Hunter’s next question doesn’t surprise me. “Cara,” he begins cautiously, as if afraid of the answer. “You never mention that man. So tell me, just exactly who is your father? I’m not leaving here without you telling me, so you might as well spill it.”
After the conversation we’ve just had, although I don’t want to admit it, I’ve dug myself into a hole and have no option but to use the truth as my spade to get out of it. Fortifying myself with a deep breath, I decide to admit to the secret I’ve kept close all my life.
“Joseph Benting.”
After our previous conversation I was expecting he might greet my revelation with surprise, but I’m astounded when Hunter leaps from his chair, comes over, leans down and peers deeply into my face. Then with a loud “Fuck!” he starts to pace the room. Pausing his pacing after a few seconds, he returns to me, grasping my arms in his hands, his touch so hard it’s almost painful.
“Say that again! Who is your father?” he growls.
“Joseph Benting.”
He’s shaking his head, his hands clasped at the back of his neck. He leans his head back and huffs out a breath. He seems utterly rattled for some reason. “But your name is Carson!”
I sigh. I generally keep details of my family to myself and it’s difficult to come clean. Telling myself I can be proud of what I’ve become, despite my origins, I block out the shame of my parentage. Another thread on my well-worn jumper is sacrificed as I gather the strength to tell him. “I was born after my mother left my father, or rather after he kicked her out when she became pregnant. From birth, my surname has been Carson. That man has nothing to do with me. Mum put ‘father unknown’ on my birth certificate.”
Standing up and releasing me, Hunter brushes his hand over his eyes and then drags it down to his mouth. “That explains why you got the Amahadian reports. You just had to satisfy your curiosity about Benting, didn’t you?” I struggle to catch the words he’s saying; he’s half talking to himself. “This changes everything.”
“Hunter, what’s so wrong?” I knew he’d be surprised by my ancestry, but I didn’t expect him to have a major flip about it.
“Cara!” Hunter rasps out at me, his voice angry. “Just tell me, what are you up to? You’re not doing something stupid, are you?”
He’s apprehensive about something; his fists are clenched at his sides, palpable waves of alarm emanating from him. I’m puzzled. Hunter’s not usually interested in the boring accountancy work I do and has never reacted like this before, even when I’ve shared what I can of my legitimate work to identify criminals. I watch his face carefully, wondering what he’s getting all het up about. After a moment, he speaks again. “And the Amahadians want you to go out there? Did they say why?”
“No idea,” I reply. “Everything can be done from here. I’ve told them that, but I keep getting the invitations. Someone called Kadar Kassis is very insistent. I expect it’s just the way they work.”
“You’re not going under any circumstances.” He seems adamant.
I look out of the window; it’s chucking it down with rain, rivulets of water running down the glass. Winter in England; probably nothing worse. Part of me would have loved to go to a different part of the world and experience different cultures, different sights and sounds. But the thought of being in a crowded airport and stuck on a plane with hundreds of strangers trying to hide their pitying looks fills me with horror. I sigh.
“I’ve completed the work remotely, and there’s no need to go. But it might have been nice to.” Then I shiver, realising that I didn’t dare. I hadn’t exactly stayed on the legitimate side of my access to their systems. But heaven knows what he’d say if I admit that to Hunter.
He frowns. “Cara, what if they’ve made the connection between you and Joseph Benting? They’ve no reason to love him.”
“There’s absolutely no way they could have found out that he was my father. My name’s Carson, as I said, and there’s no evidence of anything to associate me with him.” I start getting frustrated that he won’t let this drop.
He looks at me fondly, and then shakes his head. “For an intelligent woman, I can’t understand how you can be so fucking stupid, Cara. You run traces on people, pet. Which means they can too. There’ll be evidence somewhere. Christ, you frustrate me sometimes!”
