Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  There was another doorway then, and the sweet smell of fresh air made her realize that this must be where it opened to the outside even before a heavy mat tied with acacia brush was pushed out of the doorway and she found herself looking out over the stretch of desert to the east where the moon perched just above the horizon against a lavender sky.

  Coming toward her was a figure silhouetted against the moon and, she was just turning to ask Ramad who it was, when lightning struck. With a blinding flash the world careened in a kaleidoscope of colors as her cheek struck the gritty sand.

  There was a voice, and another, and then she felt a searing thrust in her side just after a shadow came near and then disappeared running. "Ramad," she heard herself say in a weak unrecognizable voice. But then the earth was sinking. She looked down to see a knife protruding from her ribs, a red stain spreading from it and dripping on the sand.

  Breathless, she gasped, but now there were seemingly several knives all spinning in a blur as a mountain of darkness slid down over her.

  Chapter 67

  After that, the world became one of shadows and dark and vague shapeless colors moving in and out of her vision among voices, sometimes distinct and other times garbled.

  "She is a fortunate young woman," one voice said swimming through milky fog. "The dagger missed both her lungs and kidneys. She's lost a terrible amount of blood, and I've put twenty stitches in her head, but she will live."

  A familiar voice followed. "When will the worst be over?"

  "She will have to be watched closely for a week at least, and she must not have any excitement for some time after, that. If the wound is reopened, she could die. Obviously she has an extremely hard head to withstand such a blow."

  A relieved laugh followed. "Indeed her hard head has been in evidence before this. I never thought I'd find myself grateful for that particular attribute.”

  Juliette wanted to respond, to open her eyes and speak, but clouds and spaces of timelessness prevented her until later when she was aware of longer periods of consciousness and at last the mist began clearing.

  The first sounds she became aware of were those of chanting, the gentle voices of women raised together, "La Ilaha Illa Allah, La Ilaha Illa Allah,"-there is only one God.

  And feeling herself reviving little by little as the prayer continued, Juliette turned her hammering head, blinking against unaccustomed brightness as blurring colors and shapes slowly focused themselves into three knelling women and, beyond them, a series of arched windows that divided this room from a garden where a bird was singing as the last rosy light of day flooded the sky.

  She sighed, her lips unconsciously forming the familiar phrases as they continued, "La Ilaha Illa Allah," and slowly Juliette realized she was in a wide bed, a flimsy cover thrown over her.

  To her right cheetah pelts were mounted on the walls and, on the left, a telescope poised on, a tripod was pointing out an arched window. The room reminded her of a castle keep, she thought. But then Cassia's face was swimming above her.

  "Madame?" she questioned. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

  Juliette's eyelids parted-wider. "Yes . . . yes, I'm awake. But where, where . . . how did I get here?"

  "You are in the master's private rooms, madame. You have been hurt and very sick, but you are better now, the doctor has said so."

  Juliette touched her forehead to find it bandaged. "Doctor? What doctor?" she asked.

  "The master's doctor, a Spaniard. He lives in the palace and is one of the master's trusted friends. But now, madame, you must rest. Here," she produced a glass. "Drink this. It will make you feel better and you will sleep."

  Cassia's arm slid around her back, supporting her head as, obediently, Juliette drank the creamy, slightly bitter liquid. Then lying down again, she felt a slow drowsiness envelop her until Cassia's pleasantly chattering voice seemed far away, and she no longer listened, and the very next thing she knew, it was morning.

  "Let me introduce myself," said the tall fatherly looking gentleman with a courteous incline of his head. "I am Dr. Santapalo."

  Juliette felt better now. The room no longer wavered in mists, and she could see this man clearly. He reminded her of Roberto, only he was taller, heavier, more deeply tanned, and he carried the look of a man who had seen and experienced enough to accept life without unnecessary concern.

  "As you might have been told, I've been taking care of you since you were attacked. You were unconscious for some time and gave us all a scare. How do you feel now?"

  "I feel well . . . better certainly. But I don't understand. Who are you? I mean-how did you come here?"

  The doctor smiled pleasantly, as if her question was slightly silly, before answering. "The sheik and I have been friends and business associates for nearly ten years-since I first traveled into the desert and, getting lost, discovered El Abadan quite by accident." The Spaniard's brown eyes shone. "I suppose you could say the city captured me, has taken me hostage in a way as it does romantics like myself. Being interested in the history of these desert tribes I found it fascinating. El Abadan is unique among desert cities. I think now it was originally built in the fourteen hundreds. Do you know they are still discovering passageways in the walls that have been hidden for centuries?"

  Impatiently then he waved his hand as if at himself. "But I won't bore you further with my idiosyncratic interests. Suffice it to say that I've found my studies here fulfilling and the desert a refuge from the complications of modern life. When I met Karim he had just become sheik. From that time until now we've found each other useful and also have become the sort of friends one makes only very few of in a lifetime. Now when, occasionally, I've returned to Spain, I've found life there drab beside the life the desert offers. This has become my home now, and I feel more Arab than Spanish. I hate the Hussar and the intrusion of European governments just as these Arabs do, so actually, I'm perfectly suited to be one of them."

