The Sheikh. Anne Herries
been very pro-British and was a valuable ally in the shifting sands of a difficult political situation. And it was another such hint that had brought Philip Armand to this ship.
After the attempt to murder his uncle had been foiled, two men had been captured and persuaded to talk—but a third had escaped. Forbes, his contact at the Foreign Office, had told Pasha that according to his sources the culprit might be found in Marrakesh.
‘We can’t touch him, because the French wouldn’t stand for British interference—besides, he’s sheltering with a man of some political influence out there,’ Forbes had said.
‘But I may be able to achieve what you cannot?’ Pasha’s mouth had curved in a wry smile, which hid his true feelings. Clearly Forbes imagined that he would take a thing like political assassination in his stride. Pasha believed that there were certain circumstances that might lead him to kill, for the way of his people was an eye for an eye and a part of him responded to that. And yet there was another side that found what was, after all, little better than cold-blooded murder abhorrent. But he knew that his uncle’s life must be protected, not just because of the family tie, but for stability in the region. ‘Tell me, my friend—what is the British position in all this?’
‘Officially, we cannot meddle in the politics of the Arab world—but between you and me, Abdullah Ibn Hassan has been a thorn in our side for too long. We suspect him of sabotage as well as murder.’
‘Then you would be happy if someone arranged for him to be eliminated?’ He raised his brows as the icy trickle started at the nape of his neck. This thing that was being asked of him gave him a nasty taste in the mouth, and yet he knew that he might be forced to comply—unless there was another way? He would have to give the matter a great deal of thought.
‘Unofficially, we should be delighted—but this conversation never took place.’
‘Of course not.’ Pasha smiled. ‘I am merely taking a little trip for business and family reasons.’
‘Family out there too, have you?’ Forbes asked. ‘I thought your family were more from Algeria…or Syria?’
‘My father’s people were the true Bedouin,’ Pasha replied, pride tempered with amusement in his eyes. ‘That means they never settled in one place for more than a few months. I have uncles and cousins all over Morocco, Algeria—and, yes, one of my own homes is in Syria. The Bedouin knew no boundary—we simply wandered where we chose along the caravan routes.’
Forbes nodded. ‘You’re so damned English most of the time it’s hard to remember you were born out there.’
‘In my father’s casbah,’ Pasha said. ‘I believe I was conceived in a tent under desert stars, but my mother wanted a Western doctor to attend the birth.’
Forbes nodded. ‘Helen Rendlesham was a beauty by all accounts—and brave. The Sheikh must have been devastated when she died so suddenly.’
‘Blood poisoning,’ Pasha said. ‘She was helping one of her women assemble a sewing machine she had imported to help them learn new skills—and she cut her hand on the rusty underside of a metal plate. No one imagined it would kill her.’
‘Septicaemia,’ Forbes said. ‘It killed an awful lot of men in the last war. We’re only just beginning to make the medical advances we need here. It must have been hopeless in the desert—your father couldn’t have got her to a hospital in time.’
‘It was a tragedy and nearly broke his heart.’ Pasha frowned. ‘I was but a child then and I cried for a long time after she died…’
He had wept a few bitter tears for Lysette too, but he was a man now and this new grief had settled into a hard anger that lived with him night and day. For weeks he had retired into himself, hardly noticing what happened around him…but a young girl had startled him out of the black mood that had possessed him.
He saw her dancing again, and thought of asking her to be his partner when the next dance began—and then a man walked into the ballroom: a man that aroused distrust and hatred in Pasha’s heart. He turned and left abruptly as the bitterness mounted in his throat like gall—the dance would keep until another time.
Chloe caught glimpses of Philip Armand over the next few days. She had thought he might ask her to dance one evening, but he hadn’t and for some reason they didn’t meet anywhere else. It crossed her mind that he might have been avoiding her, but she didn’t let it bother her. There was so much to do on board that she was always busy, and she found herself dividing her time between taking dictation from Professor Hicks and attending all the various functions with Jane Vermont.
Chloe much preferred the time she spent working for the professor to the hours she was obliged to be with Jane Vermont. He really was a clever man and he knew an awful lot about the history of the region they were going to visit over a period of several weeks.
‘It may even run into a few months,’ the professor told her. ‘We shall disembark at Cetua, Chloe, and make our way to Fez and to Marrakesh, as well as other places of interest I want to visit. I hope you are prepared for a long stay—though, if at any time you want to leave us, I shall make arrangements to get you on a ship going home.’
‘Thank you,’ Chloe said. She was grateful for his kindness, but felt sure it was unnecessary. ‘But I’m really looking forward to this trip. I am confident I shan’t want to leave until you and Amelia are ready to come too, but I know you would look after me if I had to return for any reason.’
Chloe was learning a lot about the nomadic peoples of the Middle East as she took dictation and then transcribed her own notes in a fair hand so that Amelia could type them up into manuscript form on the battered portable typewriter that accompanied her everywhere.
Amelia had recovered her health and her spirits after a couple of days at sea, and seemed friendlier towards Chloe as the cruise progressed. She encouraged her to go on the shore trips at the various ports the ship called during the leisurely voyage, telling her that she ought to make the most of her chances to see a little bit of France and Spain while she could.
‘I’ve been on most of these trips over the years,’ she told Chloe. ‘I was in Egypt with Charles for several years, and we have been all over that whole region. All the regions bordering the Sahara—apart from those to the west. That is why Charles wants to visit Morocco again. He has been there before, of course, but not right to the Western Desert. He is most meticulous, you know, and will collate far more information than he could ever actually put into his books.’ She smiled in a self-congratulatory way. ‘Of course I am the one who does the cutting when the publisher demands at least fifty thousand less words.’
‘You must be of invaluable help to Professor Hicks.’
‘Yes, I believe I am—though what he will do when this last book is finished…if it is his last book, of course.’ Her expression showed that she thought it unlikely.
Chloe listened but offered few comments. She found it all fascinating, including the trips she made ashore to Spanish and Portuguese ports, then to Gibraltar. They were nearing the end of their voyage now, for Cetua was a Spanish port at the edge of Morocco and only just across the water from Gibraltar.
‘Oh, are you leaving us at Cetua?’ Mrs Vermont asked. ‘Jane will be so disappointed. You must keep in touch, Chloe dear, and perhaps come to stay with us when you return to England.’
‘That is very kind of you,’ Chloe said. ‘But I am not sure when we shall be returning. It may not be until next year.’
She had gone up on deck to escape Jane’s chattering on the morning of her last day on board the ship, when she was approached by a man who she knew to be the one Jane believed to be a film director. She had previously only nodded to him in passing—probably because he had seemed to prefer to keep his distance.
‘Good morning, Miss Randall—it is Miss Randall, isn’t it?’
‘Yes…’ Chloe caught the faint twang of an American accent. ‘Someone