In The Arms Of The Sheikh. Sophie Weston
sighed. This was not new. His grandfather wanted him home and safe in Saraq, not continent-hopping involved in peace talks.
The old man grunted. ‘This International Reconciliation Council of yours is a great idea. Very high-minded.’ He paused for his effect. ‘In about fifty years’ time.’
‘We haven’t got fifty years,’ said Kazim, a touch wearily. They had had this argument before, many times; most explosively the day he’d left a year ago. He braced himself to argue the case.
But for once the Emir was not after a good argument. ‘That doesn’t matter.’
Kazim was astonished. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve got yourself on an assassination list,’ the old man told him brutally.
Kazim stood like a rock. ‘Your spies are very efficient,’ he said politely.
The Emir glared. ‘You’re very cool about it.’
Kazim shrugged again. ‘I take reasonable precautions.’
‘No, you don’t.’
That made Kazim blink. ‘What?’
‘Getting rid of your security and even your servants for a whole weekend is not taking reasonable precautions,’ announced the Emir.
Kazim was thunderstruck.
‘Isn’t that what you’re going to do?’
‘Invasion of privacy is an alien concept to you, isn’t it?’ said Kazim grimly.
‘I look out for my own.’
‘By keeping them under twenty-four-hour surveillance?’
The Emir ignored that. ‘If it’s a woman, bring her here, where you’ll be safe. You can have the Sultana’s Palace and all the privacy you want.’
A muscle worked in Kazim’s jaw. ‘It is not a woman,’ he said in a goaded voice.
It took a lot to get under controlled Kazim’s skin these days. For the first time in the interview the Emir grinned.
‘Better if it were. You work too hard.’
They both knew that Kazim had not visited his allotted rooms in the Emir’s palace for years. He had come straight from the airport to this meeting and the Emir knew that, in all probability, the private jet was being refuelled even as they spoke.
The Emir had learned the hard way that if it came to a battle of wills between them, Kazim would walk away without a backward look if he thought he was in the right. But this was more than their usual battle of wills. Suddenly he was not the Emir; he was just a man, desperately worried for his grandson’s safety.
‘At least keep up security at Serenata Place.’ It was as close to a plea as the old autocrat could manage.
Kazim was still smouldering at the thought of being spied on. ‘My arrangements to entertain my friends are my own business.’
His grandfather exploded. ‘Friends! What sort of friends want to put you in danger?’
‘Ordinary friends,’ retorted Kazim.
‘Pah!’
But there was a note of real despair in the old man’s voice. Kazim paused, then sat on the sofa and leaned forward slightly.
‘It is only for the weekend,’ he said in a softened voice.
‘Duration is irrelevant,’ said the Emir. ‘It would take a sniper less than a minute to kill you.’ He glared at Kazim as if he hated him.
‘I’ll have Tom do a complete sweep before the guests arrive on Friday,’ Kazim said gently. ‘And I’ll get the full security team in when the servants come on duty again.’
The Emir made a noise of undisguised contempt.
Kazim became noticeably less gentle. ‘But I can’t have my best friend’s engagement party spoiled by men with headsets and professional paranoia.’
‘A party! Have you even checked the guest list?’
Kazim was suddenly every inch the desert prince. ‘Dominic is my friend.’
‘I thought not,’ said his grandfather with angry satisfaction.
Kazim unbent a little. ‘Grandfather, try to understand. Dom and I go climbing together. He has held my life in his hands and I his. Of course I haven’t run checks on his friends.’
‘Cancel this party!’
Kazim’s gaze was level. ‘In my place, would you?’
He knew a lot of stories about his grandfather’s youth. Courage and loyalty featured highly. So did sheer wilfulness.
He lowered his eyes. ‘Everything I am I have inherited from my illustrious forebears,’ he murmured, the picture of a dutiful descendant.
The Emir narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s such a thing as being too clever,’ he said obliquely. ‘One day you’ll fall flat on that smug face of yours.’
Kazim’s dark eyes, so like the Emir’s, lit with sudden humour. ‘When that happens, I’ll make sure you know immediately,’ he assured his grandfather.
And took his leave.
His personal assistant was waiting for him beside the air-conditioned four-wheel drive in the palace’s security yard when Kazim emerged. His angry strides made his white robe billow.
‘Well?’
‘The old man has a spy in my household,’ said Kazim between his teeth. ‘He wants me to fill Serenata Place with twenty-four-hour security. Give me the keys.’
Martin’s heart sank. But he handed over the keys. Most of the time Kazim was open to reason, but these encounters with his grandfather tended to ignite his temper. He had been known to smoulder for days.
Martin fell into step beside him, shaking his head. ‘This is about Dominic’s weekend, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he has a point.’
They had reached the car. Just about to swing himself up behind the steering wheel, Kazim paused.
‘Listen to me, Martin,’ he said deliberately. ‘I spend my public life surrounded by bodyguards and security timetables. Just once, I want to give a party like an ordinary man.’
Martin had worked for Kazim a long time. He knew when his boss was not going to change his mind.
They all did, the people who worked for Kazim. The households dreaded it; the office dealt with it; his personal staff called it Kazim in sheikh mode. It didn’t happen often. But when it did, he was immoveable.
Martin sighed. ‘It’s your decision.’
They got into the car. Kazim started the engine, checking the Global Positioning Unit.
‘If I can’t trust a man I climb with, I can’t trust anyone.’
Martin was sympathetic. But it was his job to remind Kazim of unwelcome truths. ‘You haven’t climbed with the girlfriend. Or the girlfriend’s girlfriends.’
Kazim turned his head in pure astonishment. ‘You think the Sons of Saraq will send some London fashionista to assassinate me?’
Martin gave a crack of laughter. ‘Put like that it doesn’t seem likely,’ he admitted.
Kazim put the car in drive. For the first time in days, his eyes were dancing. ‘All I can say is, she’d better be blonde!’
He stayed in that frivolous mood all through the flight back to London, to the despair of Martin and Tom Soltano, Kazim’s American Head of Security. By the time they had been in the air an hour, Martin Page was holding onto his