Taken by the Sheikh (3 page)

She raised her ruined face and stared at him in disbelief. “You think you can put me through that and then act all hospitable?” 

He shrugged. “It’s hot. You need to drink.”

“You’re a maniac. You’re
all
maniacs. What the hell was that filming charade all about?”

“Dear young lady—whoever you are—you are the currency we will bargain with. The first recording will let the authorities know we have you, safe and alive. The second, which they will receive in a few days’ time, will show them you are still alive but in grave danger. The third—that your plight is now desperate.” He shrugged again. “It’s the way we achieve what we need.”

“Is this religious or political?”

“One is tied so closely to the other.”

“In this part of the world, yes,” she sneered. “I thought it would be exotic and beautiful and cultural when Mrs Daniels said they’d been posted to Al Sounam.”

“We are undoubtedly exotic and beautiful and cultural, as you say.”

“Not from where I’m looking.” She stared around the bunker in panic. One wall appeared to be made of huge boulders. She assumed it was disguised as a rocky outcrop on the outside.

 Slivers of light shone through in places, so at least she wouldn’t run out of fresh air. “How long are you keeping me here?”

“For as long as it takes for certain people to see sense.”

“But what about...plumbing,” she asked in a very small voice, feeling the blush spread up her neck and over her face.

“We have that most admirable invention, the Porta-Pottie.” He pointed to the far corner and she suddenly realized what the other boxy object was.

“And decadent American Coca Cola,” she muttered.

“As you say.” 

She was almost certain there was a tiny quirk at one end of his stern mouth.

Rafiq tied the longer piece of tough orange rope around one of the heavy table legs so she was tethered, dissolved the knot together, and motioned the other men to leave. “We will give you some privacy for a few minutes. We have important things to arrange outside.”

She stayed sitting, acutely embarrassed, until his long legs disappeared from view, then she crept across to the corner.

Minutes later, she knew she was never going to be able to unpick the melted-together knots. She’d worried at them unceasingly since the men had retreated outside, and all she’d achieved were very sore fingertips and one broken nail. Finally she gave in, fixed her hair back into its pony-tail again, and reclaimed the red cap.

She heaved a deep sigh. Almost anything would be better than this. She’d settle for the noisy hostel, or her dump of a flat, or even the Gorridge’s awful foster-home in preference to her current situation. If life had seemed bad before, it was infinitely worse now.

Snatches of conversation drifted down the steps. She had no idea what was being discussed because her grasp of the local language was restricted to the most basic words yet.

The wind still sounded high. It whistled over the dunes and sent a sifting of sand down the stairs. She heard the van engine fire up, and then the vehicle ground away, leaving eerie silence. She trembled with fear and disbelief. Surely they hadn’t abandoned her here, albeit with toilet facilities, Coca Cola, orange juice, and possibly some sort of food if there was drink? There was no way she could bear to be confined in the dismal bunker all alone for heaven knows how many days. She eyed the foam mattress warily. It seemed a very real possibility. 

And then terror engulfed her again as she detected footsteps on the stairs, followed by one masculine silhouette against the rectangle of daylight. Which of them had returned?

It was the pig.

CHAPTER TWO

“Up,” Rafiq urged, grasping her wrists and helping her to stand on trembling legs. He produced small clippers from one of his pockets and severed the tough rope. Laurel rubbed at her sore skin and watched numbly as he fashioned new loops to make it look as though she’d somehow slipped free.

“Quickly.” He grabbed two bottles of orange juice in one big hand and her arm in the other and hustled her up the stairs.

“The wind should shift enough sand to cover our tracks before they get back from delivering the first tape. Walk exactly in my footprints so it looks like one person’s feet, just in case.”

The sudden turn of events confused her so thoroughly that Laurel became like a mechanical toy. She followed without protest, fitting her trainers into the dents made by his boots, plodding across the endless sand in the whistling stinging wind.

“Are you okay?” he called back after a time.

“Yes!” she yelled, panting hard. He’d set a blistering pace.