  "But you're not an Arab," Juliette said in a surprised tone.

  "No, but I'm not English, either. I don't think Karim would have trusted me if I were."

  Juliette turned away, toying absently with the ties of her gown. "Yes, he does hate the English. I already know."

  Dr. Santapalo nodded, and something in his wan smile told Juliette he knew much more about many things than he ever told anyone. He nodded. "Yes, from what I've heard, Karim has made his hatred of the English clear to you. But tell me, do you care for him?"

  The question, asked with blunt frankness, brought Juliette's regard snapping to his. "Care for him?" she asked startled. "That's a peculiar question, doctor. He's an Arab and he killed my father, as I'm sure you're aware."

  The doctor nodded. "Yes, Karim did tell me that much."

  A concerned frown crossed his face before he continued. "I mean to be direct, Miss Clayton, because I sense you are far too intelligent to be fooled by indirectness. And-you still haven't answered me. Do you care for Karim?"

  Suddenly Juliette found her eyes wavering under his serious look. "Well . . . no," she said surprised to realize she was no longer sure. But then she repeated. "No, I don't care for him." And then more firmly, "Actually, I detest.”

  Dr. Santapalo considered her for a moment more, his arms folded on his chest as Juliette wondered if he believed her, and why indeed she hardly believed herself.

  "That is unfortunate," he said finally. "I was hoping you felt differently-that the desert may have taken you hostage too."

  He leaned over her then, as if the subject were closed, and carefully began unwrapping the long bandage from around her skull before gently examining the wound.

  Juliette flinched slightly beneath the pressure of his fingers against her healing flesh as she continued, unwilling to let the subject drop there. "I'm surprised to hear you say that. You seem to know something about my . . . my situation. I mean . . . surely you see what he has done to me. Do you think such behavior garners affection?"

  "No," the doctor said flatly.
"But it seems you were in love with him while you were both in Las Flores del Mar. There was some talk of marriage, was there not?"

  "Sharif told you that?"

  "No, but he did send a message from Las Flores some time ago delaying his arrival and notifying his household to make preparations for his bride. Then there was another cable a week later delaying his arrival with no mention of a bride." The doctor's expression became ironic. "Of course when he finally did arrive he had no bride but an obviously reluctant you instead. It wasn't difficult to surmise the rest." He peered at her closely. "I am right, aren't I? I've been curious and Karim offers few details. Tell me, Miss

  Clayton or do you use Thorpe? What happened in Las Flores? Was it that you realized he was an Arab and refused to marry him?"

  "Well ... yes, partly," Juliette admitted, wondering at the ease with which this man pieced the situation together. "And I use Thorpe, not Clayton, if that could possibly make any difference now. But why are you asking all these questions? What does any of what happened or what I have to say matter to you?"

  The doctor straightened, raising his eyebrows. "I'm interested in everything about you-but perhaps I should explain since you seem unaware of some of the basic circumstances."

  He sat down then, leaning an elbow on one knee as he spoke with the casual familiarity of a man thoroughly versed on his subject. "You see, all the sheiks of El Abadan have been extremely important men in this part of the world, and Karim al-Sharif is particularly so because, not only does he control much of the economy of North Africa through his dominance of the trade routes, but he is also the only possible leader who can unite these desert tribes between Egypt and Morocco against the Hussar and later against the Europeans..”

  "He is perhaps the most powerful man in Africa today, and when he planned to marry, I was surprised, if not astonished. I expected you to be an exceptional woman, and I haven't been disappointed," he added with a smile and slight bow. "The fact I find most difficult to credit is that you are George Clayton's daughter. Yet here you are, and somehow you've single-handedly managed to kill a mouflon which has made you a revered figure." The doctor crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "How all of this has taken place I'd like to hear. But, whatever the explanation, you've become an important person in your own right. You have had a great deal of influence over Karim and therefore over all of North Africa and beyond. These are crucial times, as you must already realize. Any day war will come, and to answer your first question, I believe that who you are, what you think and say, may affect the lives of thousands and the events which are only now beginning. As an adviser and friend to the sheik, it behooves me to learn about you and, in short, I'm interested in anything you would like to tell me."

  Juliette stared at him as if he had just announced that the moon was actually made of blue cheese and populated by leprechauns. Then she laughed, though it hurt her head and side and she stopped short with a croaking sound.

  "But you're mistaken, doctor," she said finally. "You began quite well, but some of your assumptions are not entirely accurate. If Sharif were willing to give you any details, you would soon learn that his feelings toward me now are quite different from ones he expressed in the past. Frankly, he hates me. So you see, your interest in me is misplaced. I have no influence over him now, nor will I in the future."

