Desert Man

by Barbara Faith

  “Three...” Ron Marshall’s Adam’s apple did a yo-yo-like bounce. “We...we’ll do anything we can to help, Prince Ben Ari. I know just the man to set things up for you.”

  “Actually, Mr. Marshall, I already have someone in mind. A young woman who works for you in Guatemala, a Miss McCall. I’ve met her and I must say I’m quite impressed with her background, and also by the fact that she’s had some experience in the Middle East. She’s the person I’d like to see come to Abdu Resaba.”

  “Well I...I don’t know how Miss McCall would feel about that.” Marshall ran a finger around his stiff white collar. “You see, she’s up for a promotion, and we had almost decided to send her to our main European office in Paris.”

  Kumar’s dark eyebrows came together in a frown, but before he could speak, Marshall said, “But I can assure you that the man I first thought of is an excellent administrator. I’m sure that he—”

  “I don’t think so.” Kumar started to rise. “If Miss McCall is unable to take the assignment I’ll give up on the idea, at least for a year or two.”

  “Oh, no! I...we wouldn’t want you to do that. I mean, we want to...to be of whatever assistance we can.” Marshall cleared his throat. “I’ll speak to Miss McCall. I don’t know how she’ll feel about accepting the assignment, but I’ll do my best to convince her.”

  “I hope so,” Kumar said. “If you don’t...” He let the words hang and watched with fascination as Marshall’s Adam’s apple yo-yoed at the thought of losing the three million dollars that until a few moments before had been almost in his grasp.

  “I’d like you to talk to Miss McCall as soon as you can.” Kumar eased himself back into the chair. “I’ll have my bank wire the three million—” Kumar studied the end of his cigarette “—just as soon as Miss McCall arrives in Abdu Resaba.”

  Ron Marshall dabbed at his upper lip with a clean white handkerchief. “I’ll call her,” he said. “I’ll order her to Washington immediately.”

  “Ask,” Kumar said in a deceptively soft voice. “Do not order.” He stood, dismissing Ron Marshall. “I’d appreciate your speaking to her as soon as possible,” he said. “Today, if it won’t inconvenience you.”

  “No, of course not. Today. Yes indeed, today,” Marshall said, as he backed himself out of the door.

  “Well, well, well.” James T. Harwood leaned back in his chair and grinned at Kumar. “Three million dollars? Miss McCall must be quite a woman.”

  “She is,” Kumar said with a satisfied smile. “Believe me, James, she really is.”

  * * *

  Two days after Kumar’s return to Abdu Resaba, Josie arrived in Washington. Ron Marshall had refused to tell her over the phone why he had summoned her, but she knew what it was. At last, just as she had hoped, the assignment had come through. She was going to Paris. And while she would be sorry to leave Guatemala, Paris was the answer to all that she had worked so hard for.

  Marshall rose from the big leather chair behind his desk. “Hello!” he said in a too hearty voice and held out his hand to her.

  Josie shook it. It was so unpleasantly damp that it took every bit of her willpower not to wipe her own hand on the skirt of her tailored dress.

  He seemed nervous. She wondered why. Offering a smile, she said, “Well, here I am. I hope I’ve come all this way to hear some good news.”

  “Good news?” He cleared his throat and motioned her to the chair opposite him. “Well...yes, I hope you’ll think so.”

  Josie clasped her hands together. “I’ve been waiting and hoping for this,” she said. “I’ve never been to Paris and—”

  “Not Paris,” he said interrupting her. “No, no, I’m afraid it isn’t Paris. Actually it’s something quite different and very...uh, challenging. Actually quite exotic.”

  “Exotic?” Her smile faded, she looked puzzled. “I’m not going to Paris?”

  “Well, no.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, Miss McCall, you’ve been assigned to Abdu Resaba for a year.”

  Josie’s green eyes widened as the words “Abdu Resaba” slowly sank in. In a voice of barely suppressed rage, she asked, “What did you say?”

