Please, she prayed. Make it quick. “Death rides a fast camel,” Auda always said. Willa fervently hoped he was right.
The men sat her down in the chair and tied her arms behind her back. In the light of the room, she could see how filthy she was. Her clothes were in tatters. Her shoes had been taken away weeks ago. Her feet were covered in dirt. A dull red rash covered her ankles.
“What is your name?” the warden asked her. In English.
“Little Bo Peep,” Willa said. She’d been asked her name several times since she’d arrived at the prison and had steadfastly refused to reveal it.
The warden slapped her across her face. Hard. Her head snapped back. She slowly raised it again, sat up straight, and stared straight ahead.
There were more questions. More smart answers, or no answers. The questions got louder. And the slaps turned to punches. Willa felt her right eye swell up, tasted blood at the corner of her mouth, and still she gave them nothing. She thought of Seamie. Of Kilimanjaro. Of their time together in London. And she gave her captors nothing.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, you filthy bitch?” the warden finally said to her in English. “I’m going to stick my big fat cock up your ass and make you scream. And when I’m done, my men will have a turn.”
Willa, her head lolling on her chest now, laughed. “Are you? For your sake, I hope you have a cold,” she said. “A bad one. I hope you can’t smell a thing.”
The warden cursed at her. He turned to one of his men and, forgetting to switch back to Turkish, said, “I’m not touching her. She stinks like a sewer. Her hair’s crawling with lice. She probably has typhus. He’s here now, isn’t he? Go and get him. He can do his own dirty work. From what I hear, he’s very good at it.”
Typhus, Willa thought woozily. Well, that’s me done for. I only wish it had carried me off sooner.
She wondered who the he the warden had talked about was and wondered if she would stay conscious long enough to find out. The door opened again. Someone new walked into the room. She heard harsh words. It was a man. He was speaking German. A rough hand grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head up.
“Um Gottes Willen!” the man said. He was close now. His voice sounded strangely familiar.
There was the sound of laughter, mirthless and bitter. And then the man said, “I should’ve guessed it was you. Namaste, Willa Alden. Namaste.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Seamie stared at the sheared and twisted metal of the Sopwith Strutter. How Willa had survived such a violent crash was beyond him. She must have been injured, he thought. Badly. The pilot certainly had been. His headless body still sat in the cockpit, festering in the desert sun.
“What do, Boss?” Abdul, his guide, said in his broken English.
What do, indeed, Seamie thought. If only I knew.
It had taken them twelve days to reach the crash site—twelve days of arduous travel in the blazing desert sun. As Seamie could speak little Arabic, and most tribesmen spoke no English, Albie thought it might be useful for Seamie to have images of Willa. They’d stopped in every village along the way, showing the pictures of Willa. They’d questioned Bedouins on the move, traders, goatherds—anyone they saw—using up precious time in the pursuit of information on Willa’s whereabouts, but no one had seen her. No one had heard a thing. They’d stopped to sleep only when it was too dark to see, then risen at dawn’s first light to try to gain as much ground as they could.
They’d arrived at the crash site only minutes earlier, and Seamie had been careful to search the perimeter of the site for any tracks left by Willa’s abductors, but the wind had swept them away.
He turned around in a circle now, trying to take in the lay of the land, trying to piece together what might have happened to Willa and where she might be. If Turkish soldiers had taken her, she would likely be in a military prison in a garrison town or at an army camp. If tribal raiders had taken her, she could be anywhere.
Seamie told Abdul to rest himself and the animals. As Abdul dismounted, Seamie took his map—the one Albie had given him—out of his saddlebag. The map indicated known Turkish camps in the desert, watering holes frequented by the Bedouin, and desert settlements too small to have names.
Since he had not been able to discover anything during his journey east to the crash site, or from the site itself, Seamie decided that the next thing to do would be to start riding in an ever-widening circle around the site, hoping to spot tracks, a trail, anything.
