Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

  The ominously worded challenge was flung and courageously accepted. ‘Very well, monsieur,’ her eyes were grave, ‘I agree.’

  Without further hesitation he walked across to the writing desk, pulled his cheque book towards him, and swiftly began to write. The sound of tearing paper rasped across Dove’s nerves, but she controlled her flinch and waited with composure as he advanced towards her carrying the cheque between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘The price of your bondage, Mademoiselle Grey.’ He proffered the cheque, with an expression of obvious distaste.

  ‘Thank you.’ Felling unbearably cheap, she stuffed it in her handbag and turned on her heel, anxious to put an end to the barter.

  ‘Un moment!’ The command was steel all through. ‘I assume that your passport is up-to-date?’ She nodded. ‘Good, then here is an envelope containing details of necessary vaccinations and sundry other items of information you may find useful. Everything else can be left in my hands. I plan to leave for Neffe one week from today, can you be ready by then?’

  ‘Certainly. All the clothes I’ll need can be purchased in one day.’

  ‘The Sheikh prefers nannies to dress in uniform.’

  ‘Of course,’ she flushed indignantly, ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise when I’m on duty, but presumably I shall be allowed some time off? ’

  ‘Time in which to ensnare a rich husband, no doubt,’ he drawled.

  ‘Time in which to study an unfamiliar country,’ she flashed. ‘Time in which to recuperate from strenuous work—for make no mistake about it, monsieur, my job is not an easy one and I pride myself on being conscientious.’

  ‘So conscientious you have not even bothered to ask one question about your charges,’ he censured dryly. ‘Can I be blamed for suspecting that they are of secondary importance? ’

  Dove gave an appalled start. She had indeed been remiss. Even though what she had endured had been not so much an interview as a battleground skirmish, it did not excuse such an oversight.

  ‘Simply to satisfy any vague curiosity that may arise between now and our departure date,’ he waxed sarcastic, ‘I will tell you that you will have two children to look after, one of each sex. The elder, a girl, Bibi, is six years old and her brother, Salim, is almost three. The Sheikh’s wife, Mariam, makes up his immediate family, but sundry cousins, nieces and nephews form his retinue. However, as your job will be to see to the children the rest of the household need not concern you.’

  Feeling dismissed, she turned to go. ‘Very well, monsieur. Goodbye, and thank you. I shall return here one week from today. Any particular time?’

  ‘Seven in the morning,’ he decided cruelly. ‘When I have a long flight ahead of me I like to make an early start.’

  If he had expected an adverse reaction he was disappointed. Children, perverse, demanding creatures that they were, had a penchant for wakening in the wee small hours with requests for food, drink, or simply attention. Dove had long since given up sleeping to a timetable.

  She had almost reached the door when once again his voice reached her, grim and completely serious.

  ‘Just one more request, mademoiselle!’

  ‘Yes?’ She turned a weary head, feeling incredibly buffeted, as spent as if she had just completed some severe manual task instead of a so-called civilised interview.

  Cold grey eyes studied her across the width of the room. He must have been aware that what he was about to say was outrageous, but not so much as a shade of mockery crossed his aquiline features when he stipulated:

  ‘I, too, must lay down a condition. You must not,’ he stressed sternly, ‘however much you are tempted, allow yourself to fall in love with me! Six times I have suffered cow-like looks from each of your predecessors, endured their unwanted company, their simpering attentions, until finally, after forcing me to be brutally frank, they collapsed into tears and begged to be allowed to return home. A seventh repeat of such a performance would be more than I could tolerate.’

  Dove stared, appalled, eyes wide with disbelief, then finally managed to gasp, ‘Believe me, monsieur, you need not worry on that account—you’re in no danger from me!’ Then, placing unflattering emphasis as she prepared to flee, ‘Absolutely no danger at all!’

  Propelled by a sensation of dazed outrage, she found herself in the street. The man was mad, she decided, power-happy; his ruthless insensitivity might make him an ideal choice for the guardianship of a vulnerable family in a troubled land, but obviously the acquisition of so much authority had gone to his head.

