Sheikh Rushdi nods, acknowledging my entrance, but it’s Jasim who draws my attention. He looks out of place. Kadar and I – and, of course, the emir – are dressed in traditional robes but Jasim, typically, wears a Western-style Armani suit. He looks uncomfortable in his chair, as if he’s wishing to be anywhere but here, and I sympathise, realising he’s feeling weighed down by the restrictions and outmoded customs of our small Arabic state that have caused his summons back to Amahad today.
He doesn’t greet or acknowledge me. I’m not surprised, although disappointment still floods through me. He has barely spoken to me since the events in Paris and I wonder how long it will be before he forgives me – if ever. He’ll be leaving for the West again soon, where he’s made his home, and I can’t help but envy him, especially in the light of the decisions I’m anticipating will be determined here today.
The room teems with testosterone; four dominant men who haven’t felt the influence of a woman’s presence in the palace – except for my younger and totally spoiled sister Aiza, currently away at finishing school in Switzerland – since my mother died during Aiza’s birth. My father has never brought another woman here, and I can only assume he has his appetites catered for discreetly on his many trips abroad. Would we be here today had my mother lived? The question occurs to me as I glance at the man who sired me. He raised us fairly, I have to admit, but with an iron will and a wooden rod. As I watch him, I see no weakening from the man who damn-near flayed the skin off my back when I rode his prized horse without permission the day after my seventh birthday.
Control and power roll off him in waves; as emir he cannot afford to show any weakness. The only visible sign that three years have passed since I last saw him is the receding hairline reaching almost to the top of his head now, and the observation causes me to run my hand unconsciously through my overlong hair, hoping I have escaped inheriting that particular gene.
We don’t bother with polite conversation or exchange platitudes and pleasantries; today’s meeting is far too serious for that. A servant enters and serves us with coffee but I sit detached, lost in my thoughts. Everything that has happened to me since Paris seems surreal, as though it’s happening to somebody else and I’m on the outside, looking in.
After casting a careful look my way, Sheikh Rushdi breaks the silence.
“I have met again with the tribal leaders, the desert sheikhs.”
I notice Kadar exchanging a flicker of concern with Jasim, and can see they’re both dreading the inevitable outcome that, at this precise moment, I’m feeling reasonably confident I’m resigned to.
“They want revenge. Nothing will satisfy them other than the blood of their enemy who conned them out of their hard-earned money. They are adamant they will not accept financial compensation. As we are all aware I have already achieved their reluctant agreement to honour the alternative proposal I put before them, but only if it happens fast. Any delays and they will take matters into their own hands. They have become weary with what they see as our procrastination.”
He pauses as if waiting for comment. When none of us offer any contribution, he continues, “The marriage will go ahead.” Keeping his gaze on us, the ruler’s broad brow furrows, turning his face stern, a monarch’s face, one that would accept no dispute. “You will put your plans into action, Kadar. I want her here in Amahad tomorrow.”
I suddenly find it difficult to breathe, as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. What had been hypothetical is now fast becoming a horrifying reality, and I realise I’m not nearly as ready as I’d hoped. These plans are about me. I suddenly become conscious of the implications. My future. My life. I’m a monster and now I’m to be used as a tool of vengeance.
“No!”
I’m only vaguely aware of Jasim thumping the table, drawing a look of reprimand from the emir. “This isn’t right. The man is dead and that’s the end of it. They must accept they can’t take their revenge and leave it at that. The Treasury will recompense their losses …” He glances around the table, looking for support.
Kadar leans back in his seat, steepling his hands and tapping his fingers against his lips as he glances towards our father, who nods, giving him permission to speak.
“Jasim, you’ve been out of the loop in London. Let me remind you of the history. Three years ago Amahad negotiated a contract with Benting International. It was a blue-chip company at the time; we were satisfied with the terms, and with its financial stability.”
“I’m aware of that.” Jasim shifts in his seat impatiently and gives a short, humourless laugh. “England is no backwater, and the newspapers made sure to cover Benting’s actions. The gossip rags had some particularly juicy, er, facts. His mistress introduced him to a new lifestyle that he couldn’t afford. An intelligent man, apparently, but with a lack of common sense. His legitimate business wasn’t providing enough easy money to fund his drug and gambling habits. So he started elaborate cons.”
Raising his eyes he throws a quick glance first at Kadar, and then the emir, wanting to see their reaction and confirmation that he was on the right track. He avoids looking my way.
“And he conned Amahad!” The heir to the throne almost spits out the words, the depth of his displeasure obvious. “Benting International Holdings stole millions from our country. We paid for surveys to see if there was oil under the sands of the southern desert. Benting provided reports that there was indeed liquid gold there. Hell, we even had the results from the test wells. We engaged Benting to begin developing the oilfields and paid a hefty sum for the privilege. Half the money was put up by a consortium of desert tribes. And half put up by the state.” He glances at his brother. “You know the tribes, Jasim. They live hand to mouth. Pride in their homeland made them want to take ownership of the project. They found the money, but that required sacrifices they can ill afford. Now it’s come to light there is no oil in the desert, they have nothing to show for it. That same pride demands recompense. The tribespeople want revenge.”
