Dark Enemy

by Anne Mather

  ‘Ah, Mademoiselle King,’ he murmured, getting to his feet. ‘I am delighted you decided to honour us by your presence.

  ‘I didn’t have much choice,’ returned Nicola shortly, summoning all her courage. She must not let this man see she was frightened or she might just as well succumb to whatever plans he had for her. She sensed the Sheikh was a man who would admire spirit in a woman. He would be too used to the fawning obeisance practised by his own women.

  The Sheikh inclined his head now in acknowledgment of her statement, and then smiled. ‘Nevertheless, we are pleased to have you here.’ He snapped his fingers and a servant appeared immediately. ‘Some refreshment for our guest,’ he said brusquely, and the man withdrew bowing low. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ The Sheikh indicated a place beside him, but Nicola deliberately chose to sit at the furthest point from him, and he made no objection. Seating himself, he said: ‘Are you not curious to know why I have brought you here?’

  Nicola’s nails dug into the palms of her hands, but when she spoke she instilled indifference into her voice. ‘Your motives cannot be reasonable ones,’ she said, ‘and I do not particularly care to make conversation with a man who by his very actions belies his status as ruler of Abrahm.’

  ‘Why do you think my motives are unreasonable?’

  Nicola shrugged. ‘Because of the manner in which I was brought here. Kidnapping is not exactly legal, is it?’

  The Sheikh half-smiled. ‘For a woman in your precarious position, you are remarkably untroubled,’ he said. ‘But I admire your spirit.’

  Nicola compressed her lips. There seemed nothing to say. The Sheikh offered her a cigarette and when she refused he lit one for himself. Then he leant forward and said:

  ‘What if I told you you had enchanted me? That I could not rest until you were mine!’

  Nicola’s cheeks paled a little, but she held up her head defiantly. ‘I wouldn’t believe you,’ she replied clearly.

  The Sheikh stared at her for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Miss King, you do not realize how refreshing it is for me to speak to someone who does not immediately begin to bore me with their insufferable humility!’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘It may be that you are right, my motives for bringing you here were not what I suggested, but with every passing minute I begin to wonder whether indeed I am wasting my opportunities.’

  Nicola stiffened. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘get to the point.’

  The Sheikh drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘You are impatient, mademoiselle. For that I think you must wait a little bit longer. See, here is some refreshment. I have ordered tea—that is what you English enjoy most of all, is it not?’

  Nicola stifled a ready retort. It would not do to annoy the Sheikh. Amusing him was one thing, arousing his anger was quite another. He was too unpredictable to state with any certainty what his reactions might be.

  The tea was very un-English. There was no sugar or cream, only lemon, and Nicola scalded her mouth in her impatience to get the ceremony over with. The Sheikh spent his time studying her, and she was half afraid to drink the liquid in case it contained some kind of narcotic. But, whatever happened, she could not improve her position by refusing his hospitality, so she drank the tea, ate a tiny sticky sweetmeat, and waited for the Sheikh to satisfy her curiosity.

  Eventually the Sheikh tired of the delay himself and summoned a servant to clear the cups and dishes away. When all was tidy again, he said:

  ‘Now, I will tell you why I have brought you here, Miss King. To begin with, you need not alarm yourself, no harm will come to you providing Monsieur Wilde does as I want him to do.’

  Nicola’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that your Monsieur Wilde is getting—how shall I put it—in my hair! He annoys me, and I do not wish him to annoy me any longer. Too much is at stake.’

  Nicola summoned her scattered wits. ‘You don’t imagine I am important to Jason Wilde, do you?’ she exclaimed.

  The Sheikh smiled. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle, for confirming my suspicions.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nicola was perplexed.

  The Sheikh shrugged, smoothing the soft material of his robe. ‘I never believed that Jason Wilde was your fiancé, Miss King, but on the other hand I could not prove otherwise. Now you have told me yourself. It is as I suspected. You are not Monsieur Wilde’s responsibility, except inasmuch as he is responsible for all the crew at Castanya. You came out here with Paul Mannering. Oh, I admit it was a clever idea pretending to be involved with Wilde, but all along I suspected that Sir Harold’s son was your real attachment.’

