Aim for the Heart. Ingrid Weaver
have you, Jibril.”
A white-coated servant appeared at the top of the staircase, carrying a tray that held a silver coffee service. The guard called Ahmed took it from him, placed it on a low table and set it in front of Jibril, then backed away to stand across from the window, his alert posture echoing Sarah’s.
Jibril poured a stream of steaming coffee into a china cup, set it on a saucer and offered it to Hawk. “You still prefer it black, yes?”
“You have a good memory,” Hawk said, taking the coffee.
“And a long one,” Jibril said, pouring a cup for himself. “How is your research progressing, Hawkins? Are you close to achieving your dream of fusion power? Have you made a breakthrough?”
Hawk sipped a mouthful of coffee, using the time to consider how to word his reply. “A breakthrough is inevitable.”
“Then you haven’t yet achieved it. I must admit I am relieved. I am not looking forward to being competitors again.”
Hawk paused. “This is what I wanted to discuss when I arranged to meet you yesterday. If we work together, we can all win.”
“How could that be? In any competition, there is room for only one winning side.”
“Not if we share a common goal.”
“We share nothing, Hawkins. If you succeed in giving the world this virtually limitless energy supply, I and my people will lose our way of life.”
“Think of it more as a change, not a loss. Your oil brings you wealth, but it also is at the root of too much conflict. How much human suffering can be traced to inequities in resources? How many more wars will be fought over the control of those resources?” Hawk placed the cup and saucer back on the table. “And what will happen to your people and your way of life when your oil runs out?”
Jibril waved his hand. “It will not happen in my generation.”
“It will happen eventually. Wouldn’t it be better to prepare for the future now?”
“Those are noble sentiments, Hawkins. You still aspire to be the hero while I am consigned to the role of a less romantic but practical man.”
There had been an edge to Jibril’s voice. Hawk again chose his words carefully. “I disagree. My sentiments are practical.”
“Then, if that is the case, our first concern should be keeping you safe.” The prince leaned forward, a deep frown line appearing above the bridge of his nose. “You must move out of that hotel and stay here with me.”
From the corner of his eye, Hawk saw Sarah turn her head toward him. Although she remained silent, he could feel the force of her gaze. He could imagine the effort she was making to restrain herself from protesting. “That’s a generous offer,” he began.
“I have many guest suites where you would be comfortable, Hawkins, but this yacht was built for my security as well as my enjoyment. These windows are bullet-proof. The superstructure was designed to the specifications of a tank and the triple hull makes us unsinkable. It is a floating fortress, equipped to defend all onboard. It will provide complete protection.”
“I appreciate your concern, Jibril, but I do have protection.”
“Pah.” Jibril flicked his fingers toward Sarah in a dismissive gesture. “My men are superb fighters and are completely loyal. You of all people must know that women are not to be trusted.”
The prince’s words resounded in the sun-filled room like the sound of a slap. Unlike the other barbs that Jibril had sprinkled through the conversation, this one was too flagrant to let pass. Hawk rose to his feet.
Sarah was at his side immediately. “Sir?”
Hawk waited until he was certain he could control his voice, then looked at Jibril. “I came here willing to work together. I want to let the past rest in peace. But be assured I have as long a memory as you do, my friend. There are certain things one never forgets.”
The hotel fitness room had been installed in the basement like an afterthought, a facility hastily provided for the modern health-conscious guest. It wasn’t large, scarcely half the size of a basketball court. Like the ballroom, a wall of mirrors gave it the illusion of space, but there was nothing elegant about it. Exercise equipment crammed the floor: stair climbers, treadmills, weight benches and devices that mimicked the motions of cross-country skiing. The music that played from the speakers mounted near the ceiling wasn’t the refined strains of a string quartet, it was the pounding rhythm of hard rock. If Sarah’s phone hadn’t been programmed to vibrate, she wouldn’t have known it was ringing.
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