  The ordeal she had just suffered had left her in no mood for shopping, so she wandered the streets, marshalling her outraged thoughts, then made her way to the station from which her train was about to leave. She would just have time, she decided as she settled into a compartment, to reach the bank before closing time and deposit the precious cheque. This evening, when the day’s work was over and she and her parents were relaxing after dinner, she would have the pleasure of flourishing her own personal cheque for four thousand pounds under her father’s nose, seeing the strain disappear from his face and the happy light returning to her mother’s eyes.

  But the moment did not turn out quite as she had envisaged. They were sitting comfortably around the fire, her father with his long legs outstretched, looking unutterably weary, and her mother busily knitting, yet stopping so many times to count stitcher it was clear she was finding it hard to concentrate. Relishing her big moment, the moment for which she had bartered a year of her life, Dove took the cheque from her pocket and as casually as she was able handed it to her father.

  He grunted and heaved forward to scan the proffered piece of paper. At his gasp of surprise her mother’s needles ceased clicking and she waited in a state of animated suspense for his comments.

  ‘How on earth ...?’ He flashed Dove a look of astonishment. ‘Where did you get all this money? You haven’t been doing anything foolish, have you?’

  When her mother saw for herself the amount written on the cheque she went so white Dove thought she was about to faint. ‘Four thousand pounds! But how ...?’ her bewildered eyes pleaded.

  Sensing she would have to play it cool, Dove instilled mockery into her laughter. ‘It’s merely an advance on next year’s salary, for heaven’s sake! A concession from a grateful employer who’s anxious to guarantee my services.’

  ‘How very kind of him!’ Her mother was pathetically easy to deceive.

  Not so her father. Sharply he cross-examined, ‘And who might your new employer be—the Aga Khan, perhaps?’

  ‘You’re almost there,’ she twinkled, striving hard to keep the atmosphere light, determined at all costs to hide from her astute father the sensation of panic that soared through her at the mere mention of her new employer. ‘Actually,’ she told him airily, ‘he’s Sheikh Rahma bin Jabir who has employed me, by proxy, to look after his daughter Bibi and his son Salim.’

  ‘A sheikh?’ her mother almost shrieked.

  ‘The Middle East ...!’ Her father jumped to his feet. ‘My dear child, don’t you ever read the papers? Listen to news broadcasts ...? Every day there are reports of clashes between enemy factions, violent demonstrations and attempted assassinations.’

  ‘Which are all highly exaggerated, I’m sure,’ Dove hastened to assure him. ‘As you’ve said yourself, many times, one mustn’t place too much reliance upon statements made by the media, as they’re often highly sensationalised, small incidents blown up out of all proportion in order to enliven an otherwise uneventful day.’

  ‘You speak like a child,’ her father rebuked sternly, ‘with a child’s ignorance of Middle Eastern affairs. In one respect it might be true to say that some of the matters reported are trivial, yet occurring as they do within potentially explosive situations they’re often the spark that sets alight a dormant fuse. I’m sorry, Dove,’ he drew himself erect in a manner reminiscent of his days of command, ‘but I can’t allow you to take on such a hazardous job.’ Firmly, the cheque
was pushed into her hand. ‘Return this money immediately, together with an apology to the Sheikh for any inconvenience your impulsive decision might have caused him. ’

  ‘I was not interviewed by the Sheikh,’ she protested, ‘but even so, right this minute plans are being finalised, I couldn’t go back on my word.’

  ‘You must!’ She saw by the glint in her father’s eyes that a storm was brewing. ‘If you don’t feel you can face the embarrassment of telling these people you’ve changed your mind then I shall do it for you. Give me an address where they can be reached.’

  ‘No, Father!’ Never in her life had Dove addressed either of her parents with such adamancy. ‘I’ve agreed to take on the job—have even accepted an advance on salary—so I shall carry on as promised. If my decision upsets you then I’m sorry, because it was you who taught me always to honour my promises.’

  ‘But, Dove dear,’ for the first time her mother interrupted in a tearful, quavering voice, ‘you must try to understand how we feel! You’re our only child. Far rather we should face the consequences of bankruptcy than have the worry of knowing you to be in constant danger.’

