H.R.H.

by Danielle Steel

  “Christianna,” she said quietly. There was only a single name on her passport, her first name, as was the case with all royals. Queen Elizabeth of England, Princess Michael of Kent, who was Marie Christine. All passports issued to royals in every country showed only their first name, but not their title or surname. The Russian customs official looked angry and confused.

  “No name?” She hesitated and then handed him a brief letter issued by the government of Liechtenstein explaining the circumstances of her passport, and her full identity as a Serene Highness of the principality. She had needed the letter while she was studying in California and had had similar problems going through

  U.S. Immigration. The official letter was written in English, German, and French, and she kept it in her travel pouch with her passport. She only presented it if asked. He read it carefully, glanced up at her twice, then at the bodyguards, and back at her. “Where are you going, Miss Princess?” She tried not to smile. He was obviously not familiar with titles, having grown up in a Communist state, but looked moderately impressed. She told him their destination, and he nodded again, stamped their passports, and waved them through. Hers was a neutral country, like Switzerland, which often opened doors for her that another passport would not have been able to do. And her title usually helped. He questioned them no further, and they went to a car rental office and stood on line for half an hour with everyone else.

  All three of them were starving by then, and Christianna handed the two men a small package of biscuits, and two bottles of water she had carried with her in her backpack, and opened a third for herself. It seemed like an eternity to get their turn. And when they finally did, all that was available was a ten-year-old Yugo, at an astronomic rate. Christianna agreed to take it, since there was nothing else, and handed her credit card across the counter, which once again had no last name. The woman asked if she had cash. Christianna had brought some with her, but didn't want to give it up so early in the trip, and the woman finally agreed to accept the credit card, after offering them a better deal if they paid cash, which Christianna declined.

  She signed the agreements, took the car keys, and asked for a map. Ten minutes later she and the two bodyguards, Samuel and Max, went out to the parking lot to find the car. It was tiny and looked battered. The two men barely fit into the car, as Christianna slipped easily into the backseat with her backpack, grateful that she was small. Samuel started the car, as Max opened the map. From what the woman at the car rental had said, they had a thirty-mile drive ahead, and would probably arrive at eleven o'clock that night. Samuel was driving, and once in the parking lot, they had taken their weapons out of the bag they'd checked, and put them on. Max loaded them for both of them, as they drove out of the parking lot, and Christianna watched. She had no qualms about guns, and had been around them all her life. Her bodyguards were useless to her without them. She had even been taught to fire weapons herself, and was an unusually good shot, better than her brother, who found weapons offensive, although he liked the social aspects of duck and grouse hunting and went often.

  They were starving by the time they left the airport, and stopped for dinner halfway through the trip in a small restaurant by the roadside. Samuel spoke a few words of Russian, but mostly they pointed at what others were eating, and sat down to a simple, rugged meal. The other diners were mostly truck drivers, traveling at night, and the pretty young blonde and two powerful healthy-looking men were instantly noticeable among them. They would have been even more so if any of them had even imagined that she was a princess. But all she looked like was a pretty young girl, in jeans, the heavy workboots she'd had in Berkeley, a thick sweater, and a parka. She had her blond hair pulled back. The men were similarly dressed and had a military look about them. Others would have guessed easily that they were security of some kind, but no one questioned them here. After eating, they paid and drove on. They noticed a number of Daewoo minivans on the road that were used as shared taxis and were called “Marshrutkas,” Christianna learned later. They were a favorite form of transportation.

  Unable to read the signs and confused by the map, they took several wrong turns and arrived at their destination at nearly midnight. They were quickly stopped by a roadblock manned by Russian soldiers in riot gear. They were wearing helmets, face masks, and carrying machine guns, as they questioned why Christianna and her guards were there. Christianna spoke up from the backseat and said in German that they were looking for the Red Cross representatives in order to work with them. The sentry hesitated, told them in halting German to wait, and consulted his superiors, who were conferring at a short distance. One of them talked to him, and then approached the car himself.

  “You're Red Cross workers?” he asked, frowning at them, and looking at them intently with suspicion. He wasn't sure what they were, but they didn't look like terrorists to him. He had a sixth sense for that, which told him that the threesome in the Yugo were there for the reason they said.

  “We're volunteers,” Christianna said distinctly, and he hesitated, continuing to look them over. Nothing he saw set off red flags for him.

  “From where?” The last thing he wanted was tourists wandering into the mess they already had on their hands. Like the first man they had talked to, he looked tired. It was the second day of the siege, and a dozen more children had been killed that afternoon, and dumped in the schoolyard, which had demoralized everyone. Two others trying to escape had been shot. The entire situation was a copycat event of the similarly awful hostage crisis that had happened several years before in Beslan, in the same region of North Ossetia. This was nearly an exact duplicate, on a slightly smaller scale. But the death toll was rising daily, and it wasn't over yet.

  “We're from Liechtenstein,” she said clearly. “I am. The two men are Swiss. We're all neutrals,” she reminded him, and he nodded again. She had no idea if it would make any difference or not, but she thought it couldn't hurt to remind him.