Jasim nods, sadness in his eyes. “And you’re sure the obvious route has failed? You offered them money from the state?”
The emir takes over with a nod. “I have, Jasim. They will not accept charity from the Crown. If they cannot take revenge on the man himself, someone of his bloodline will have to do. And there is only one who carries his blood. Vengeance will be satisfied when his daughter marries the savage sheikh.” He glares at me as if throwing a challenge, expecting me to refute the title. “They would have preferred her dead for her father’s crimes. At least I talked them down from that. For the time being.”
My mouth’s gone dry, and I can’t speak or prevent a shudder going through me. I look round to see how my brothers are taking it and notice Kadar shifting awkwardly in his chair. As heir to the throne, I realise he’s in an awkward position. His role should be to support the ruler, but it seems even he cannot hold back on voicing his concerns in this instance.
“She won’t come voluntarily. I’ve already tried that route. I don’t know whether she realises the link with her father but she turned down the invitation to visit.” Kadar narrows his eyes. “By all accounts, she’s a very clever woman.”
Sheikh Rushdi dismisses his objection with a wave of his hand. “Then the next step is to bring her here whether she wants to come or not.”
“Do we understand that we are talking about kidnapping? The possible political ramifications must be considered,” Kadar says pointedly. “Our relationship with the British government is cordial at best.”
Our father shoots him an incredulous look. “I’m the monarch of Amahad. International concerns are not my priority. I care about our tribes and maintaining the delicate balance between them. The last thing we desire is a conflict between them. If the tribes fight among themselves, or against the Crown, they will not be united in protecting the southern borders.”
His voice carries authority, as he emphasises the point. “Once jihadists start crossing over in significant numb
ers Amahad could be in a full-scale war. We cannot afford to have our way of life, our freedoms, threatened. There cannot be too high a price to pay to retain peace in our country.”
As he breaks off, his eyes become hooded. “I leave it to you to manage this in such a way as to avoid any unnecessary complications, Kadar.” As if to show the utmost confidence in his eldest, he stands up to leave. But before he does so, he looks across to me. “Nijad, this is your duty. I will not rescind the terms of your banishment. You will remain in the desert and your punishment becomes the woman’s.” With that parting shot, he moves towards the door.
“Your Highness,” I call out, asking him to wait, and he swings back around. “Are the tribes looking for further punishment? Is marriage to me sufficient?”
He nods, slowly. “I have their word on that. But,” – a pregnant pause follows, drawing emphasis to his next words, and his voice drops to an almost menacing level – “you must control her, Nijad. She must not disrespect the country, the Crown or the tribespeople. They’ll be looking for signs, and the first would be for her to disrespect you. There could be danger for her, for us, if you cannot control your wife. Your violent reputation, of course, gives the tribes the confidence that you will have no difficulty with this task.” He pauses again, and then continues. “Her life, or death, is in your hands, Nijad. The tribes will be satisfied either way. They expect you to discipline her. You can be your true self with her.”
Again he makes to leave, and this time, I don’t stop him. He turns quickly, but not fast enough to hide the wave of sadness that crosses his face, and at that moment I get a rare glimpse of the man behind the throne.
Bile rises in my throat. My true self? And what’s that exactly? The fucking tribespeople expect me to hurt this woman? She’s being forced to marry me because of my reputation, not in spite of it? But I have no choice in this matter. No damn choice at all.
I’m only vaguely aware of the conversation still going on around me as I consider my options. Shit, I’m to be an instrument of retribution. I’m going to be married, and to someone who’s unlikely to come to my bed willingly. I’ll be expected to force her – there’s another word for it, but I can’t stomach even thinking it. If she doesn’t comply she will pay the ultimate price. I take a deep breath. The last three years have changed me, have stripped away my civilised veneer. If it weren't for my reputation, her sentence would have been death. How benevolent of the tribes to accept the penance of a life with the savage sheikh as an alternative to public execution. Punishment on the dead man is to be the mating of his daughter to a known vicious and violent man. I can’t refuse, even if the thought of taking a wife for the archaic reason of revenge makes me feel sick to my stomach. Like it or not I’m Amahadian, and what the emir says carries weight. We must preserve peace at all costs. The woman and I are simply pawns. Putting my head in my hands, I breathe deeply.
Kadar’s watching me carefully, shaking his head, obviously unhappy. “We have to plan carefully to avoid causing an international outcry. That’s the part that worries me most.” He’s moved on to the practicality of how to achieve the ruler’s aims. Reaching for a cup of coffee, as if it could perhaps help calm him, he turns to my brother.
“I’m sorry, Jasim.” At last, he allows his sympathy to show. “The emir will not listen to any other solution.”
Finally, he addresses me. “Nijad …” he starts.
I hold my hand up to stop him. “I don’t fucking like it, Kadar, but what can I do? I hate to say it, but it will satisfy the tribes and the alternative, bringing her here to carry out a death sentence, is unthinkable.”
“But that may still be the ultimate end. The marriage is simply a reprieve, giving her a chance.” My eldest brother looks at me pointedly.