  Marshall reclined farther back in his chair. “Abdu... Abdu Resaba. It’s a small oil-rich country in the Middle East. It borders on—”

  “I know what it borders on.” Josie stood, and with both hands flat on the desk, glared at Ron Marshall. “But if you think I’m going there, you’ve got another think coming.”

  He blanched, swallowed, and said, “Now, now, now,” in a voice which was intended to be soothing but was, in reality, a wheedling whine.

  “Don’t now me!” She was angrier than she had ever been in her life, because she knew that somehow, some way, Kumar Ben Ari had arranged this.

  She wouldn’t go. That was it. Final. No discussion. She’d stay in Guatemala forever if she had to, but she would not, by God, go to Abdu Resaba.

  Chin high, mouth firm, she said, “I won’t go.”

  “But you...you have no choice,” he sputtered.

  “I’ll return to Guatemala.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “What do you mean impossible?”

  “I’ve already assigned someone else. Alicia Mendoza. She’d asked to be sent somewhere in Central America. She’s Mexican and her Spanish is excellent.”

  “So’s mine.”

  Marshall shook his head. “It’s been decided.”

  Josie balled her hands into fists and held them to her sides so that she wouldn’t leap across the desk and throttle Ron Marshall.

  “Prince Kumar Ben Ari is making a three-million-dollar donation to International Health,” he said. “If you don’t go, I’m afraid I’ll have to accept your resignation. The prince is a powerful friend of the United States, a friend we most desperately need in that part of the world. To refuse his request for aid—aid he is quite willing to pay for—would not be a good diplomatic move.”

  He leaned across the desk. “Surely you’re aware of how desperately we are in need of money, Miss McCall. Three million dollars will feed a lot of hungry people.”

  Yes, it would feed a lot of hungry people. But Kumar wasn’t just buying aid for his country, he was trying to buy her! She’d been right about him, he was a chauvinist, determined to get his own way no matter what the cost.

  “Your office will be in the U.S. consulate building in Abdu Resaba,” Ron Marshall said. “You’ll be under their protection.” He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “It’s only for a year,” he said. “After that, I promise you Paris.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Please, think about it, Miss McCall. Think what we can do with the money. There’s the crisis in Bosnia, Somalia, Ethiopia...”

  He let the names dangle before her, and she knew it was true. So many countries, so many people in crisis. Hundreds of thousands who would starve without the help of organizations like International Health.

  “Prince Kumar specifically asked for me?”

  Marshall nodded. “He said he’d met you and that he had been impressed.”

  “I see.”

  “Since his father’s semiretirement, he’s the acting head of one of the richest oil-producing countries in the world. How could I say no?”

  “How, indeed?” she said sarcastically.

  “It’s only for a year.” There was a whine in his voice, a basset hound droop to his eyes.

  A year. Josie looked down at the hands clasped tightly around her purse. She thought what it would be like there in that desert country, where Kumar Ben Ari was the total, the complete authority. And felt a sudden chill of dread run, like an icy finger, down her spine.

  She tried to shake the feeling off. She was a United States citizen. Even in Abdu Resaba she would be under the protection of the United States consulate. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  But when she left the office and went back down the corridor to the elevator, she remembered the desire—and yes, the anger—in Kumar Ben Ari
’s eyes the last time she had seen him.

  This time she could not push away the fear.

  * * *

  Josie flew back to Guatemala the following afternoon and arrived to find that Alicia Mendoza had already taken over her office. She bit back her anger and tried to be civil because this wasn’t Mendoza’s fault. She explained the files and brought the other woman up on the work that had been done and the work that still needed doing. She took her on a tour of the clinics and introduced her to the different staffs.

  The hard part came when she said goodbye to all the people she had grown to love during the years she had been in Guatemala. There were nurses she had trained, doctors she had worked with. All such good people, such good friends.

  With all her heart she had wanted to tell Ron Marshall to go to hell. But she couldn’t do that. She had worked too hard and long to get where she was. She had no choice, she had to go to Abdu Resaba.