  Dr. Santapalo's brow arched. "I see. Has Karim told you this in so many words? I mean, that he `hates' you?"

  "No, not in so many words. But his actions have left no doubt."

  "And you regard him with equal dislike?"

  "Yes!" Juliette lifted her chin. "And why shouldn't I?"

  Santapalo nodded, studying her as he recalled the tormented expression on Karim's face during the previous days when he had leaned over her unconscious form. He had refused to leave her side. Yet, now that she was recovering, he had not been to see her. Dr. Santapalo's lips drew into a thin line.

  Well, time would give more of the answers, he thought, and said, "Indeed Karim makes his life far more complicated than need be. On the other hand, he usually has a good reason for what he does. But I can tell you, Miss Thorpe, that I don't believe he hates you-and with utmost respect, I also don't believe you hate him."

  He smiled again and, giving her hand a reassuring pat, stood up to go. "And if I were you," he continued, "I would do my best to recover and not worry about anything for the moment. Situations often have a way of working themselves out."

  He gave her another gentle look. "Now get some rest. I have a feeling you're going to need it."

  Chapter 68

  Was it possible? Juliette asked herself the following morning as Cassia helped her into Sharif's own bath, which was tiled completely in intricate silver and black mosaic and surrounded by mirrors that reflected her pale face from all angles above the foaming bubbles. Had Sharif's heart softened toward her? It was true, of course; that he had brought her to his own suite of rooms, when she might have been nursed in many other places.

  But why then hadn't he come to see her? According to Cassia, he had left the city and might be gone for days. And was that the way a man acted when he cared? Juliette raised a hand to her temple where her head began to pulse again. Oh, what did it matter anyway? She wondered miserably. Why did she even try to think? She could never, no never, forgive him. So what difference did any of it make---except now, perhaps he would be merciful enough not to give her away.

  Juliette was surprised when he finally did come that night, silently-unannounced, after her dinner tray had been carried away. Obviously he hadn't stayed away from the city long, she thought with a spark of something like hope. Yes, maybe there was a chance. . .

  But then there was no more time to consider as he was standing beside her bed, his eyes with a hint of darkness beneath them as he looked down at her.

  Instinctively Juliette pulled the silk cover up higher under her chin, putting another layer of gauzy material between them as he said, "So, you're still awake. Cassia tells me you're improving. Can you try to remember anything about who assaulted you-anything at all? What were they wearing on their heads, for instance? Anything might help."

  His voice was cold, factual and polite, like a police chief questioning a recovering witness. Something within Juliette dropped. How could Doctor Santapalo ever have thought she was important to this man? And why had she believed him, if only a little?

  She managed to roll her head back and forth weakly against her pillows. "No . . . no, I didn't even see them, not really, only the boy-Ramad was his name."

  "Yes, he warned us you had been hurt and where to find you. But now, unfortunately, even he has disappeared."

  Sharif's jaw flexed with a hint of frustration due, Juliette told herself, to his present failure in avenging this attack on his property. "A man protects his property," he had once told her. And seeing his coldness now renewed her anger so she felt suddenly reckless.

  "You can't blame me for trying to escape," she said angrily. "I'll never accept what you're trying to make me. You can't keep me from trying, no matter what you do or where you send me!"

  She paused, wondering-hoping, he would deny he was planning to send her away and make her the wife of another man, and she was surprised when he replied without the usual sarcasm she had learned to expect in his tone. "No, I don't blame you," he said without emotion. "How could I, when I would do the same in your place. But by now you must admit you are safer with me than at the mercy of my enemies."

  "I've told you before, anything is preferable to being here with you! I can only hope that the next time I am more successful!"

  Juliette didn't have to look at him. She could feel his face harden.

  "But, madame, there is not going to be a next time." His regard was not mocking but perfectly serious.

  "What do you mean?"

  "For now you will continue to rest," he said, ignoring her question. And that was all he would say other than a polite good night and an even more impersonal nod before le
aving her alone to brood on his words.

  From that moment on, they seemed to fall, oddly, and yet automatically, into the sort of relationship that reminded Juliette most of the polite veneer assumed by hostile relatives forced together by circumstances.

  Ridiculous, she thought. Anyone could see that. Yet here she was, royally installed in Sharif's own rooms, with Sharif himself playing the polite, if distant, host. Ridiculous that he was suddenly being as nice as he had been during their brief romance in Las Flores, though his eyes no longer smoldered with a burning light and he always seemed serious and preoccupied with other matters.

  So Juliette spent most of her days alone, her only contact with the world her maids and, from Cassia, she learned that the Hussar tribe under their leader Abu Hussar were forcing a confrontation. "Already his forces have attacked several tribes and taken them under his own con¬trol," Cassia said gravely. "It is war now. Now the tribes are forced to choose between accepting Hussar domination or joining the master."