  Nicola stared at him in amazement. ‘You can’t be serious!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, you can’t be serious!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m nothing to Paul! Heavens, he’s two years younger than I am!’

  ‘What of it? Age is nothing. And there must be some serious attachment for Sir Harold to allow you to accompany his son to such a place as Castanya! Or maybe you came for kicks. It is not unknown. I have heard of rich young women doing all manner of strange things for amusement.’

  ‘I’m not a rich young woman!’ gasped Nicola.

  The Sheikh shrugged. ‘That is of no matter. Your own importance lies not in your wealth, but in your involvement with Paul Mannering. I do not think even Sir Harold Mannering would accept a situation where your—shall we say—future was in jeopardy. I can imagine it might cause quite a scandal, and it would not be unreasonable for Abrahm to break off diplomatic relations with a country who accuses us of such a liberty as to kidnap the fiancée of the chairman of Inter-Anglia Oil’s son.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ exclaimed Nicola, shaking her head wildly. ‘I tell you, I’m nothing to the Mannerings. I didn’t come out here to be with Paul. I came out—’ She halted abruptly.

  ‘Yes?’ The Sheikh was leaning towards her. ‘Just why did you come out here, Miss King? I do not believe you can convince me that your position here in Abrahm is not of importance to somebody.’

  Nicola sought about for words. ‘Of course my position here is important to somebody. To my sister. But I hardly think that constitutes an international incident, Sheikh Mohammed!’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘All right, all right, I’ll tell you why I’m here. I came out to Castanya for one reason, and one reason only, to get even with Jason Wilde for what he did to my sister. She was happily married when he came along and smashed her happiness by making her so infatuated with him that she deserted her husband. I was engaged to her husband’s brother and in the circumstances my engagement was broken, too!’ She rubbed the back of her hand across her cheeks. ‘Does that answer your question? Right now, Jason Wilde is in London finding out how I’ve cheated him! Do you imagine he’ll give a damn what happens to me?’ She sighed. ‘As for Sir Harold Mannering, I doubt whether he’ll even remember my name.’

  The Sheikh’s brows were drawn together in an angry frown. ‘You cannot prove this, Miss King,’ he snapped. ‘I do not believe you.’

  Nicola smoothed back her hair, and as she did so she remembered the letter she had received from Louise. ‘Yes, I can,’ she exclaimed. ‘Where is my handbag? If you can fetch me that I can show you a letter that proves what I’ve said is the truth!’

  The Sheikh stared at her and then he snapped his fingers impatiently. When the servant appeared he ordered him to fetch Nicola’s bag, and then while they waited, he said:

  ‘If what you say is true, if you can prove what you say, then you realize you are of no importance to me either. How do you know I will not dispose of you for my trouble?’

  Suddenly Nicola’s fear left her. She gave a slight smile. ‘Because I believe you are not a vicious man,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I don’t think you will kill me just to satisfy your anger at this mistake. Besides, you said I had spirit. Would you quench that spirit for speaking out?’

  The Sheikh’s expression softened a little. ‘You are a brave young woman, Miss King.’ He nodded
. ‘And what you say has truth in it. I do not think I will dispose of you after all.’

  Nicola moistened her lips. ‘Are you threatening me with banishment to your harem?’ she asked.

  The Sheikh lifted his shoulders. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Then I don’t think you should do that either,’ said Nicola carefully. ‘I would be an unsettling influence among your wives. Just imagine the furore I might create! What you admire in me as spirit could become rebellion with so many supporters.’

  The Sheikh’s face relaxed completely, and he laughed. ‘Oh, Miss King, you are indeed an unusual young woman. And one I will not soon forget.’

  The servant appeared with the handbag, and the Sheikh indicated he should hand it to Nicola. When she would have opened it to take out the letter, he held up his hand. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said firmly. ‘I have had time to think, and I have decided I believe your story. No one who has such confidence in themselves could be lying.’ He snapped his fingers again. ‘Mamoud! Tell Khalif to bring my car to the door. Miss King will be leaving in a few minutes.’

