The Lost Prince Page 4

  When they arrived at the hotel, Katy was segregated from the men and given a room on a floor allotted only to women. Her room was sparse and in need of a good cleaning, not to mention stuffy with the remnants of the day’s warmth. There was one toilet for the entire floor of twelve rooms and one bathroom with an old claw-foot bathtub. At least it was clean and in good working order.

  She sat down on her bed and winced at the sag in the mattress. But, hey, it was better than the stone ledges the prisoners were sleeping on. She stripped off her abaya, considering whether it would be dry by morning if she washed it right then. She opened her suitcase, which had magically appeared in her room. And stopped cold. Someone had searched it. The clothes weren’t folded right, and her things weren’t in the same places she’d put them when she’d left home.

  She went next door and knocked on Hazel’s door. The older woman stuck her head around the jamb. “Oh, it’s you. Come on in.”

  Katy stepped inside and grinned at Hazel’s shorts and halter top. No wonder the woman had hidden behind the door. She’d be arrested if any Baraqi Army type saw her in such lascivious garb. “Was your suitcase searched, Hazel?”

  The older woman looked up at her quickly. “No. Was yours?”

  For some reason, a twinge of foreboding made her reticent to tell anyone about it. Maybe it was Nikolas Ramsey’s warning. Or maybe it was a gut instinct. Her brothers swore by them. She shrugged. “I guess I’m just getting paranoid after the way the Army’s treating us women.”

  Again Hazel shot her a strange look. “They’ve been exceedingly polite to me and Phyllis. Did you do something to make them mad?”

  Katy blinked. “Not that I know of.” On yet another hunch, she asked, “Do you speak Arabic?”

  Hazel nodded. “Fluent in it. I can argue politics and cuss out a cab driver with the best of them.”

  “And there haven’t been any nasty comments or innuendos flying around you from the soldiers?”

  “Nope.” Hazel looked at her closely. “You going to be able to hack it in this country?”

  Katy drew herself up straight. “Of course.” Why in the world was she being singled out for harassment by the Army? Surely they didn’t know or give a flip for who her brothers were!

  The older woman nodded. Paused. Told her sagely, “Don’t go out by yourself. Eat in the hotel or go with a group into the bazaar to buy food. And don’t touch any of the meat from the street vendors. It’ll give you a case of Montezuma’s revenge you’ll never forget.”

  Katy smiled at the small overture of friendly advice. “Thanks.”

  Hazel nodded briskly.

  Thoughtfully Katy wandered downstairs to snag a couple pieces of fruit and returned to her own room. She unlocked the door and let herself in. Night had fallen while she’d been gone, and she had to cross her room to reach the lamp in the corner. The white gauze curtains billowed in the breeze, and again she stopped cold.

  She hadn’t left her window open.

  She turned around slowly, scanning the dark corners and shadows dancing in her room. Nothing there. She was alone. She let out a slow breath. Still in the dark, she moved over to the floor-to-ceiling casement windows and shut them. She made a special point of locking them, as well. Only then did she move over to the lamp and switch it on. It bathed the room in soft yellow light.

  She looked around again. And froze. There was something on her pillow. A note. She moved over to it and looked at it without touching it. It was a single sheet of beige linen stationery folded in half. In cramped cursive were the letters M-l-l-e, the French abbreviation for Mademoiselle. Gingerly Katy picked it up. Unfolded it. More of the cramped cursive.

  She translated the French quickly in her head.

  King Nikolas is not dead, and we desperately need your assistance in finding him. Please help us in this vital endeavor, mademoiselle. We shall wait with utmost urgency until you succeed. We will contact you soon. Be warned—there are those within the lion who would use you to gain their own ends.

  Within the lion? Of course. Il Leone. The palace. So, rumors were already floating around that King Nikolas lived, were they? That didn’t bode well for the man she’d met earlier. Of course, the warning in this note didn’t bode well for him, either. If his enemies were already watching her, then she’d have to be extremely careful not to lead them to the hidden king.

  And then there was the direct threat to her. Someone in the palace wanted to use her for some reason, eh? Why was that just not a surprise? Who could this note be warning her of? Major Moubayed and the Army? Nikolas himself?

  The more relevant question at the moment was who had gotten into her room to leave this cryptic little message? And how? She was sure the door had locked shut behind her when she’d gone next door to talk to Hazel. And there was no way she’d left the window open. She even remembered thinking the room was too warm and closed it before she went out. Surely nobody had climbed up the face of a five-story building to sneak in her window and deliver this note! Someone on the hotel staff with a master key, then?

  She picked up the phone. A female operator answered in English. Now how did she know to do that? She must have a list of the room numbers the Americans were staying in. Katy asked, “May I please speak to the manager?”

  “Regarding what, Miss McMann?”

  Katy replied, “Someone has broken into my room. I need to report it to the manager and the police.”

  The operator answered without any noticeable surprise, “I will report it to the manager right away, ma’am.”

  That was weird. Shouldn’t a break-in alarm a hotel employee at least a little bit? And the woman didn’t ask if anything was stolen or if Katy was okay. Katy replied, “I really would prefer to speak to the manager myself.”