He was all too aware of how little time he had before he had to be back in Haifa and on his new ship, and how much ground he had to cover before then. How he would ever find Willa in this endless godforsaken nothingness, he did not know. It was like trying to find a grain of sand in … well, a desert.
Abdul, already drowsing in the shade of his camel, did not see the raiding party as it approached from the south. Nor did Seamie, who was carefully studying Albie’s map. He was not aware of them at all until one of their camels bellowed, and by then it was too late. All but one of the men had already jumped down from their camels and surrounded them. They wore dusty white robes, head scarves, and daggers in their belts.
Abdul woke up with a start and scrambled to his feet. “Raiders. Six of them. Very terrible news,” he said.
“So I gather,” Seamie said. “What do you want?” he asked the men. But he got no answer.
One of them went to Seamie’s camel, opened his saddlebag, and started digging through it.
“Hey! What are you doing there! Get your hands off that!” Seamie shouted angrily.
He made a move to stop the man and instantly found a dagger at his throat. The raider pulled out a pistol, bullets, and a photograph of Willa that Albie had given Seamie. The raider handed the goods to the sixth man, a tall, fearsome-looking Bedouin who was still seated atop his camel and who seemed to be the leader. The leader examined the gun, then the photographs, and then he shouted at Seamie.
Abdul translated as best he could. “He asks why you have these photographs,” Abdul said. “He asks your name.”
“Tell him I ask that he kiss my arse!” Seamie yelled. “Tell him to put my things back and take his bloody pack of thieves out of here.”
Abdul, wide-eyed, shook his head no.
“Tell him!” Seamie shouted.
The Bedouin shouted at Abdul, too, until Abdul, quaking in his robes, did as he was told. The Bedouin listened to Abdul’s words. He nodded, laughed, then barked an order at one of his men.
Seamie never saw the man take the pistol from beneath his robes, never saw him grasp it by its barrel and raise it high, never saw the blow coming.
Chapter Sixty-Five
“Oh, Gran! I’m so glad you’re here!” Katie Bristow said, rushing down the stairs of her parents’ Mayfair house. “Come upstairs, will you?” she said, tugging on her arm.
“Goodness, Katie! Let me get my coat off first!” Rose Bristow said breathlessly. Katie had rung her an hour ago, sounding very upset. Rose had grabbed her things and come as quickly as she could. “What’s going on?” she asked Katie now. “You were talking a thousand words to the minute on the blower. I could hardly understand you.”
“It’s Mum. She’s barely eaten since she and Dad came back from hospital, and that was nearly two weeks ago! She doesn’t sleep. She barely speaks. She just lies in her bed, all curled up in a ball.”
Rose frowned. “Where’s your father gone?” she asked.
“He went back to Wickersham Hall. To see Charlie. He’s tried everything, Gran. He talked to her. Held her. Brought her cups of tea. He even yelled at her. Nothing worked. Then he called me to come home from school. But nothing I do works, either, and I’ve done everything I can think of. I don’t know what else to do, Gran. I’ve never seen Mum like this. Never,” Katie said, and then she burst into tears.
Rose took her granddaughter in her arms and soothed her. “Hush now, Katie. We’ll sort it all out. Your mum’s had a terrible shock. She
just needs some time to find her feet again, that’s all. Go downstairs now and get yourself a cup of tea and I’ll go up to her.”
Rose took hold of the banister and started up the stairs. She hadn’t been to see Charlie yet. Peter, her husband, was very poorly with a chest complaint, and with that terrible influenza going around, she’d hadn’t wanted to leave him in case it got worse. Joe had come to see her, though, and had told her what had happened. She’d never seen her son so broken-looking.
Life, Rose well knew, could throw some hard punches at you, but nothing hurt as much as losing a child, or seeing one of your children hurt and suffering. Becoming a parent changed you forever, as nothing else could. Not good or bad fortune. Not friendships. Not even a man or a woman.