  Nicola could hardly believe it. The Sheikh’s words about her confidence rang a little hollowly inside her. Had he but known it, she was a trembling mass of nerves within. She got unsteadily to her feet and the Sheikh said: ‘Yes, Miss King, you can go. I do not doubt that you will get even with Monsieur Wilde. I do not envy him.’

  Nicola managed a smile. ‘I would like to thank you for your—your understanding,’ she said.

  ‘You thought I was merely a savage, is that right?’ the Sheikh smiled.

  Nicola lifted her shoulders. ‘I didn’t know what to think.’

  ‘So now perhaps you will take pleasant memories home with you to England,’ murmured the Sheikh gently. ‘Come, I will escort you to the car. My chauffeur will see that you complete your journey to Gitana and make sure you reach England in safety.’

  Nicola was amazed at the opulence of the vehicle which awaited her. While Mamoud stowed her cases into the boot, the Sheikh spoke in rapid Arabic to the driver, and Nicola wondered what was being said. Even now, she felt a slight distrust of the Sheikh although she was convinced he meant what he said when he told her she was as good as home. Then she remembered Ali.

  ‘My—my driver,’ she exclaimed. ‘What of him?’

  The Sheikh frowned. ‘I will see that tomorrow he is dispatched back to Castanya. Do not worry, mademoiselle. He will not be harmed either.’

  Nicola bit her lip, and with this she had to be content. She could hardly insist that Ali accompany her to Gitana, and besides, the sooner he was returned to Castanya, the sooner her own position would be made clear. At least no one would have to worry about her safety that way.

  She climbed into the sleek automobile, accepted the Sheikh’s salute, and then nodded to Khalif that she was ready to leave. It was dark now and only the realization that what she was leaving behind was far worse than the journey ahead of her consoled her exhausted senses. After all, Khalif was in the pay of the Sheikh, and she had nothing to fear.

  Whether exhaustion overwhelmed her, or whether indeed there had been some kind of narcotic in the tea, she didn’t know, but soon after they set off, her head drooped tiredly, and in no time at all she was asleep.

  * * *

  She was awakened by the sound of music and activity, and she sat up with a start to see that they were driving along streets where even at this time of night there was plenty of action. Neon-lighted arcades advertised their shoddy wares while beat music combined with the shrill wail of reed-pipes issued from every open doorway. She realized it was the dock area of Gitana. She and Paul had driven along here from the airport.

  She glanced at Khalif. ‘I must have slept the whole way!’ she exclaimed.

  Khalif nodded. ‘Yes, mademoiselle. We are going to the harbour. The Sheikh’s yacht awaits you there.’

  ‘Yacht!’ Nicola sat bolt upright in her seat. ‘But—but if you take me to the hotel I can wait until tomorrow and get a flight. I don’t need a yacht!’

  ‘Sheikh Mohammed’s orders,’ returned Khalif implacably, and Nicola seethed with annoyance. Her sleep had restored some of her resilience, and now she felt indignant that she should have been duped in this way.

  ‘Am—am I not to be allowed to return to England after all?’ she exclaimed. ‘So much for your Sheikh Mohammed’s words!’

  Khalif gave her a disdainful stare. ‘The Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed will keep his word,’ he replied coldly. ‘There are no flights out of Abrahm for the next thirty-six hours. The yacht will take you along the coast to Tripoli where there are regular flights to Rome and from there to London.’

  ‘Oh!’ Nicola pressed a hand to her throat. ‘I—I didn’t understand.’

  ‘Obviously not. However, you may rest assured your return to England is guaranteed.’