After twenty mind-numbing minutes they reached a deep hidden gully. Rafiq picked his way down the crumbling side, turning to offer his hand so she could negotiate the steepest parts. She trembled as she touched him, but knew she was likely to fall if she spurned his help. She still felt his fingers in her hair, on her neck, on her breasts. She burned with confusion and fear, but resigned herself to following him and hoping for better than the hideous bunker.

It was more sheltered on the gully floor, and a tiny unexpected trickling stream ran through amongst large stones and rocks. He retrieved the original piece of rope from his pocket, heaved one of the rocks up, and concealed the rope beneath it. Then he quickly scooped up a few handfuls of water and drank.

“You must take this,” he said, wiping his hands roughly on his trousers and producing a pen and notepad. He wrote instructions to someone unknown, and Laurel watched, mesmerized, as the pen raced over the paper in a strange curling script. He handed her the little page, then ripped several more off as well, tore them into small shreds and set them to float away in the water before returning the pad to his pocket.

“Walk only on the stones so you leave no prints. An hour’s walk from here you’ll find a house and servants. Give this to the woman.”

“Why?” she asked, still confused and in shock.

“Because you were not safe with Fayez and Nazim. They are thugs and murderers.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not as they are,” he said grimly. He glanced at his watch and thrust the bottles of orange juice towards her. “Start moving. I need to get back and make arrangements.”

And as lithely as a cat he spun about and ascended the near-vertical cliff-face.

Laurel stood stunned, paper in one hand, bottles of juice held against her overheated body by the other. At least the gully was out of the stinging sandy wind, but that meant the temperature seemed even higher.

She squinted up as he deserted her. He climbed with deceptive ease, hauling himself from one hand-hold to the next. She had no idea how she’d managed to scramble down the steep barely-formed track. From here it looked impossible.

As he gained the top, he turned and stared down at her.

“Drink!” he commanded, and stood with his hands on his hips until she stowed the precious note in her jeans pocket and wrenched the top off one of the bottles of juice. He waited a few more moments until he was satisfied she’d obeyed, then disappeared.

She picked her way from stone to rock to boulder, being careful to leave no footprints on the sand between. Her breathing calmed as she walked. Progress was much slower here. Another hour of this? Could she walk for so long? She tipped the bottle up again, savoring the tart golden juice. Nothing had ever tasted as good. She swished it around her teeth to moisten her dry mouth, and then let it trickle over her tongue and down her parched throat.

She was thirsty beyond belief—and surely he must be, too? But he’d left both bottles with her. A tiny unwilling flicker of gratitude and admiration crept into her brain.

She presumed he intended to repeat his long march back to the bunker. He might be a man of the desert, but he still needed more than a few handfuls of liquid.

She shook her head sharply. He was a disgusting kidnapping terrorist pig she reminded herself, sneering at the sudden moment of concern she’d spared him.

He had manhandled her and handcuffed her and held her captive against her will. He’d rubbed himself up against her and touched her breasts. He’d scared her half to death with the video routine. His well-being was not worth considering. Had he considered hers?

She lost her train of thought for a moment as she concentrated on a tricky patch of rocks. She jumped across a larger-than-usual gap and yelped with alarm as she dropped the second bottle of orange juice and it ricocheted down from one hard surface to the next. Happily the bottle was plastic. She’d be able to retrieve it, and almost more importantly, not leave any tell-tale pile of broken glass to give her route away.

Her thoughts returned to Rafiq. Yes, he had manhandled her, but he hadn’t been too rough. A few bruises maybe, but no broken bones or blood. He’d somehow prevented the other two men from mistreating her, although the gun and the knife had been terrifying.

And he had—maybe—led her toward some sort of safety. Either that or he’d stranded her alone and lost in the burning hot desert, to flounder onwards until she dropped from exhaustion and died from heat and thirst. Perhaps he’d simply disposed of her? He and his men had achieved their kidnap of a western woman and had the recordings they wanted; if she was now surplus to requirements this would save them the bother of killing her.

