by C. J. Miller
They climbed into the car and drove through the gate into the emir’s compound. Despite passing the security screening at the gate, Laila didn’t feel relief that the first gauntlet had been passed. They were now in the lion’s den.
* * *
The foyer of the emir’s main house was four stories high, a large aviary filled with colorful birds hung from the ceiling. On ground level, blue marble fountains located on either side of the double mahogany doors of the formal entryway spurted water.
They were greeted by the emir’s head butler who snapped his fingers for an attendant to appear and escort them to their room. Or more precisely, their rooms. Within the walls of the compound, Harris and Laila would not be permitted to spend time together in private without supervision. If they needed to speak alone, they would have to arrange a secret meeting.
With a bid goodbye, Laila’s uncle followed an attendant to his room.
Once she was escorted to her room, another attendant waited at Laila’s door, making it clear he wasn’t leaving her and Harris without a chaperone. Never mind that she’d been living in another country where she might have been alone with a man at any time, in the emir’s home, his rules applied. For that matter, in the emir’s country, his rules applied. She’d grown up with the same rules and restrictions, but in the last couple of years, she’d grown accustomed to freedom. Being here already felt stifling.
She was Qamsarian royalty and with that came intrusions into every aspect of her life. She’d been raised to accept that her life was not her own. Only since the death of her father two years ago and her subsequent time in America had she questioned that eventuality.
“I’ll unpack my things and take a shower. How about we meet in an hour?” Harris asked. “You can show me Qamsar. You’ve spoken so often about the souk, I’d love to see it. Maybe get a gift for your mother.”
She and Harris would be staying in rooms on opposite ends of the guest corridor. Laila wished he could stay closer. At least within shouting distance. She’d never spoken to Harris about the marketplace, but Laila nodded along. If he needed to go to the souk, she’d provide what cover she could.
She closed the door to her suite. What would she do for the next hour? She should call her mother to tell her that she’d arrived. Her mother was staying in the family’s country home about twenty minutes from the compound.
Nervous about speaking to her mother and giving something away, Laila stalled. She opened her luggage and hung her dresses and veils. The trip had pressed wrinkles into the fabric, but she could send them to be pressed later. She set her toiletries in the en suite on the counter.
She jumped at the sensation of hands on her waist. She whirled and found herself looking at Harris. His blue eyes were bright, and his full lips caught her attention.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I missed you,” he said, his eyes twinkling in amusement.
Her heart rate jumped. He had? They’d been apart for less than twenty minutes. She pushed his hands away.
“I need to check your room,” he said.
Disappointment plowed through her. He’d been teasing. Flirting with her. As part of their role or because he liked her? Before they’d left the States, Harris had made it clear, once he was in character, he stayed that way. It was easier to live the lie fully immersed, as opposed to switching roles. How much of his flirtation was the real Harris, and how much was him playing a role? It was their first day in this charade, and Laila was questioning their relationship. It was a disquieting emotional place to be.
“How do you know no one saw you come in here?” she asked.
“I was careful. I came in through the balcony.” He pointed across the room to the sliding glass doors.
She hadn’t heard him open the doors. Or land on the balcony for that matter. She needed to be more alert.
Harris walked around her room, fiddling with his cell phone. “I can’t get a signal.” He swung the phone in every direction. After several minutes, he stopped. “Your room is clean. Mine is not.”
Laila lifted her brow. He’d been using his phone to check for surveillance equipment. “Your room is bugged?”
“Audio surveillance. Probably not video, but I can’t be sure. I had to get creative with leaving my room. Good thing all of the balconies are close together.”
“Did you remove the bug?” she asked.
“And tip off whoever planted it that I found it? No way. I’ll wait for the right opportunity and have it malfunction. Closer to the wedding, when more guests are staying here, the staff will be stretched too thin to follow up on a broken transmitter. By then I’ll have won them over with my charm.” He grinned at her. His smile threw fuel on the crush she’d developed on him. Some men were too handsome for their own good.
“You won’t win anyone over if someone finds you in my room.” It would be a terrible breach of protocol and inappropriate at best.
His face reflected concern. “No one saw me. I needed to know you were okay.”
Whenever he looked at her that way, his eyes bright and filled with emotion, heat spread across her chest. Did he mean what he said? Or was he being the German boyfriend? She couldn’t bring herself to put it into words. It was too embarrassing and too needy to ask, “Do you like me or are you using me?”
It was better for both of them to assume the latter.
A knock at her door sounded and fear raced through her. Harris had to hide. If he was discovered in her room, she would be in serious trouble. Could he fit under the bed? Should he go out the balcony? Harris didn’t wait for instruction. He was nearest to the closet, and he pulled open the bifold door, gestured to her and the suite’s door, and then silently closed the door behind him.
Laila steadied her nerves and opened the door to her room. Mikhail was on the other side, hands clasped behind his back, a somber expression on his face. He stepped into her room and looked around. “Do you find your accommodations pleasing?” he asked.
Did he know something? Mikhail was her brother, but her nerves tightened, and her mouth went dry. He’d never been easy to get along with, and since becoming emir, he was more difficult, his temper on a hair trigger.