I look up quickly, annoyed by his criticism. “I’ve told you; his name’s not even on my birth certificate. Anyway, I’ve just said: it’s a moot point. I’ve told them I can’t go. If they had any suspicions about the relationship, there’s no way they’d have let me near their financial systems. Benting must be the new swear word in that country.” The frown on his face shows me he’s still not convinced, so I put more conviction into my voice. “Look, I’m not going anywhere; the project I’m working on is about to close. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
My words still don’t seem to make Hunter any happier. Once again his hands rake through his hair. “I worry about you. Here you sit in command central doing heaven knows what. Fuck this hacking habit of yours. Just because you can do something Cara, doesn’t mean you should. I worry you’ve no idea what the real world is like.”
He’s beginning to irritate me. As if I don’t know what I’m doing! My legitimate criminal investigations occasionally put people in gaol, but sitting behind my screen I admit it’s tempting to think nothing more of them than pawns being moved around a virtual chessboard. But his offhand comment gets to me, and I find myself contemplating what I found when I delved into Amahad’s systems. Aware that Hunter’s waiting to see if his warning has sunk in, I let my thoughts wander.
Someone had been in their finance system aeons before I got there, and all I’d had to do was use the back door they’d left. And that person had been robbing Amahad blind. Large sums of money were disappearing from their state coffers; the theft had been going on for some considerable time. The stolen money went through an ingenious series of cleaning processes, so it took me some time to track down what was happening. But that’s the type of game I enjoy. I discovered the culprit as well, surprised to find it was someone at the very top of the government chain. But as I couldn’t expose him without revealing I’d gone where I had absolutely no business going, I solved the problem another way. I tracked the money until it disappeared into a Swiss bank account and then simply stopped it getting to its final destination, diverting it back into the Amahadian trading account, and correcting the work of the lazy fund manager by putting it into high-performing investment bonds. It had been a good game on a wet afternoon, and I was quite proud of the outcome, feeling I’d righted a wrong. The thief would benefit no more and certainly wouldn’t have the guts to complain about it, as he’d only expose himself. Oh, and I shut that back door and locked it for good. I have nothing to worry about. The Amahadians should thank me for it!
With a shake of my head, I tell him confidently, “Don’t worry about me, Hunter. I know what I’m doing.”
Hunter doesn’t seem reassured. He crosses the room, gazing out the window at the rain. Clearing his throat, he turns round and gives me a piercing look. “Cara, you need to be very careful.”
“Careful?” I narrow my eyes, perplexed. “I already said I’m not going to put my head in the Amahadian lion’s den.”
Hunter opens his mouth as if say something more; then, with a shake of his head closes it again. I know he’s got more to say, and I’m not left waiting long. “Let’s work on the worst-case scenario. If Amahad knows you’re Joseph Benting’s daughter, you’re probably classed as an enemy of the state or something.”
I rise to my feet, my ire increasing. “Don’t be ridiculous, Hunter! I’ve never had anything to do with Benting – well, except the once.” I pause, as memories of that ‘once’ echo in my ears. I shudder to remove those thoughts. “There’s nothing to link me to him. And even if there was, what have I got to do with the fraud he committed?” I huff at him, confident that he’s overreacting. I can’t believe how he’s ac
ting. In fact, I’m starting to feel angry; I don’t like being censured. I snort.
“Hunter, I’m an accountant!”
“You’re Benting’s daughter!”
“So what?” My voice gets louder.
He comes over and, taking my hand, pulls me back down on the couch and sits beside me, his body angled so he can see my face.
“Cara, listen. I’m going to look into those survey reports further. Something is going on and if my suspicions are right, there’s something, or someone, very big behind it. I don’t know what you might have got yourself mixed up with. You haven’t told anyone else what you’ve found, have you? Your friends at Scotland Yard?”
I shake my head; there’s no one else I’ve got this sort of relationship with, no one with whom I would discuss anything like this. He’s waiting for my verbal denial, so I give it to him. “I promise I haven’t said a word. And I cleaned up after myself; there’s no trace I’ve been near Benting’s systems.”
After a moment of searching my face, he nods his approval, reading that I’ve given him an honest answer.