  Nicola didn’t know what to say, but when she saw the magnificent equipage of the Sheikh’s yacht she relaxed and found enjoyment in being treated like a royal personage. The Captain of the yacht was French, a man in his fifties who was kind and sympathetic when Khalif made known his master’s instructions. Nicola was welcomed aboard and no questions were asked. Apparently Khalif was to accompany her to Tripoli, and she wondered rather doubtfully whether everything was going to be as simple as he made it out to be. Thoughts of white slave-trafficking, narcotic smuggling and arms smuggling flooded her brain, but in fact she had nothing to fear. The voyage was completed in comfort, and transport was waiting for them to escort Nicola to the airport. Obviously the ship’s radio had been used to relay the Sheikh’s instructions in advance and all the arrangements went smoothly. Too smoothly, thought Nicola, but she could find no complaints to register.

  Instead, she was able to leave everything in Khalif’s hands, and if some rather strange glances were cast in their direction, she ignored them. After all, no one knew her identity or that of Khalif, and his rather outlandish mode of dress was accepted as normal here. Even so, it was not until the B.O.A.C. VC-10 rose majestically from the tarmac at Idris El Awal that she felt really safe again.

  * * *

  Back in London yet another surprise awaited her. It was late in the evening when she finally took a taxi to the flat which Louise had come to share with her in St. John’s Wood. A steady drizzle was falling, and Nicola felt cold and miserable and tired, not really willing to discuss her unexpected return with anybody, least of all with the man who opened the door to her.

  ‘George!’ she exclaimed, stepping inside, and dropping her suitcases tiredly on the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Louise came bustling out from the lounge. She was in her dressing gown, and there was an embarrassed, flustered expression on her face. George was in his shirt-sleeves, and from their appearance they had certainly not spent the evening rowing with one another.

  ‘Nicola!’ exclaimed Louise, in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let us know you were coming back?’

  Nicola grimaced at George, and then walked tiredly into the living room. Here there was more evidence of George’s occupation. His slippers stood beside the fire, his pipe lay on the mantelpiece, his monthly motoring magazine was lying on a chair, as though he lived there.

  Nicola swung round. ‘I think I should have let you know I was coming,’ she exclaimed, half angrily. ‘What’s going on, Louise? Two and a half weeks ago when I left here you were lonely and depressed. Your marriage with George was over. Now I come back unexpectedly and find George here, obviously in residence. Don’t you think I’m entitled to some explanation?’

  George glanced at Louise who was wringing her hands, and then said: ‘Sit down, Nicola. Louise, go and make some tea. Your sister looks worn out.’

  Nicola did as he suggested and flung herself into a chair, kicking off her shoes. She was tired and fed-up, and George’s amiable, plump features were not the ones she wanted to see. She had expected Louise to be glad to see her, sorry that she hadn’t achieved
anything, but glad to see her anyway. Now she felt like an interloper in her own flat.

  After Louise had left the room, still looking anxious, George seated himself opposite his sister-in law and said: ‘Well, Nicola, I suppose I must tell you what’s been happening.’

  ‘Yes, George, I think you must,’ said Nicola blankly.

  George lifted his pipe off the mantel and began to fill it thoughtfully. It was his way of avoiding her eyes, and she said, impatiently: ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, George, get it out and get it over with!’

  ‘All right.’ George looked up at her. ‘The day after you left—or maybe a couple of days after you left,’ he amended, flushing slightly, ‘Louise rang me up.’

  ‘She did what!’

  ‘She rang me. up. At work. She told me you had gone out to Abrahm on a job and she was alone with the children, and if I wanted to come and see them, I could.’

  ‘I see.’ Nicola shook her head, digesting this. She felt betrayed. From George’s words she felt sure Louise had phoned him the minute she had left the country. But why? If she had wanted to phone him, why hadn’t she done so before this?

  Louise appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh, Nicola,’ she said uncomfortably, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Nicola kicked an unoffending newspaper aside with her foot. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Louise,’ she said shortly, ‘don’t say that! I just wish you’d phoned him before I left, that’s all.’

  ‘I—I wanted to,’ began Louise.

  ‘You what!’ Nicola began to feel angry.

  ‘I—I wanted to, Nicola. But you were always so strong-minded, so certain you were right, that I hadn’t the heart to tell you that I wanted to go back to George.’

  Nicola was furious now. ‘How can you stand there and say such things!’ she gasped. ‘Why, only in that letter you sent you—’