Rose remembered how she was before she married and had children, when she was a young woman. She was slim and small, with a pretty face and figure. Several lads had wanted to court her. She had prayed and wished and hoped for all sorts of silly things then. For ribbons. For thick hair and pink cheeks. For a pretty dress. For a husband who was handsome and let her spend the pin money.
After she became a mother, she had only ever prayed for one thing: that no harm would ever come to her children.
She reached the landing now and—huffing and puffing slightly—walked down the hallway to Fiona and Joe’s bedroom. She knocked on the door, received no answer, and walked in.
Her daughter-in-law was in her bed, fully clothed, with her back to the door. Rose’s heart clenched at the sight of her. She knew Fiona had lost her own mother when she was young. Kate Finnegan had been Rose’s close friend. They’d lived on the same street when they were newly married. For the love of Kate, and of Fiona, Rose had tried to be a mother to her daughter-in-law all these years.
“What’s all this then, eh, Fiona?” she said gently. “Lolling about in bed all day, are we? That’s not the Fiona I know. How about you come downstairs now? And join Katie and me in the kitchen for a nice cup of tea?”
She sat down on the bed next to Fiona and began to rub her back. “You’ve got both Joe and Katie at their wits’ end with worry. The littler ones are running rings around poor old Mrs. Pillower. Mr. Foster’s at a loss. Even the dogs look sorry for themselves. No one knows what to do without you to tell them. You’ve got to get up now.”
Rose heard a sob, and then another. Fiona turned around, and Rose saw that her face was swollen and her eyes were red from crying.
“I try to get up, Rose,” she said in a small, choked voice. “I try to get out of this bed, but when I do, all I can see are the faces of the men in the veterans’ hospital. All the young men who look like old men now because of what’s happened to them. And I see a new face among them—my Charlie, who doesn’t even know me anymore. He’s gone, Rose.”
“He’s not gone. He’s in a good hospital in Oxford with his uncle Sid and auntie India, where he’ll get good care. The best. There’s no better place for him,” Rose said.
Fiona shook her head. “You didn’t see him. My beautiful boy is gone. There’s a stranger in his place. A hollowed-out, dead-eyed stranger. How could he do it, Rose? The lieutenant … Stevens is his name. How could he do what he did to Charlie? Nothing happened to him. No disciplinary action was taken against him. He should be in jail for what he did. He destroyed my son. Charlie will never get better. How can he? There’s nothing there anymore. He doesn’t have a chance.”
Rose let her weep. She let her cry the grief and rage out, and when she had stopped, when the sobs had subsided to silent tears, Rose said, “Listen to me, Fiona, and listen well. If you really believe that Stevens has destroyed Charlie, then he has. And then you’re right—the poor lad doesn’t have a chance. Not as long as you stay in this bed. Not as long as you’ve given up on him.”
Fiona wiped her eyes. For the first time since Rose had come into the room, Fiona met her eyes.
“He’s still there,” Rose said. “He’s just gone deep inside himself. To someplace quiet and safe. Where the shells can’t get at him. Where he can’t see his dead friend anymore. You’re his mother. If anyone can get to him and pull him back out, you can. But you’ve got to try. You’ve got to fight. I’ve known you since the day you were born, Fiona. You’ve fought your whole life. For God’s sake, don’t stop now.”
“But I don’t know how, Rose. I don’t know what to do,” Fiona said helplessly.
Rose laughed. She took Fiona’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Do we ever know what to do, we mothers?” she asked her. “Did I know what to do when Joe had his first bout of croup? Did you know what to do when Charlie fell out of a tree and broke his arm? No. You never know what to do. You just figure it all out somehow because you have to. If you don’t, who will?” Rose said.
Fiona nodded.
“All you have to do, lass, is try,” Rose said, patting her arm. “I know you can do that for Charlie. I know you can.”
Fiona sat up. “Can I, Rose? Really?”
“Yes, of course you can,” Rose said. “You’ll find him, Fiona. I know you will. You’ll find him and bring him back to us.”
“Do you promise?” Fiona asked, her voice small and uncertain.