  “That is not possible, mademoiselle.” The woman’s voice shot up by at least half an octave, and now definite alarm rang in her tone.

  Katy blinked. Had the operator just called her mademoiselle on purpose? She replayed the sentence in her head. That was definitely a special emphasis the woman had placed on the word. What in the world was going on here? She could understand the hotel not wanting to involve the police. Especially with the city under martial law. But why was the operator running interference on her at least speaking to the manager?

  “I swear to you, mademoiselle, no harm will come to you in this hotel.”

  There it was again. That heavy emphasis on the word mademoiselle. And real desperation coursed through the operator’s voice now.

  “Uh, okay. I believe you. I will leave it in your hands to report this to the manager and the authorities.”

  Katy frowned through the woman’s gushing thank-you. “What’s your name?”

  “I am Hanah.”

  “Thank you for your help, Hanah.”

  “You are welcome. And thank you.”

  Katy hung up the phone, roundly confused. The hotel operator had left her this note? Clearly if Hanah wasn’t the author, the woman was at least aware of its existence. Why would someone in the hotel feel obliged to warn her about treachery in the palace?

  Speaking of which, she had some homework to do. She checked the window latch again and carefully locked the door behind her as she stepped out into the hall. Hopefully there was no law against women going to a men’s floor to visit in this backward country. She made her way downstairs and knocked on Don Ford’s door. He opened it immediately. A group of six men from the team were seated on the floor, a large picnic spread out on a cloth between them. It looked as if they were having a great time. A pang at being excluded stabbed her gut.

  “What can I do for you, Katy?” Don asked.

  “Do you have a copy of the Geneva Conventions with you?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one pertaining to treatment of prisoners of war,” she answered.

  “Do you want all one hundred and forty-three articles plus annexes or one part in particular? Did you run into a problem today?”

  Again
her internal alarm bells went off, shouting at her not to answer that question. “I just want to read up on a few things,” she answered with what she hoped was casual ease.

  “I’ll get it.” Ford went across the room to dig in a big leather satchel.

  One of the other men looked up at her slyly. “How’d it go working with Larry?”

  She smiled pleasantly and said without missing a beat, “He was an absolute dear. I’m so glad Don paired me up with him.”

  Everyone gawked in surprise and she bit back a grin. There. Let them chew on that. Nothing like killing ’em with kindness.

  Ford held out a sheaf of papers about sixty pages thick. “There you go. Holler if you have any questions about what it means.”

  As if after growing up in her family she couldn’t read legalese and make sense of it? She smiled politely and said smoothly, “Thanks. I’ll be sure to ask if anything comes up that’s beyond me.”

  Good ole Don blinked rapidly a couple times, as if he’d just remembered who she was. A little red around the gills, he showed her to the door and wished her good-night.

  She fumbled loudly at her door for long enough to let someone climb out her window. She entered her room cautiously, gun-shy at the idea of accidentally surprising an intruder. But all was as she’d left it.

  She settled on her bed to look for a loophole in the document Ford had given her. Nada. The only thing the document had to say about treatment of heads of state as prisoners was that they should be afforded quarters fitting to their station. Big freaking lot of good that would do Nikolas.

  And then she ran across the bit about prisoners of war withholding their identities from their captors. Failure to identify oneself truthfully negated one’s right to full protection under the Geneva Convention. Great. Nikolas could tell the Army who he was, get a great room for a night and then get killed. Or he could not tell them and be subject to abuse or even torture. He’d have to continue to be Akbar Mulwami for the time being. It was flimsy protection, but he didn’t have any other options.

  As for telling her boss who Nikolas was, something in her gut said the fewer people who knew Prisoner 1806’s secret, the better.

  While she rinsed out her abaya, she debated whether or not to sleep with the window closed and opted not to let the mysterious note intimidate her into being miserable. She lay down on top of the sheets and let the evening’s cool breeze waft over her, carrying that faint, lovely smell of orange blossoms again. A siren sounded in the distance, a distinctive up-down-up-down wail. A few vehicles rumbled past, rattling on the cobblestones. How a night this peaceful and quiet should follow so closely after the violence she’d seen on television just two days ago was hard to fathom. Grateful for the lack of mortars and explosions, she fell asleep.

  And dreamed of a handsome prince with golden eyes carrying her off to an enchanted palace and making love to her all night long.

  Nick lay on the cold stone shelf that was his bed for long hours after the American left, nurturing the tiny spark of hope she’d ignited deep within him. If he had an ally on the outside, maybe, just maybe, he might get out of this alive. And then he might get a chance to set this mess aright, to make up for everything he’d failed to do before.

  But first things first. He had to get out of here. And that wasn’t in the cards for him. Eventually his face would heal, the swelling would go down and then he’d be recognized. He was a dead man walking.

  The problem with being locked up in a silent, dim cell like this was it gave a guy plenty of time to think. He’d spent the last two days in this black hole damning himself to hell and back for neglecting his duty for so many years. For much of his thirty-four years, he’d jetted all over the world, living as fast and playing as hard as he could, running away from the responsibilities that came with his family’s wealth and position. Hell, just running away from his family.