But...the second bottle of orange juice gave her a glimmer of hope. Why had he given her two? Why did he not drink the other one himself? It seemed he intended she should live.

She’d long-ago drained the last mouthful from the first bottle and followed his example of the rope; crushed it under her shoe, screwed the lid back on to keep it flat, and concealed it under a rock.

She glanced at her watch. Nearly 3.45. The Daniels family was holidaying at the seaside resort of Kalal—which was why she’d been free to go sketching on her own. Any other week she’d have been collecting eight-year-old Oscar and Jefferson from school in the capital of Al-Dubriz, or transporting six-year-old Mindy to dancing lessons. Had anyone noticed their nanny was missing yet? Probably not.

An unexpected sob wracked her body. No-one would even be looking for her yet! It might be several more hours before anyone did. The trail would be truly cold by then, and the tire tracks in the desert obliterated by the constantly moving sand. Maybe no-one would even think to look until someone saw the video. The ‘take one’ version—where she still had Maddie’s red cap on and the metal handcuffs that had been snapped around her wrists in the van.

She levered herself down between the rocks and managed to catch up the bottle of juice she’d dropped. She squealed as a brilliant blue-green spiny lizard scuttled away from the small patch of shadow the bottle had cast. How could anything live in this unrelenting heat? And what on earth did it eat? Sure, there was the small trickle of water on the gully floor, but no plants or insects were visible.

“And that’s a stupid camouflage job,” she yelled at the iridescent creature as it vanished from view between two rocks. Anything to distract her from her desperate situation...anything to make it seem like she wasn’t so alone in the world.

From rock to boulder to stone. From stone to rock to boulder. Laurel pushed endlessly on, grateful for the odd few seconds when she was close enough to the overhanging bank to be out of the sun’s furious glare.

She twisted her wrist to check her watch again. 4.07. How long had she been struggling through the wretched gully? He’d said ‘an hour’s walk’. At his own desert-devouring speed or at her slow stagger? Thank goodness she’d been wearing trainers instead of her new backless sandals. That thought cheered her up until 4.11, and then she sank onto a large rock beside the tiny stream and looked longingly at the second bottle of juice.

She knew she should hoard it for later, but she quivered with thirst and heat and exertion. Rafiq had drunk from the tiny stream—perhaps it was safe for her too? She dipped a hand into the tepid water and cupped up a small amount.

She sniffed. Nothing. She tasted. Nothing. She swallowed. Bliss! She dipped and swallowed several more times, then opened the bottle and chugged the juice down in a greedy torrent. When the bottle was empty she refilled it from the shining trickle, screwed the lid on, and resumed her trek feeling totally triumphant.

Yasmina peered around the bedroom door again, noting that her unexpected guest finally rested quietly. Poor girl—she was obviously exhausted. How far had she walked? Where had the master found her? And how much longer before he arrived to explain the delicious mystery?

As Laurel slept and dreamed, Rafiq lay exhausted and dehydrated in the bunker. He remembered turning away from the cliff-top once he’d seen the girl stow his note in her jeans pocket. She’d opened the first bottle of juice and raised it to her mouth. The harsh sun had highlighted the movements of her ivory throat as she drank. He’d imagined brushing his lips down that creamy soft skin. Cupping his hands around her plump little breasts.

But not yet. For now he’d done all he could, and she was free.

He’d cast about for a suitable stone. Something fist-sized and jagged, hoping it would do its work swiftly.

As he resumed his long march back across the burning sand, he willed his mind to become blank and feel no pain, his body to keep moving and ignore its screaming need for something more to drink.

Something wet and cool and refreshing.

Something which would dilute the thudding ache bouncing from ear to ear, and which would only get worse in the foreseeable future.

He counted the times his boots bit into the sand. With every twentieth pace he clenched his teeth and struck the sharp edge of the stone against the same piece of his brow until blood flowed.

His head pounded. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His legs moved on automatic. But at last, once he bled, he could stop his self-induced torture. He licked the stone clean, grimacing at the metallic taste of his own blood, slipped it into a pocket, and continued striding at the same merciless pace.