I stare down at my hands, imagining them red with her blood, and my stomach rolls in revolt. I see them holding her down, forcing her to accept my attentions, compelling her to submit to my dominance as the only way to keep her alive. How the hell has it come to this? I close my eyes briefly as I answer my own question. The tribal leaders see me as the only man violent enough to control her, to subdue her so that her subjugation by this marriage satisfies the desire for vengeance. If she fights me, will it bring out my inner beast? Is she destined to be hurt by my vicious hand in a repeat of Paris? If I’m provoked and black out again, what am I capable off? My hands clench tightly into fists. When I relax them, I have red marks on my palms from my nails.
Kadar is still watching me closely, giving me the seconds I need to gather myself. Then he turns his attention to Jasim. “What do we know about her?”
I see Jasim is trying to rein in his anger as he realises the futility of further protest. His darkened face looks between us and then, with a hefty exhalation of air, he glances down at the private investigator’s report he had probably been hoping he wouldn’t need to open, and takes a moment to summarise the pertinent points.
“Not a fucking lot. She’s self-employed as a forensic accountant. She does a lot of work for Scotland Yard, and for large organisations in the city. Nothing about a personal life or boyfriend. No family; her mother died some years ago. She seems to be a very private person. There’s no trace of any photographs, nothing to show what she looks like.”
That doesn’t matter. Crone or beauty, the outcome will be the same.
“Did we get the report from Grade A?” Kadar asks, concerned, referring to the organisation we exclusively use for the provision of bodyguards when we need them, and for the majority of our security arrangements.
“Of course not!” Jasim replies indignantly. “The fewer people who know about our interest in her the better. I agree we probably would’ve got more detail from Grade A, but I kept Amahad and any of our names out of my request for information about her. That assistant of your, Kadar. What’s his name?”
“Richard.”
“Yes, Richard posed as a potential employer, and tried to find out her background. I’m sorry the info is so trivial. But the main point seems to be if she disappears there’s no one to miss her. No family, no friends and no employer.”
“Well, that makes it simpler.” Kadar nods in satisfaction.
Brushing his dark hair back over his forehead, Jasim looks incredulous. “Is that all you’ve got to say, brother? Let’s understand what we’re doing here. We’re taking this woman out of her life and dumping her in the desert. All because the tribes think they can take revenge on a dead man by forcing his daughter into a marriage with the savage sheikh?”
I butt in. “It’s the way they think. The old ways are that the sins of the father are carried by the children. If the father is not there to take the punishment his children will bear it in his stead.”
“I suppose we’re lucky they agreed not to stone her,” Jasim snaps.
Rolling his shoulders to try to relieve the tension and looking somewhat exasperated, Kadar sighs.
“Brother, I would’ve avoided this at all costs if I could,” he replied. “But although we might live in the modern world, the tribes are still living in the past. And I even sometimes question which century our father is living in! Revenge is what the tribes are looking for, and you know how volatile they can be; the merest thing can set off fighting between them. But at least they’re united in this; as far as they’re concerned, now Benting is dead, vengeance on his daughter will suffice.”
He lifts his chin and looks down his nose at us, an autocratic pose momentarily showing the signs of the ruler he will eventually become. It’s clear he wants to put an end to the talk and move to action.
“The emir has spoken; we have no choice but to obey.” He pauses, waiting for our reluctant nods of acquiescence. “It’s a shame she didn’t come of her own volition. I thought the contract we gave her was genuine enough to persuade her everything was above board.”
“Could you have alerted her by dealing with her personally? She may well have recognised your name. Why didn’t you let Basheer handle it?”
>
Kadar takes a few seconds to consider it. “I didn’t use my title. And I wasn’t comfortable involving anyone else, even the Minister of Finance, at this time. The more people we bring into it, the more chance of failure.” He rises to his feet. “Which is why, Jasim, you and I will go personally and bring her here tomorrow. We’ll need to use our diplomatic immunity; we cannot have anyone else compromised.”
Jasim lowers his head into his hands. “So that was why you summoned me here? Fuck!” He throws a glare my way. “Why can’t Nijad go with you?”
“The emir forbids it. He revoked Nijad’s passport as part of his punishment. It has to be you, Jasim. I like it as little as you do, but only we can take responsibility for the task. It may be down to us to avoid a war in the southern desert.
“Lucky us!” Jasim sneers as he realises he has no option. “I’ve always fancied a career as a fucking kidnapper.”
Kadar ignores his protest, simply stating, “I’ll sort the final details. Let’s face it: we knew this was going to be the likely outcome, and plans are in place. We leave tonight; the Kassis jet is fuelled and waiting.” Before leaving, he hesitates. “Are you OK, Nijad?”
I snort in disgust. “In two days I’ll be married to a complete stranger who my brothers kidnapped. Who I’ll need to fuck and keep under control. I’m fucking brilliant.” I tell him. Placing his hand on my shoulder, Kadar gives a quick squeeze of support. “The emir is right, Nijad. You need to subdue her.”
My response is scathing. “And how do you suggest I do that?”
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 5