  “Passports?” The guard in the driver's seat handed them to him, and he had the same reaction as the customs official to Christianna's. “Yours has no surname,” he told her, sounding annoyed, as though it were a mistake she had made in the passport office when she got it. But this time she didn't want to hand him the letter, she didn't want people in the area knowing that she was there, or making a fuss about it.

  “I know. My country does that sometimes. For women,” she added, but he remained unconvinced, and began to look suspicious. He had to be, given what was going on. Reluctantly, she handed him the letter. He perused it carefully, stared at her, then at the two men, back at her, and then looked at her in astonished admiration. “A royal princess?” He seemed utterly amazed. “Here? To work with the Red Cross?”

  “I hope we will. That's what we came to do,” she explained. The officer then shook hands with her driver, told them where to find the Red Cross enclave, handed them a pass, and waved them through. It was a most unusual occurrence, to give them access to a hostage scene, and Christianna had the feeling that if she hadn't been a princess, they wouldn't have let them in. The officer respected her, and the two men who had accompanied her to Russia. He even gave them the name of the person in charge. And before they drove on, Christianna asked him quietly not to explain to anyone who she was. She said it would mean a great deal to her if he didn't. He nodded, still looking impressed as they drove off. She hoped he'd be discreet. Having people know who she was would spoil everything for her, or certainly make it difficult. Anonymity in these circumstances was far easier for her. And if the press caught wind of her presence, they would pursue her everywhere, and she might even have to leave. That was the last thing she wanted. She wanted to be useful, not cause a journalistic feeding frenzy, fed by her.

  As they approached the school, there were police cordons, military barricades, riot police, commando squads, and soldiers with machine guns everywhere. But having made it through the initial barricade, they were no longer checked as closely. Their passports, when asked for
, were only glanced at and no longer thoroughly inspected. They looked at the makeshift passes, and nodded. Most of the civilians they saw were crying, either parents or relatives of children or teachers still inside. It was so exactly reminiscent of the earlier hostage situation in Beslan that it was hard to believe an almost identical event had occurred, in the same state. And finally, after searching thoroughly, and drifting past a fleet of ambulances, they found four large Red Cross trucks, with an army of workers around them, wearing the familiar red and white armbands to identify them in the crowd. Several of them were holding children. They were serving coffee, tending to frantic-looking parents, and standing quietly in the crowd.

  As soon as she saw them, Christianna got out of the car, and Samuel, the bodyguard with the commando training, followed her closely, while Max went to park the car in a field that had been designated for families and press. The car had been tight for them to ride in, but at least it had gotten them there. Christianna asked for the name that the officer at the barricade had given them, and was directed to a cluster of chairs standing near one of the trucks. There was a woman with white hair sitting there, speaking to a group of women in Russian. She was reassuring them as best one could. There was very little one could see of what was happening inside, only the constant shifting and moving of soldiers, standing ready and alert. And all of the Russian women were crying. Christianna didn't want to interrupt and stood off to one side, waiting until the older woman finished talking to them. She knew it might be hours before the woman was free to check them out. Christianna stood patiently by until the woman in charge of the Red Cross team noticed her, glanced up, and met her eyes with a questioning look.

  “Are you waiting for me?” the woman asked in Russian, sounding surprised.

  “I am,” Christianna answered in German, hoping they would find a common language. Usually, in cases like that, it was English or French, and she was fluent in both. “I can wait.” She wasn't going anywhere and didn't want to interrupt. The senior Red Cross member excused herself, patted one woman's arm consolingly, and stepped aside to where Christianna stood.

  “Yes?” It was obvious that Christianna was neither a local nor a parent. She looked too clean, not disheveled enough, her clothes were still neat, and she didn't have the worn-out look that everyone else had all around them. The strain of watching the scene unfold had taken a toll on them all. Even the soldiers had cried as they brought back the bodies of the children who had been shot.

  “I would like to volunteer,” Christianna said quietly, looking calm, quiet, self-possessed, and competent in the way she addressed the older woman, who had no idea who she was.

  “Do you have Red Cross identification?” the woman asked. They had settled on French. The woman in charge looked like she had been through the wars, and she had. She had helped to wrap the bodies of dead children, held sobbing parents in her arms for two days, tended wounds until the paramedics could get to them. She had done everything possible since arriving there within two hours of the attack, even served coffee to exhausted, crying soldiers.

  “I'm not a Red Cross worker,” Christianna explained. “I flew here today from Liechtenstein with my two … friends …” She glanced at the two men beside her. If necessary, she would volunteer as a humanitarian emissary of her country, but she greatly preferred to do so as an anonymous individual, if they would allow her to help on that basis. She wasn't sure they would. The older woman hesitated, looking at Christianna carefully.

