The Lost Prince. Cindy Dees
thrilled to have InterAid here. Katy hefted her duffel bag, carried it to the open-bed truck and tossed it up to the team member standing there.
She fell into the line of InterAid workers headed for another truck, this one sporting wooden benches along its wood-slatted sides. She was about to climb up into the transport when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, startling her.
“You do not go with men,” a soldier growled behind her in heavily accented English.
Now what? Was this more random harassment? Or maybe these guys had heard of her brothers, too? Sheesh.
“Over there.” The man nodded at a smaller truck with canvas sides and roof. Her internal alarm system jangled wildly at the idea of being separated from the rest of the team. But it wasn’t as though the rough hand crushing her shoulder gave her any choice in the matter. The soldier propelled her toward the enclosed truck.
She caught sight of Phyllis Estevaz, one of the team’s other females, already seated inside the truck, wearing a head scarf and a shapeless black dress of some kind. Aah. An abaya. The black, concealing overgarment worn by women throughout the Middle East. Her guidebook had said that although the majority of the Baraqi population was Muslim, there was no official state religion in the secularly governed principality. None of the pictures of this region had indicated that women were expected to wear traditional garb.
Another soldier emerged from the far side of the truck and shoved a wad of black fabric at her. “Cover body.”
She could swear he muttered the word for harlot in French as she took the pile of cloth from him. It smelled of sweat and dust and smoke and maybe a hint of some cooking spice she couldn’t identify. She held up the abaya, turning it in several different directions, trying to make sense of its voluminous folds.
A female voice from behind her startled her. Hazel Whittaker, the team’s third female member. “Find the neck hole and put it over your head. The opening goes in the front and ties shut. Once you’ve got it on, I’ll show you how to put on the hijab—the head scarf and veil—so they don’t drive you crazy.”
In no time, Katy was swathed in what turned out to be some sort of polyester georgette fabric. It actually wasn’t nearly as hot or uncomfortable as she’d expected. It looked like an oversize choir gown, with long loose sleeves and a baggy fit over her clothes. However, it was a royal pain in the rear trying to climb up the narrow metal steps into the back of the truck with it swirling around her legs. She collected the fabric in big handfuls, hiking it up as far as she could, but still she couldn’t see her feet. A soldier snarled something at her in Arabic. As best as she could tell, he was growling at her for showing too much of her ankles. Something about being a lewd American. Tough. He could just look away if her ankles were so offensive. She had no intention of breaking her neck on these stupid steps.
The interior of the truck was airless and close. Were it not a cool, pleasant day outside, it would have been sweltering. Katy looked over enviously at the men in their open truck.
The caravan of trucks set out. They drove for nearly two hours up into the mountains, where people still lived as if it were the twelfth century. The one constant of the trip was that every woman she spied looked scared.
Finally square white-stucco structures began to cluster more and more closely together. They were coming into a large city. It must be Akuba. The capital of Baraq. Seat of the Ramsey dynasty for a thousand years, according to Katy’s guidebook.
The streets were narrow and crowded. Nasal shouts of Arabic mingled with car horns. Turbaned men, young and old, stared suspiciously at them as the trucks rolled by. Women peeked fearfully from shadowed doorways, and Katy caught occasional glimpses past them into gated courtyards with colorful mosaic paving and dancing fountains. Heavily carved wood decorated the shop fronts, and a dusty smell of cumin hung in the air. She identified cinnamon and allspice, pepper and a hint of the rare and expensive spice saffron seasoning the smoke rising from pots over open-air cooking fires.
The truck turned a corner, and she caught her first glimpse of the royal palace, called Il Leone, towering over the city on its nearby mountain peak. It was an imposing pile of gray granite perched over Akuba like a hulking sentinel. Its walls were high and thick, topped by crenellated teeth of stone. A huge drawbridge was pulled shut, a medieval iron portcullis crisscrossing in front of it.
Circular towers rose up from each corner of the fortress, and striped red, black and green flags fluttered above them. The Baraqi flag pictured in her guidebook was white with the crossed swords and lions of the Ramsey family crest emblazoned upon it. She assumed what hung now were improvised flags from the Army regime that currently held the country.
As their trucks wound deeper into the city, the streets grew even more congested and turned to cobblestone, which was incredibly uncomfortable, even in a rubber-tired vehicle with modern shock absorbers. The medieval buildings were taller here, made of stone and crowded in closely upon them, creating deep, mysterious shadows all around. Music drifted out of an open doorway—drums and a whiny, nasal horn of some kind. Katy half expected a camel caravan carrying a sultan and his harem to overtake them any second.
She felt like a well-shaken martini by the time the trucks wound through the ancient streets up to the foot of the great fortress of Il Leone. Chains clanked, and she risked lifting the canvas side of the truck to peek at the source of the noise. She saw a gigantic drawbridge ponderously folding down to admit them to the palace, its chains unwinding from great spools on either side of the cavernous entrance. The truck lurched forward, and she watched in awe as they passed over a no-kidding, murky, water-filled moat and drove into a palace courtyard. The place teemed with soldiers, and she quickly dropped the canvas flap lest she get chewed out for indecorous peeking or some such dire crime.
A soldier’s face appeared abruptly at the back of the truck. In Arabic he ordered her and the other women to get out. These Baraqis were certainly not long on courtesy. Fearing a broken neck, she groped blindly for the steps with her feet and climbed down out of the truck wielding great armfuls of black fabric.
The castle walls rose around her, dark and ancient, with tiny leaded-glass windows here and there, the only relief to the stone facades. No wonder Nikolas Ramsey had preferred to run around on the French Riviera and party in London’s wild and wacky West End rather than stay home and learn how to be king—if the tabloids were accurate. This place was depressing her, and she’d been here less than two minutes. Of course, he’d paid for shirking his duty in blood. And in the loss of his country.
An Army officer strode up to the InterAid team and said arrogantly in excellent French, “I am Major Moubayed. You will begin cataloging the prisoners and casualties immediately and report to me the names of every one of them.” His sharp condescension reminded her of her brother Travis when a reporter was being a moron around him.
The team leader stepped forward and replied evenly, “I am Don Ford, and we will proceed according to international protocol. In due time we will, indeed, give you a complete list of casualties from both sides of the conflict, in addition to notifying the families of said casualties. We will also interview all of your prisoners and wounded to ascertain their status and treatment within the Geneva Conventions.”
The major scowled, his black eyes narrow and menacing. Ford stared right back at the guy. Patience, Don. Patience, Katy urged silently. Finally the Baraqi officer looked away. Nicely done, Don.
The major growled, “Do your work quickly and be gone with you, then.”
Ford nodded pleasantly and turned to face his team. “You heard the man. Let’s get to work. We still have a couple hours of daylight left.”
Larry Grayson materialized beside her and shoved a leather satchel into her surprised hands. “Med kit,” he announced. “We’re allowed to render minor first aid. Clipboard, paper and pens are in there, too, along with a spreadsheet I worked up for recording vital stats on each prisoner.” She had to give the guy credit—he was organized.
“Come with me,” he threw over his shoulder as he strode forward and approached Major Moubayed.
Katy hurried