  He bitterly regretted now never having spent time with his father after college, never trying to talk to him about how he ran his country, about his vision for Baraq. Lord knew, Baraq had been his father’s passion in life. To the exclusion of all else—including his wife, who’d eventually left, and his only son, whom he’d mostly ignored.

  Nick knew far too little of his Ramsey legacy. But he did know he’d failed that legacy. For thirty generations—almost a thousand years—dominion over these lands had passed from father to son in an unbroken line. And he was going to break the chain. He would go down in history as the last Ramsey. The one who failed. Spectacularly. The thought galled him.

  His father might have been a bad parent, but in the clarity that came with staring death in the face, he admitted to himself that he’d also been a bad son. And obviously the Army believed he was going to be a bad king or else they wouldn’t have overthrown him before he could prove them wrong. Not only had he failed the Ramsey dynasty, he’d failed himself.

  His remaining life span could no doubt be measured in days rather than weeks or years. Surely someone would recognize him soon. And then the Ramsey line would end.

  Unless…

  The idea was preposterous. The American aid worker would never go for it. It wasn’t fair to ask her such a thing. He barely knew her, for goodness’ sake! He had no right to put an innocent young woman’s life at risk any more than he already had.

  But what other choice did he have?

  He couldn’t sit by and watch his family disappear without a trace. He couldn’t leave his countrymen with no hope at all of continuing Baraq’s proud heritage, which was so closely tied to his family’s. If there was even a chance of salvaging the line, he had to try.

  He wrestled through the night with his misgivings, examining his idea from every angle, analyzing its chances for success, anticipating the pitfalls and planning how to get around them. And his idea was full of holes. Huge, gaping craters. Starting with the fact that it all hinged on the American woman.

  But after a long, sleepless night, he finally came to a single conclusion. He had no choice. He must try.

  Chapter 4

  The worst of Katy’s jet lag was gone when the first call to morning prayer broadcast across the city at dawn. She went over to her French door and, leaning on the jamb, gazed out across Akuba as sunrise bathed the white metropolis in vivid peach hues. Ox-drawn carts laden with fresh produce lumbered by on the street below, and veiled women met the carts at their front doors, bartering in quick Arabic and filling woven bags with food in a ritual as ancient as the city itself.

  Gold onion turrets and the tall needles of minarets marked mosques. Tapering white steeples marked the Christian edifices on the skyline as the sun broke over the horizon and morning burst upon the city at her feet. The first shopkeepers slid back grates from the fronts of their shops and spread out blankets on the sidewalk, arranging their wares for sale. Brass and woven goods, tobacco and spices, piles of fruit, loaves of bread, small electronics and racks of CDs and DVDs emerged to line the margins of the street. The blend of old and new was oddly representative of the city itself.

  With the reality of a new day came insidious doubt that she’d actually found Nikolas Ramsey yesterday. Maybe the guy just looked like the king and was hoping to parlay that into some sort of negotiated release. Time to go see if her imagination had been playing tricks on her or not. She had dozens of prisoners to see today, but somehow she’d make time to pay a return visit to him. She donned her mostly dry abaya and managed to get her scarf tied around her head and the veil across her face with the help of the tiny mirror in the corner of her room.

  Too nervous to eat much more than a single, delicious honey cake, she hiked up the killer hill to Il Leone, and the climb sucked every bit as bad as she’d expected it to. Nobody needed stair-climbers in this town! Her abaya clung to her sweaty skin, and the silk veil clung to her face in the most annoying fashion when she and Larry finally staggered into the palace courtyard, huffing like racehorses. More like broken-down, asthmatic horses ready for the glue factory.

&nb
sp; Throughout the morning a number of the prisoners asked her under their breath and with some urgency whether there’d been any word on King Nikolas. Did she know if he was alive or dead, and where? Did Nikolas, despite his playboy ways, engender loyalty in his troops? Or were they simply being questioned hard about him by the Army?

  It ran against her grain to lie, but it wasn’t as though she had any choice. She shrugged and told the men she hadn’t heard anything and that InterAid was not supposed to get involved in such matters. Right.

  Many of the prisoners were in bad shape. Most of their injuries could have come from the rigors of combat, but she suspected that many of them had actually come from beatings administered during their initial interrogations. The soldiers controlling the palace were rude to her and arrogant enough to set her teeth on edge. It was easy to dislike this bunch of thugs who’d taken over Baraq. They might have legitimate reasons for what they’d done, but their methods left a great deal to be desired.

  Moving from prisoner to prisoner within the palace, it didn’t take Katy long to figure out that the coup had been planned for some time prior to Nick’s father’s death. He’d died a lingering death of heart disease, apparently, and the Army had waited only for the poor man to stop breathing to seize the kingdom. Larry commented to her that the former Ramsey king had been so popular that no coup against him would have worked anyway. Not so with the younger Ramsey. Everyone she came across, both rebel and royalist, agreed that Nikolas was a complete stranger to them.

  It was midafternoon before she was able to make her way back to Prisoner 1806 without it seeming unnatural. But finally she stood in front of the iron-banded door once more.