  But as she threw clothes into suitcases and packed boxes of things she wanted to take with her, her anger flamed until it was like a hard, unswallowable knot in her throat. She hated Kumar Ben Ari for forcing her to come to his country. She would go and she would do the job she had been assigned to do. But she would stay as far away from Kumar as she could, and if he even so much as laid a pinkie on her she’d run screaming to the embassy. He might have won the battle, but he hadn’t won the war.

  * * *

  The flight from Mexico City to Paris had been uneventful. When she came off the jetway with the other passengers, a well-dressed man approached her.

  “Miss McCall?” he asked. “Miss Josephine McCall?”

  Josie nodded.

  “I am Nawab al-Haj. Prince Kumar Ben Ari has asked me to meet you and to escort you to Abdu Resaba.” He reached for her carryon bag. “The prince’s private plane is waiting. I have sent another man to collect your luggage. If you will come with me, please.”

  “But I have a connecting flight to Cairo, then to Abdu Resaba.”

  “The prince thought you would be more comfortable on his private jet.” Al-Haj took her arm. “This way,” he said.

  She looked around, as though appealing to the other passengers for help, then with a resigned shrug let Kumar’s man lead her through the terminal.

  They passed through corridor after corridor, until at last they came to a door that opened onto a runway. She saw a plane that was surely as large as the one she had flown to Paris on. The purple-and-white colors of Abdu Resaba were emblazoned on the side, along with the words, “His Imperial Majesty.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find the aircraft quite comfortable,” al-Haj said. “You have had a long flight, yes? So perhaps after lunch you would enjoy a bath and a bit of rest.”

  A bath? On a plane? Ali Baba time, she thought, and gave herself a mental shake. This was all happening too fast, she needed time to catch up.

  But there was no time. Kumar’s man took her arm and led her up the steps to the entrance of the plane, where two robed women waited.

  “Greetings, madame,“ one of them said. “Your baggage has already arrived, so when you are settled we will be ready for takeoff. Please to follow me, yes?”

  Josie looked from Nawab al-Haj to the young woman, then with a lift of her shoulders followed her into a salon the size of a comfortable living room. The soft leather sofa was a golden beige color. There were leather armchairs, a round table with a bouquet of red roses and a box of Swiss chocolates. There were magazines, soft lighting and a movie screen.

  Josie took one of the chairs. The young woman asked her to fasten her seat belt.

  “How long is the flight to Abdu Resaba?” Josie asked.

  “Seven hours, madame,“ the young woman said. “But you will sleep so that when you arrive you will feel rested.” She offered a hesitant smile. “I am Melea. The other attendant is Fatima. If there is anything you desire, you have only to ask.”

  The engines revved and a voice speaking in a language Josie did not understand came over the loudspeaker.

  “We are ready for takeoff,” Melea said. “Please do not be nervous, madame. Abdel is a most good pilot.”

  Josie closed her eyes and clutched the arms of the chair. “I’m not nervous,” she said between clenched teeth.

  The plane raced across the runway, and with a final burst of speed, lifted into the air. Still Josie kept her eyes closed and did not open them until Melea asked, “May I bring you a glass of champagne, madame?“

  “Yes, that would be nice,” she said, forgetting for a moment that it was champagne that had gotten her into this situation in the first place.

  A half hour into the air, lunch was served. Hearts of palm vinaigrette was followed by a tender chateaubriand, fresh asparagus, and finally strawberry crepes that melted in Josie’s mouth. Instead of coffee she had a second glass of champagne, and by the time she finished she was so relaxed she could barely keep her eyes open.

  “Your bath is ready,” Fatima said while Melea cleared the table. “If you will follow me, madame.“

  The bathroom, while small, was luxurious. A black marble tub, recessed into the tile-covered floor, looked as if it were big enough for two. Had Kumar ever bathed here? Josie wondered. And with whom?

  Fatima took a vial of oil from the selection near the tub and removed the stopper. “This is your scent is it not, madame?“ she asked.

  Josie looked at her, surprised, and said, “Yes, but how did you...?” But she knew. Kumar had recognized the perfume she had worn in California. He’d had it purchased and put on his plane for her use.

