they done to her while she was out? She had a feeling she didn’t want to know.

“Shadia is a very competent servant,” Saeed said. “You can trust yourself to her. If the eye gets worse, you will have to do something to treat it.”

“I’ll make sure to see a doctor in Tihrin.” She stared at the hint of a grin that hovered over his masculine lips. The man had a mouth to die for.

He looked toward the tent’s opening and she followed his gaze, watching a man approach. His brother, she knew without being told. Saeed looked like some ancient Bedouin warlord, terror of the caravans. The younger man who entered the tent looked smoother, boyishly handsome instead of ruggedly so, like an actor Hollywood would choose to play Saeed’s role in the movie made about him.

He greeted Saeed without taking his eyes off her. That was different, too—his irises were golden brown instead of blue. They shone with intensity as he took her in.

Saeed said something to him. He didn’t respond.

“My brother, Nasir,” he said then.

Nasir nodded to her, said something to Saeed that made him stand.

“I must leave. Welcome to our tent. If you need anything, you need only to ask one of my sisters.” He stepped through the flap and after a few moments called back for Nasir.

And then, the younger man finally dropped his gaze from her face and reluctantly left.

Phew. Double whammy. Dara took a giant breath and felt the air flood her lungs. She had barely breathed while the men were in there. Fatima and Lamis stood, so she did, too, registering for the first time this side of the tent. The divider looked stunning from here. It wasn’t badly woven as she’d first thought, but had the good side toward the men’s section.

Carpets covered most of the sand, except for around the fire. An ancient curved sword hung from one of the poles. She made a mental note of that. Better than nothing.

A strange contraption sat in the corner. A camel saddle, she realized after a moment. She spotted two ammunition belts as she turned, but no guns. Then she didn’t have the chance to gawk any longer as both Fatima and Lamis were already on the other side of the divider, expecting her to follow them.

She went straight to the carpet and blankets she’d woken up on, sat and ate the remainder of her food, drank some water and lay down. She had to regain her full strength then get to town. If an opportunity didn’t present itself, she’d create one.

She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep, not wanting to be bothered, and especially not wanting to be asked any questions she was not at liberty to answer.

The women chatted on in the corner, paying little mind to her. Good. She needed time to think up a plan.

DARA OPENED HER EYES and peered around in the dark tent, listening to the sound of gentle snoring somewhere nearby. A moment later when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the lone sleeping figure by the outer wall of the tent. Shadia, the servant woman.

She better not have—Dara rubbed her eyes with her fingers, sniffed them. No suspicious odor. Good. Shadia hadn’t done anything disgusting to her while she’d slept. Which was fortunate for everyone around. Because although she’d shown amazing restraint and politeness this afternoon, not wanting to offend her host, if somebody came near her with a bucket of camel urine again, she was ready to defend herself.

She sat up, careful not to make a sound. Now that her body was rehydrated and she had food in her stomach, she was close to being back to her full strength. The rest helped, too. She was ready—if not for leaving, at least for a small reconnaissance mission. Although, if she came across a vehicle she could grab, she was out of here.

She rose little by little, arranged the blankets to show a lump in case Shadia woke and looked her way. Barefoot, she crept toward the spot where the wall carpets overlapped, separated them silently and peeked through to Saeed’s side. The flap was closed, this section of the tent as dark as the other.

The sword was gone from the pole.

Saeed didn’t trust her. She couldn’t blame him.

Her eyes settled on a briefcase by the tent’s outer wall. It hadn’t been there before. She moved forward silently, stopped and listened before squatting down. She pressed her palm against the lock to muffle the sound as she pushed the button. The metal clasp sprang open against her skin with a barely audible click. She let it up slowly.

The briefcase’s lid opened without a sound, and she rummaged through the contents, identifying them as much by feel as sight in the dimness of the tent. Files, a couple of letters—their envelopes previously opened—a satellite phone. Her fingers closed around the latter. She stopped to listen for anyone approaching from outside. Nothing.

She flipped the phone open and turned it on, dialed the Colonel’s number, held her breath at the series of beeps, but the servant woman’s snoring remained steady. The phone rang on the other side. What time was it there? Midafternoon, she guessed. Then finally the Colonel came on the line.

Cupping her left hand around the phone and her mouth, she whispered her identifying number for this mission.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The others? We’ve had no contact.”

“No, sir.” She swallowed, and told him about the crash.

“What is your location?”

“I’m not sure, sir. I’m at some kind of a Bedouin camp, three hundred kilometers from Tihrin. The clan leader is someone by the name of Saeed.”

“Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad?”

Sheik? She swallowed again, pulled an envelope from the briefcase and held it up to the meager light the phone’s LCD provided. The addresses were in Arabic. She picked up another, the same. The third had come from England, bearing careful lettering she finally recognized. Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad ibn Salim ben Zayed. “Yes, sir,” she said. “He’s the one.”

And the name clicked at once: the man the U.S. sought to support to take over the throne, the man who refused all outside assistance.

“How did you find him? He disappeared three days ago.”

“He found me in the desert, sir. He was under some kind of attack.”

A moment of silence on the other side. “You must stay with him. It is imperative for the region’s stability that he remains alive. As of now, your number-one objective is to ensure that. Your mission just changed, soldier. You’re now assigned to his personal protection.”