As a child, Mikhail had been hot-tempered. As a young adult, he’d had an elitist, entitled attitude. Growing up, Mikhail had been close with her uncle, her father’s youngest brother, Hakim. Hakim didn’t believe in changing Qamsar’s culture or in civil rights for minorities or the poor. He supported the old ways and believed that power was best placed with the royal family, and everyone else should do as commanded for the betterment of the country. Hakim was killed in a sandstorm when he was thirty, and his death had affected Mikhail deeply. Mikhail had admired him and his beliefs about preserving the culture of Qamsar. If Al-Adel was feeding into Mikhail’s ideas, perhaps Mikhail had found the coconspirator he’d been missing since Hakim had died. It was the best explanation she could come up with for why her brother was so different from their father and her other brother, Saafir.
Instead of the guest suites, Laila would have rather stayed in her old room, but Mikhail had remodeled that part of the compound, and her and her brother Saafir’s bedrooms had been repurposed. “Yes, thank you for your hospitality.” Her decorum with her brother lacked warmth, but that had been the case for years. Despite her father’s insistence they behave amicably with each other, they’d never developed a close relationship, and with the shadow of the car bombing looming, anxiety in her brother’s company was high.
Mikhail lifted his chin, looking down at her. “I was surprised to learn you’d attend the wedding. You gave the impression you had too much work to do in America.” The last word of his sentence sounded like he was spitting bile.
“I made arrangements. I wanted to be part of your special day. I know how important this is to you and Qamsar.” She hated lying. Was her face turning red? Heat flamed up her body, and her cheeks felt hot.
Mikhail nodded his approval of her decision. “I w
as worried you were turning into a liberal Yank.”
Mikhail’s dislike for America wasn’t a secret. He wanted to move the Qamsarian economy forward and bring more wealth to the country. He saw America as both an impediment and a necessity to that end. Negotiating with the American government frustrated Mikhail. He was accustomed to having power, and as the smaller country with fewer resources, he had to compromise his goals to gain the support of the larger country. Turning away from working with America wasn’t an option unless he could build a lucrative alliance with another country. The people of Qamsar wanted those connections, those protections and those ties to market their products internationally.
“Of course not. I am loyal to my country.” She was betraying her brother by being here, by allowing Harris to spy on Mikhail’s wedding and within the compound to find Al-Adel, but she was doing what was right for Qamsar.
“I heard about your car trouble in America,” Mikhail said.
Her car trouble? Was he referring to the attempt on her life? Harris had discussed with her how to play it. “The authorities are looking into it. I am sure they will find the guilty person.”
“Probably some hateful, anti-Middle Eastern American with too much time on his hands. Maybe you should take it as a sign to come home,” Mikhail said.
Laila studied him carefully, looking for indications of guilt. Would he say more on the topic if she remained quiet? Mikhail wouldn’t have set the bomb to force her to return to Qamsar. There were easier, less deadly ways to get her to leave America. Would he insist she move back? “I am enjoying my studies.”
“Father always said you had an inquisitive mind and should be kept busy. That belief is the reason I haven’t made you return.”
At the mention of their father, grief brought tears to her eyes. Mikhail permitting her to study in America was out of deference for their father. She hadn’t considered that.
Mikhail looked away. “We need to talk later about the man you brought to the compound.”
He knew! Laila schooled her expression as panic raged inside her. Had she given herself or Harris away? Watching Mikhail’s face, Laila didn’t see signs of anger or danger. She calmed her racing thoughts. Her brother wanted to talk about the man who she’d brought home. If Mikhail believed Harris to be a spy or an American, they wouldn’t have been allowed to enter the house.
A creak sounded in the closet, and Laila forced herself not to turn. Did Mikhail hear it? Her heart beat a nervous staccato. “We can talk about it now if you’d like.” While Harris was close enough to protect her. Did Harris understand enough Arabic to follow their conversation?
“I have a meeting. I don’t have time. I stopped in because Mother asked me to do so when you arrived.”
An obligatory visit. “Thank you for saying hello.” Did her voice sound higher than normal, or was it in her head?
Mikhail looked around the room again. Had he heard Harris in the closet? Would he search the room before he left?
“As-salaam alaykum,” Mikhail said.
Laila lowered her eyes to the floor. “Wa alaykum as-salaam.”
Mikhail left the room, and Laila waited a full minute before she moved. Was he gone? Would he return? Harris stepped out of the closet.
“That was close,” Harris said and his mouth twitched.
Was he enjoying this? “Too close. We need to be careful.” Pangs of doubt played on her thoughts. When she had imagined herself speaking to her family, she was a good liar. They believed her. Could she maintain this lie while in front of them? She and her uncle had agreed not to discuss the operation inside the compound walls. She couldn’t speak the truth to anyone and had to maintain her cover at all times. She felt overwhelmed and terrified. “Someone will find out. It’s too suspicious.”
Harris’s eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Suspicious how?”
“I’ve never brought a man to meet the family.”
“You’ve also never been on your own for two years,” Harris said.