Rose thought about her damaged grandson. She thought about what had happened to him, about the horror of having to wipe his dead friend’s blood off him. She thought about how cruelly he’d been abused and how people had been driven hopelessly mad over less.
And then she thought about the woman sitting next to her, and all that she’d overcome in her life, and how her losses and sorrows had not made her bitter and cruel, they’d only made her stronger, kinder, and more generous.
“I do,” Rose said, smiling. “I promise.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Seamie opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he muttered. “What’s happened?”
He blinked a few times to clear his vision, then tried to sit up, ignoring the pain battering at his skull. Groaning, he lay back down again.
He looked around and realized he was lying on a soft rug, inside a tent. How he’d got here, he did not know. For a few seconds he could remember nothing, and then it all came back to him: He’d been at the crash site with Abdul when the raiders arrived. He’d mouthed off to their leader. One of the raiders must have coshed him.
“Bloody hell,” he said. Then he called for Abdul. Loudly.
A woman, alerted by his shouts, came into the tent and looked at him. She quickly went out again, shouting herself. A few minutes later, Abdul came dashing into the tent.
“Where are the camels?” Seamie asked him. “Where are our things?”
Before Abdul could answer him, another man came into the tent. Seamie recognized him; he was the raiders’ leader. Behind him came the woman. She was wrapped in robes of indigo blue, with a veil across the lower half of her face.
“This is Khalaf al Mor,” Abdul said, in a hushed voice, “sheik of the Beni Sahkr. The woman is Fatima, his first wife.”
“I don’t care if he’s George the fifth, tell him to give me back my gear,” Seamie growled.
Abdul ignored him. Khalaf al Mor held up the photograph of Willa. He looked at Abdul, then nodded.
“The sheik wishes to know why you have these photographs,” Abdul said.
Khalaf then held up a necklace. Seamie could not know it, but it was the very one Fatima had given Willa, the one her abductors took from her.
“The sheik also wishes you to tell him what you know about this necklace,” Abdul said. In a lower voice he added, “I advise you to make no further references to your backside.”
Seamie looked at the Bedouin. Why was the man so interested in Willa’s photograph? He had asked about it at the crash site, too. Did he know something about her? It suddenly dawned on him that perhaps Khalaf al Mor could help him. For the first time in days, a spark of hope kindled inside of him.
“Tell the sheik my name is Seamus Finnegan and that I’m a captain with the British Navy. Tell him I know nothing a
bout the necklace, but the photographs are of my friend, Willa Alden. She was in a plane crash. Out by the Jabal ad Duruz hills,” Seamie said. “Tell him I’m looking for her. I want to find her.”
Fatima shrilled at Abdul. It seemed to Seamie that she was desperate to know what he, Seamie, had just said. Abdul translated. Khalaf nodded as he spoke, but his expression—one of mistrust—never changed. Fatima chattered at her husband. Khalaf impatiently waved her away.
“The sheik wishes to know if this woman is so important to you, why is she not your wife?”
“Because I already have a wife,” Seamie said. “Back in England.”
Abdul related his answer to the sheik and his wife. Fatima let out a loud exclamation. She shrilled at her husband again. He flapped a hand at her then said something to Abdul.
“The sheik says that your explanation is like a cracked pot and will not hold water,” Abdul said.
“Why the hell does he say that?” Seamie asked.
“Because a man may have more than one wife,” he replied.
“Not in England he can’t,” Seamie said.
Abdul relayed that information to Khalaf. Fatima, listening, excitedly talked at her husband again, quite loudly. Khalaf barked at her, silencing her. Then he spoke to Abdul again.
“The sheik says he has heard of this custom before,” Abdul said. “He admits it may have its advantages. But he wishes to know how one wife alone can give you many sons. A man must have twenty at least.”
“Well, I don’t have twenty, but I do have one,” Seamie said. He held one hand up to show he was not reaching for a weapon, then dug into his back pocket, hoping his wallet was still there. It was. He pulled it out, opened it, and showed Khalaf the photograph of little James standing with Jennie.
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