  Dove slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her an affectionate hug. ‘Put the thought of danger right out of your mind, Mother. I shall be perfectly safe with Monsieur Blais protecting the Sheikh’s household.’

  ‘Marc Blais?’ Her father’s head shot erect.

  ‘Do you know him, Father?’ Her expression reflected

  surprise.

  ‘I know of him.’ He resumed his seat, furrowed brow indicating a search into the recess of memory. ‘To military men,’ he told her slowly, ‘the man’s name is synonymous with courage and great bravery. When I first heard his name mentioned it was as an officer in the French Foreign Legion who, as a result of a hair-raising escapade in the desert during which he rescued a fellow officer from torture and almost certain death at the hands of renegade Arabs, was awarded the cross of the Legion d’Honneur. I can’t recall the exact details, but the captured officer, as well as being a close friend of Marc Blais, was also supposed to be a son of some influential Arab family which, come to think of it, might explain his present day connection with Neffe.’

  ‘The Foreign Legion,’ Dove’s nose wrinkled fastidiously, ‘is made up of fugitives from justice, from their enemies, or simply from the responsibility of providing for a wife and children, isn’t it?’

  Her father laughed, seeming, for some reason, much less worried than he had been a few minutes previously. ‘Your image of the Foreign Legion has obviously been gleaned from romantic fiction,’ he teased. ‘The fact is, the Legion is no longer a collection of misfits and lovelorn adventurers, but is most selective, choosing its recruits from the cream of today’s youth who, after ruthless discipline and stringent training, emerge as Legionnaires capable of enduring the worst physical conditions in desert or jungle and who are noted for their insistence upon fighting to the very last man. I must admit, Dove, to feeling fewer qualms now that I know you are to be in charge of a member of one of the

  Regiments Etrangers, for the corollary of a Legionnaire is his willingness to battle against all odds and to use any means to improve those odds, neither giving nor expecting any quarter.’

  In spite of the warmth of the room she shivered. Instead of being reassuring, as no doubt he had intended, her father had increased her fears about the barbaric man who was to be her immediate boss. In spite of her father’s glowing testimonial, she felt the Legion was suspect, with a reputation for cruelty which must have been superimposed upon every member of its ranks. It could be argued that the French Government, being ashamed of its Legion’s reputation, had decided to apply a coat of whitewash in the form of favourable publicity and had succeeded so well in that even men as knowledgeable as her father had been deceived. Having just recently clashed with one of the legendary Legionnaires, however, she felt more inclined towards her original belief, which was that the Legion recruited its men from the slums, the refugee camps, and the prisons of the world. Men who fought, not for France because they owed her no allegiance, but for more sinister reasons. They were mercenaries, men who were prepared to kill for money. If such men were as merciless and hard-bitten as they were reputed to be then it followed that their commanding officers must be a hundred times more so!

  From the depths of memory emerged a few sentences contained within the only book she had ever read concerning the Legion. The author, a deserter, had been bitter in his indictment.

  ‘Only ignorant fools and glamour-struck boys join the

  Legion. If conditions inside the ranks were made public the force would become extinct because of lack of volunteers. Simply donning the uniform bestows arrogance—men become beasts before wearing it for a year!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The discovery that they were to fly to Neffe by private jet surprised Dove. On a grey cheerless morning, in a mood reflective of the atmosphere, Monsieur Blais ushered her aboard the silver plane, then, showing as little concern for her as he did towards the stowing of the remaining baggage, helped her aboard, then strapped himself into a seat on the opposite side of the aisle before proceeding to concentrate his attention upon papers protruding from a still-bulging briefcase.

  When the engines roared into life every nerve of her body tensed. With clenched fists and the dry taste of fear in her mouth she watched houses, fields and hedges whizzing past, then closed her eyes as the plane gathered speed, ready for lift-off. Feeling certain a crash was imminent, yet determined not to communicate to the unfeeling brute opposite that this was her very first flight, she withdrew into a tense knot of silence.

  After an agony of time she forced open her eyes and saw below a sea of cottonwood cloud with above it a sky of brilliant blue whose existence, as she had crossed the windswept runway, she had never suspected.