Time in America had changed her, but would her family view the change as too abrupt? “How can I play pretend around-the-clock?” She rubbed her temples where a massive stress headache was forming.
Harris pressed his lips together. “Let me offer a compromise.” He took a deep breath, and she waited. “When we’re alone in this room, you’ll be you and I’ll be Harris Truman. Anything you need to say to me or get off your chest, you do it here with me. The rest of the time, we stay undercover.”
A small measure of relief passed over her. She wouldn’t be alone in her room with Harris often, but he was offering her something. If their mission became too much, she had a brief sanctuary from the lies. “Thank you. Yes. Here it will be you and me. Out there,” she said and pointed to the door, “it is Princess Laila and wealthy heir Harris Kuhn.”
Princess Laila and Harris Kuhn were to be engaged. How would a woman in her position behave toward a man like Harris? Even if her thoughts had changed since living in America, the culture in Qamsar hadn’t moved forward. She had no firsthand experience with men in that way, or in any way, but Laila was curious and hopeful about that part of her life.
Laila’s gaze traveled to Harris’s mouth. No touches or kisses. It was what a Qamsarian woman expected from a relationship until she was married, but Laila wasn’t sure what she wanted from a relationship. If Laila had a German boyfriend, wouldn’t their relationship be a mixture of the two cultures? She drew in the heavy air, feeling as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in it. It was Harris. That connection, that electricity that never stopped flowing between them was making her think about relationships, desire and lust. Topics she’d put out of her mind, knowing they weren’t available to her.
Until now.
Until the possibility of staying in the United States and building a life where she was more than a submissive wife and mother were on the table. The possibility of marrying for love. She could be herself in a relationship. An equal partner.
“Will your brother stop by to see you often?” Harris asked.
Though he spoke in Arabic, he had dropped his German accent. Hearing his American accent on the Arabic words for the first time since they’d arrived in Qamsar was startling. “Hard to say. We lived together before I moved in with my aunt and uncle. Mikhail and I have never gotten along,” Laila said.
“We’ll expect interruptions and be as careful as we can,” Harris said.
“I was worried the guards would find something when they searched the car and our luggage,” she said.
“Nothing to find.”
Laila held her tongue over the barrage of questions. The less she knew, the better. She couldn’t slip up and say anything in front of her family.
“I was planning to head to the souk and see the sights. Feel like helping me find my way?” Harris asked.
“We’ll need to find someone to accompany us.” Would that be a problem for him? What did he have planned? “Maybe after we do some shopping, we can have dinner with my mother at our family’s country house?”
Harris nodded. “No problem. Let’s find out how to get our hands on a car and an escort, and we’ll go.”
“I presume you’ll leave the way you came in?” she asked.
He winked at her. “You got it. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.” He waited at the balcony door for a few minutes before stepping outside.
The heat of the day rushed in, and Laila looked out the doors into the lush landscape. The emir’s gardens were beautifully maintained, every walking path clear, the plants shaped and benches clean. Did Mikhail spend much time walking in the gardens as their father had? The emir’s compound was the nicest place in Qamsar, containing the finest luxuries.
As a child, she had thought of the compound like a castle. Now it was large and foreboding, the last place she wanted to be.
Laila called her mother, disappointed when she didn’t answer her phone. She left a message, telling her mother she’d arrived safely and would see her soon.<
br />
She checked her appearance again in the mirror. If she was having dinner with her mother, it would be best for her to wear something less wrinkled. She selected a white dress that had the least crumpled fabric and wrapped a navy head scarf around her hair. Her dress was loose and comfortable, and would be cool in the heat of the afternoon.
After pulling on a pair of flat, plain shoes, she left her room and locked the door behind her. Not that she had any expectation of privacy. Mikhail would make it his business to be aware of everything that went on inside his compound. If he wanted to go into her room, he would.
Harris was waiting in the lobby for her, leaning against the wall, hands casually in his pockets. He had covered his head with a ghutra. Though it wasn’t expected for him to wear it, it would help him blend. With sunglasses over his eyes, he’d be less identifiable, his blond hair and light skin an obvious difference from most native Qamsarians with their darker skin and hair.
“Ready?” he asked. The German accent had returned.
Laila nodded and clasped her hands in front of her. Harris didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to. He followed her to the lobby where Mikhail’s butler explained the car situation. A driver would escort them to the souk and serve as their chaperone and security detail.
Harris didn’t seem upset by the arrangements. If he was planning to smuggle something into the compound to help them search for Al-Adel or to keep them safe, how would he do so with the driver watching them? The security guards at the front gate would search them and the car again. What was Harris planning? Their mission was to find Al-Adel and alert Harris’s team if they saw him or heard rumors about his arrival. Would Harris need a weapon to protect them if someone uncovered their real objectives for being at the wedding?
On the drive to the souk, Laila spoke to Harris about her life in Qamsar. Harris asked questions to spur the conversation. To anyone listening, it was a casual getting-to-know-you-better conversation.
When they arrived at the souk, the driver got out of the car and followed them. His behavior indicated his presence wasn’t a negotiation. Laila and Harris wouldn’t be alone for any portion of the trip.