“Cara, I’m going to take this to the team at Grade A and see what they think, and whether it’s worth delving deeper or whether it’s something to worry about. Will you give me some time to try to get to the bottom of this? And, in the meantime, will you be very careful?” He puts up his hand to stop my protest, clearly seeing I was going to tell him again that I didn’t see any reason to be cautious. With a huff, I swallow the words.
It’s no problem for me to agree to take care. I rarely go out, and my home is a place of safety; Grade A installed the security for me. At Hunter’s instigation, of course, another example of him being my protector. No one would be getting in without Grade A being alerted. My nod of agreement seems to reassure him.
“I’m going to be out of circulation for a while, but here,” he reaches into his pocket, selects a business card and hands it to me. “If anything suspicious happens, give this number a call.”
I take the card, noting it is the direct line to Ben Carter, the senior partner of Grade A.
“When we put this to bed, I’m going to drag you out of command central myself. No arguments. So be prepared to get your glad rags on.” Hunter tells me with a smile. His worry seems to have diminished with my lack of argument.
“Oh, Hunter,” I tell him. “Not gonna happen.” Having a panic attack in the middle of a busy pub isn’t something I wish to repeat.
He looks at me carefully. “Yes, it will. I won’t let you say no.” Glancing down at his watch, he frowns. “Hey, I didn’t realise the time. I’ve got to love you and leave you, pet. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can, but please, please think about what I’ve said.”
As he gets to his feet he pulls me with him. He holds me at arm’s length, looking down into my eyes. I can’t remember ever having seen him so serious. His hands tighten as if to emphasise the point. “Set the alarm system after I’ve gone. And be extremely careful who you open the door to. If you don’t know them, don’t open it. Any more strange contact from Amahad, anything that worries you; ring Ben.”
I’m perplexed by the way the whole afternoon has gone. I don’t understand why he’s acting like a bear with a stick up his arse. Amahad is halfway round the world and I do all my work remotely. Cara Carson has absolutely nothing to do with Joseph Benting. Hunter is exaggerating a non-existent risk. But, acknowledging he’s genuinely concerned, I nod to reassure him.
My gesture isn’t enough for him. He takes a grip of my chin. “I need words, Cara.”
“OK, Hunter. I’ll be careful. I promise.”
He tilts my head up and looks into my eyes as if measuring the sincerity he sees there. What he sees must satisfy him.
“Keep in touch, Cara. If anything unusual happens, let me know. I might have to go away for a while, but I’ll get someone in the office to keep you informed of anything we find. And, pet, please stay out of the Amahadian systems!”
I give him a gentle thump on the arm to show my frustration. I’ve given him my word I’ll be careful; that should be enough. With a fond smile, he gives me a hug, pecks me on the cheek, and then takes his leave. He turns at the front door, and throws back at me that trademark self-deprecating grin which makes him look even younger and more boyish. When I see it, I can understand the effect of that expression on other women. They all but fall at his feet, especially when he starts speaking with a touch of that American accent he still hasn’t lost completely.
Left alone, I move over to the sofa and take the seat recently vacated by Hunter. It still feels warm and I find it comforting. He’s a good friend; my only friend, if I’m honest, my rock when I needed it, watching my back for over ten years now. He’s normally a man who keeps his cool in all types of situations, so why was he acting out of character today? What was all that rubbish about Amahad? And why does he seem so worried about my connection with Joseph Benting? Does he know something I don’t? How could he?
Feeling perplexed, I decide he’s overreacting. In any event, I’m safe locked away in command central and I won’t be leaving here any time soon, for any reason. Remembering my promise I go to secure the front door, check the window locks and engage the state-of-the-art security system. I’ll have to remember to disarm it before the courier arrives tomorrow, or else I’ll have half of Grade A appearing on my doorstep. Hunter, you’re a bastard, I curse under my breath. I was quite happy and content before our conversation, and now he’s put me on edge I’ll probably jump at the sound of the central heating boiler firing up.