  “May I see your passport?” she said quietly. There was something in the woman's eyes that gave Christianna the feeling the woman knew who she was. She opened the passport, glanced at the single Christian name, closed the passport again, and handed it back to her with a smile. She knew exactly who Christianna was. “I've worked with some of your British cousins in the African states.” She didn't mention which ones, as Christianna nodded. “Is anyone aware that you're here?” The young woman shook her head. “And I assume those are your guards?” She nodded again. “We can use the help,” she said quietly. “We lost twenty more children today. They just made another request for prisoner exchange, so we may be seeing some more casualties in a few hours.” She signaled for Christianna and the two men to come with her, stepped up into their truck, and came back with three faded arm bands. They were running out. She handed them to Christianna and her men, and they each put one on. “I'm grateful for your help, Your Highness. I assume you're here in an official capacity?” she inquired in a tired, gentle voice. There was something so kind and compassionate about this woman that just talking to her was like an embrace. Christianna was profoundly glad that she had come.

  “No, I'm not,” Christianna answered. “And I'd rather no one know who I am. It gets too complicated. I would appreciate it if you would just call me Christianna.” The woman nodded and introduced herself as Marque. She was French, but spoke fluent Russian. Christianna spoke six languages, including the dialect spoken in Liechtenstein, but Russian wasn't among them.

  “I understand,” Marque said quietly. “Someone may recognize you anyway. There's a lot of press here. You looked familiar to me the moment I saw you.”

  “I hope no one else is as astute,” Christianna said with a rueful smile. “It ruins everything when that happens.”

  “I know it must be very difficult.” She had seen press feeding frenzies like it before, and agreed with Christianna that if no one knew, it would be simpler for them all.

  “Thank you for allowing us to work with you. What can we do to help? You must be exhausted,” she said sympathetically as the woman nodded.

  “If you go to the second truck, we need someone to help make coffee. I think we're almost out. And we have a stack of boxes we need to move, with medical supplies in them, and bottles of water. Maybe your men could help us with that.”

  “Of course.” She told Max and Samuel what was expected of them, and they quickly disappeared toward where the boxes were, as Christianna headed to the second truck, as directed by Marque. Her bodyguards were reluctant to let her go alone, but she insisted she would be fine. There was so much armed protection in the area that she was certainly not at risk, whether they were with her or not.

  Marque thanked her again for her help, and then walked away to check on some of the women she had been talking to before Christianna arrived.

  It was hours before Christianna saw her again, while she was handing out coffee, and later bottles of water. There were blankets for those who were cold. Some people were sleeping on the ground. Others sat rigid or sobbing, waiting for news of their loved ones inside.

  As Marque had predicted, the terrorists' demand for prisoner exchange had a violent outcome within almost exactly three hours. Fifty children were shot and thrown from windows of the school by hooded men. The bodies of the dead children flew to the courtyard below like rag dolls, as people screamed, and finally the soldiers were able to retrieve them under heavy fire to cover them. Only one child was still alive when they brought her back, and she died in her mother's arms, as soldiers, locals, and volunteers alike stood by and sobbed. It was an atrocity beyond measure. And it wasn't over yet. By then nearly a hundred children had died, almost as many adults, and the terrorists were still in full control. A rabid Middle Eastern religious group had taken responsibility for the attack by then, with ties to Chechen rebels. It was a joint effort to have thirty terrorists released from prison, and the Russian government was standing its ground, much to the anger of the crowd. They preferred to have thirty terrorists released, and spare the lives of their children. There was a sense of despair and helplessness around them everywhere in the crowd, as Christianna stood with the other Red Cross workers and sobbed. What was happening was beyond imagining.

  She had done very little since she arrived, other than hand out water or coffee, and then suddenly she saw a young Russian woman standing next to her crying inconsolably. She was pregnant, and holding a toddler by the hand. Her eyes met Christianna's then, and as though
they were long-lost relatives, they fell into each other's arms and cried. Christianna never knew her name, and they shared no language in common other than the bottomless sorrow caused by watching children die. Christianna learned later that she had a six-year-old in the school, who had not as yet been seen or found. Her husband was a teacher there, and he had been one of the first fatalities of the previous night. She was praying that her son was still alive.

  The two women stood side by side for several hours, alternately hugging and holding hands. Christianna brought some food for the two-year-old, and a chair for the pregnant woman to sit down, while she continued to cry. There were so many others like her that it was hard to distinguish them in the crowd.

  It was after dawn when soldiers in commando uniforms told them to clear the area. The entire group of waiting people and workers had to move well back. No one knew what was happening, but the terrorists had just made what they said was their final demand. If that one was not met, they said they were going to blow up the entire school, which seemed entirely plausible by now. They were people without conscience or morality, with no value whatsoever for human life, apparently even their own.

  “We need to get in the trucks,” Marque told her quietly as she passed by, rounding up her troops, and Christianna was now counted among them. “They haven't told us, but I think they're going to go in, they want everyone as far away as we can get.” She had been moving among the locals and telling them the same thing. People were walking and running across a field behind newly formed riot police lines. It made the parents' hearts ache to put even more distance between them and their children trapped inside. But the soldiers were pushing the crowd back now with force, as though they were running out of time.