  It was as if he had been spying on her, learning her secrets, and that frightened her. What else did he know about her? And how in the world could she cope with the kind of money and power he had, once she was on his turf?

  These were the thoughts that troubled her as she watched Fatima pour a splash of perfumed oil into the hot water. When she had, Fatima indicated a pale green silk robe on the chest near the door, and said, “This is for you. When you have finished your bath, I will show you to the bedroom.”

  Josie lay back in the water scented with her perfume and looked at the pale green robe laid out on the chest. Nile green to match her eyes?

  In spite of the warmth of the water, she shivered. Kumar had arranged all of this; the transfer to Abdu Resaba, his private jet, her special perfume and a silk robe that matched her eyes. What else did he have planned?

  She felt overwhelmed with a sense of unreality, for it was as if she had sleepwalked into another world. Kumar’s world.

  She slid up to her chin in the frothy water, confused by the thoughts skittering round in her brain. Why me? she wondered. Why of all the women Kumar Ben Ari knew, and she’d bet her last dollar he knew thousands, had he gone to the trouble of forcing her to come to his country?

  Was it because of her animosity toward Middle Eastern men? Had she, because of her frankness, angered him so much that he had gone to all this trouble to get her—she swallowed hard—exactly where he wanted her?

  It was a scary thought. She would be thousands of miles from home, out of her element, in a country ruled by a man who still believed that women had to be robed and veiled and hidden behind tall stone walls.

  Well, by damn, she wouldn’t be ruled. No matter what Ron Marshall had said, if Kumar Ben Ari thought she was going to kowtow to him he had another think coming. She was an American woman; she didn’t kowtow to anybody.

  When finally she had bathed and dried herself, Josie put on the green silk robe and left the bathroom. Fatima was waiting outside the door, and with a “Follow me, please,” led Josie down the corridor to the bedroom.

  The white sheets—silk, of course—had been turned back. The curtains had been drawn, the bedside lamp lighted.

  “If there is anything you wish, you have only to ring the bell above your head,” Fatima said. “We are here to serve you. Please do not hesitate to call upon us.”

  Like a silent shadow she went out and closed the door.

/>   Leaving Josie alone in this strange bed, as the plane sped on toward Abdu Resaba.

  Chapter 5

  Below lay the stretch of endless desert dunes, rising and falling like a moonscape that seemed not a part of this planet. There was no sign of a village, a house or a highway, nothing to break the miles of sand turned golden in the early morning light.

  The plane began its descent and the mountains came into view, severe and granite hard, without a tree, a bush or a touch of green to relieve the sawtooth harshness.

  This was Kumar Ben Ari’s land, and as Josie peered out of the window she felt a sense of foreboding. And anger. She had expected Paris, and if it had not been for Kumar she might now have been flying over that most beautiful of cities, gazing down at Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and the Seine instead of this dreadful loneliness of mountain and desert.

  She was here because Kumar had pulled official strings; he had forced her to come, and she would never forgive him for that. Now that she was here, she would do the job she had been sent to do. God knows there had been other assignments she hadn’t particularly liked, but she had always stuck it out, as she would here in Abdu Resaba. When her year was up, she would be on the first plane out.

  As for Kumar, she would have as little to do with him as possible.

  As the plane came lower, the walled city of Bir Chagga came into view and she saw white buildings with moorish domes and arches gleaming white in the morning sun. The plane dipped sideways and there on a hill overlooking the city she saw the palace, surely as large as England’s Windsor Castle, but far more beautiful. The walls were the color of rich, thick cream. The sun sparkled on turrets of gleaming mosaic and cylindrical towers in shades of heavenly blue. On the very top of the highest tower flew the purple-and-white flag of Abdu Resaba.

  This was Kumar Ben Ari’s home, his father’s kingdom. It didn’t matter what diplomatic means he had used to get her here, he had commanded and she had come.

  Ron Marshall had said her office would be in the same building as the American consulate. If there was a problem, if Kumar dared step over the line of diplomatic propriety, she’d be on the first plane out. He might have coerced her into accepting an assignment she didn’t want, but she was an American citizen. He could not force her to stay against her will.