Heaving a deep sigh, I force myself to park any worries about Amahad for the moment, and return to the couch, picking up my e-reader instead, ready to leave the real world for a while. As the page I’m currently reading appears, I’m unable to suppress a quick chuckle at the thought of how glad I am that Hunter only saw the tree books. If he’d seen the ones on here, well …
Picking up where I left off, I get lost in my book.
Chapter 2
Nijad
The Palace of Amahad hasn’t changed at all after three years. Fuck, it probably hasn’t changed in the thousand-and-odd years that it’s been standing. It still feels as damn oppressive, with the same stifling atmosphere it had when I was a kid. How happy I was, leaving to receive my education in Europe. Until, that is, I was called home to spend the obligatory two years in the military. Then, free at last to live my life as I wanted, I split my residence between the United Kingdom and France, considering myself more European than Amahadian. At least until the events in Paris shook me to the fucking core, and I no longer knew who or what I was. I savaged a woman, my woman, Chantelle. I could have killed her if she hadn’t summoned up the strength, or the luck, to defend herself, and landed me unconscious in hospital for two days. It was the least I deserved. But I have no memory of attacking her. I thump my fist against the stone wall in frustration.
My penance is banishment to the southern desert, to head the army in protecting the border from jihadists who threaten the Amahadian way of life. To lead the soldiers from the desert tribes, their primitive attitude a far cry from the multicultural, multiracial populace that lives in the more civilised capital, Al Qur’ah, and the other larger cities in the north of Amahad. But I welcome my punishment. So what if a stray bullet stops my heart, or the vicious blade of a scimitar separates my head from my body? Who is this man that I’ve become, this vicious abuser of women? Do I even deserve to live?
Coming back to the palace today is bringing it all back like a scab ripped off a barely healed wound, causing it to start bleeding all over again. Not that I can ever really forget; the best I can do is to put it to the back of my mind for a while. Feeling bleak and depressed, I make my way through the hallways of the palace but pull back momentarily into a vestibule, not wanting to draw attention to myself, when I hear heavy, determined footsteps approaching. I’ve only been back a few hours, but that’s long enough to know that even after three years I’m still somethin
g of a novelty. People can’t hide their curiosity about the savage sheikh, who brought such shame to the family and the country. Three dry years in every sense of the word. Most of the desert tribes are strictly Muslim, meaning no alcohol – not good for the times I’ve just wanted to drink myself into oblivion. With such a high price put on virginity I’ve not had the chance to dip my wick, not that I have any inclination to do so. The thought of the hidden violence inside me makes me avoid women like the fucking plague. My hand and a tube of lube have become my new best friends over the last thirty-six months.
The footsteps draw closer. As they pass, I see they belong to Kadar, my eldest brother and heir designate, who sweeps through the corridors of the palace, his robes flowing out behind him, muttering under his breath, ignoring the servants who salaam, bowing almost to the floor as he passes. His demeanour shows he’s not in the best of moods, and I share his concerns. The emir should be concentrating on shoring up the diminishing finances of our small emirate state, not drawing up ridiculous plans to kidnap an innocent British citizen as retribution for a crime committed against our nation. His priorities and the means to achieve his ends are, as we both agree, illegal and immoral. But he’s the ruler, the absolute monarch. He can fucking do what he fucking likes.
I know Kadar’s destination is the same as my own, but something makes me want to delay the inevitable confrontation. To give Kadar time to get ahead I wait a few seconds before stepping out of my hidey-hole and start walking again, following the direction he has taken, ignoring the guards stationed along the corridors of the royal quarters. Their presence has been a way of life as long as I can remember, and so have become little more than part of the furniture, serving only to remind me how much I detest the formality of the main palace.
Eventually arriving at the small, secure conference room reserved for the immediate royals, I halt before turning the handle to open the door, taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose myself. Sheikh Rushdi is ruler first, father second, and I need no reminder of that. He has complete control of life and death over all his subjects. And that includes his sons. Arranging my features to show the requisite measure of respect, I step inside and make a deep bow before taking my allocated seat at the table set for four. My brothers Jasim and Kadar have already taken their places.
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 4