  ‘That pea-green complexion suits you,’ a callous voice mocked. ‘In a pocket at the side of your seat you will find plastic bags—please use one if you are going to be sick.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of being sick, thank you all the same,’ Dove gritted.

  When he shrugged his indifference and returned to his papers she relaxed, anxious to enjoy this new experience. Life from now on was to be full of adventure instead of humdrum routine; she must learn to adapt, physically and mentally, to whatever demands might be made upon her.

  Only once during the five-hour flight did she look his way, and only then because, sensing a hard stare, some inner mechanism goaded her to retaliate. But when she had turned her head he had been engrossed in his papers, so she had shrugged, blaming her own overactive imagination, and tried to force an interest in the magazine which for the past half hour had lain unopened on her lap. But her mind was so troubled she could not concentrate. Conscience kept insisting that she was here under false pretences. If only she had been honest with him, contradicted his assumption that she had been sent by Mrs. Todd, she would not now be fretting about the consequences should he ever discover he had been tricked.

  A young Arab steward served breakfast, accompanied by incomparably delicious coffee served in tiny cups. Having eaten nothing since supper the previous evening she was able to do justice to bitter-sweet grapefruit, oven-crisp rolls with creamy butter, and a generous platter of bacon, egg and sausages. When Monsieur Blais waved away all but the coffee she felt ashamed of her greed.

  ‘That is probably exactly how he intends me to feel!’ she muttered to herself, angrily spearing a sausage. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to discover that, like the camel, he’s trained himself to go without sustenance for weeks!’

  In an effort to ignore his disturbing presence, she finished her coffee, then settled her head on the back of her seat, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep. The past week had been sheer turmoil—shopping, paying last-minute visits to relatives and friends, writing letters and making all the arrangements necessary for her year of exile. Consequently she had slept very little, so was able after a whi
le to slide into a doze that lasted more than an hour, during which time they flew out of cloud into sunshine so brilliant that when she eventually awoke she had difficulty in focusing upon the first thing she saw, a wing of the aircraft—a sword of molten silver stabbing so brilliantly it was hurtful to the eyes.

  ‘You sleep, mademoiselle, as one with an untroubled mind.’

  Immediately on the defensive, she jerked, ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?’ Blood pounded through her veins as she waited for his answer. If he harboured any suspicions at all now was his chance to take up her challenge!

  ‘English females share one similarity with their Eastern sisters,’ he drawled. ‘Both shelter behind a veil of innocence. However, it is not unknown for a woman of the harem to suffer a thrashing for her misdeeds.’

  ‘A thrashing? From whom ...?’ Dove gasped.

  ‘From their lord and master, who else?’ His eyebrows arched, indicating genuine surprise.

  ‘Then it’s just as well,’ she reminded him with asperity, ‘that I don’t possess one.’

  ‘Oh, but you do.’ His answer was traced with silken threat. ‘Have you not sold yourself into bondage for one year? And did I not pay the very high price you consider you are worth? To all intents and purposes, mademoiselle, I am your master.’

  Don’t be ridiculous!’ she gasped. ‘How can you speak of bondage in this day and age? ’

  For the first time in their acquaintance he smiled, a brief lifting of the lips that projected derision rather than amusement. Pushing aside his briefcase, he leant sideways to emphasise, ‘With each step taken into the desert a century of civilisation is left behind. In the cities and suburbs there are signs of degeneration—Arab women dressed by Dior preening at endless coffee mornings and cocktail parties, playing golf, learning to ride, in fact, aping their Western sisters in any way they can. Yet for the most part they are pathetic beings, soaked in luxury and loneliness, knowing that in spite of their pitiful attempts to appear liberated their husbands’ religion forbids that they should ever be regarded as equals. The lowly status of womankind is an incontrovertible fact among men of the East. For did not the blessed prophet say: “I stood at the gate of paradise and lo! most of its inhabitants were the poor. And I stood at the gate of hell and lo! most of its inhabitants were women! Moreover, Arab men firmly believe that woman was made out of a crooked rib of Adam which if you tried to bend it would break and if you left it alone would always remain crooked.