Chosen As The Sheikh's Wife. Liz Fielding

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘Actually,’ she said, refusing to allow him to dismiss her story in quite so casual a manner, ‘it was the princess and the jewels I always assumed were the tall stories.’ Her great-great-grand father had braved artillery fire to carry wounded soldiers to safety, had a Military Medal to attest to his heroism, and she wasn’t having him publicly branded a thief. ‘Great-Great-Grandma Fatima was real enough. I have a photograph of her.’

      There was a stiffly posed sepia-tinted photograph of a tall, exotically handsome woman, standing behind her seated husband, in the “family gallery” on the kitchen dresser.

      ‘And a letter. In Arabic…’

      ‘Well…’ For a moment he appeared lost for words—twice in one day had to be a record. ‘Well, you have a real story. And a rich treasure. Knives like these are very much in demand, and if you were to put it up for auction in a specialist sale…’

      He mentioned some ridiculous sum of money, and all around her she heard gasps. And she was the one left struggling for words.

      It was, Violet thought, numbly, a bit like a fairy tale.

      She’d been in her late grandmother’s bedroom, emptying her wardrobe, sorting out what was good enough to send to the charity shop, when she’d stepped back and gone through a floor board that had creaked for as long as she could remember. And then, having pulled out her foot, she’d seen the carefully wrapped black silk bundle.

      Buried treasure.

      She was still in shock when the photographer from the local newspaper said, ‘Smile!’ and took her photograph.

      ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Fayad,’ the ambassador said, but the press attaché has just received a call from the news desk of the London Chronicle about a story they’re running tomorrow. It’s some thing I thought you might want to know about.’

      Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani, grandson to the ruler of Ras al Kawi, looked up from his laptop. His cousin would not have disturbed him unless it was some thing important.

      ‘What scandal has my father visited upon us now?’ he asked, sitting back, prepared for the worst.

      ‘No… No, it’s nothing like that, insh’Allah,’ Hamad was quick to reassure him. ‘It seems that a young woman took a spectacular khanjar for expert valuation to some television programme that was being recorded this afternoon.’

      ‘That makes the national news in this country?’

      ‘There were rubies,’ he replied. ‘Very large rubies. And a story about a runaway Arabian princess and stolen jewels, which apparently makes it…’ He hesitated, then with distaste, said, ‘Sexy.’

      Fayad stilled. ‘Go on.’

      ‘The local paper picked up the story and passed it along, and, having done some research, the Chronicle has inevitably come up with the mystery of the long-lost Blood of Tariq. They’re running the story using the photograph of your great-great-grandfather with Lawrence, along with the original 1917 despatch from the front line in tomorrow’s first edition. They were hoping for a comment from the embassy.’

      ‘Did they get one?’

      ‘Only that many fakes of the Blood of Tariq had been produced over the years, and this is undoubtedly one of them. That the value of the rubies is nothing compared to the value of owning the khanjar touched by Lawrence.’

      ‘Yes…’ Fayad sat back, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

      The Blood of Tariq had a mystical power that put it beyond price. To hold it, possess it, was to hold the fate of Ras al Kawi in your hand.

      A fake.

      It had to be a fake. But in the present climate that might be irrelevant.

      It was what people believed that mattered.

      Lost, the khanjar was a legend, a tale for old men as they sat around the campfire recalling past glories.

      Found, it was trouble.

      His grandfather was failing in health, his father was a disaster, and in the wrong hands even a fake, especially one with such an incendiary story attached to it, could prove disastrous to his country.

      ‘You know who she is, this woman? Where to find her?’

      ‘Her name is Violet Hamilton. She’s twenty-two years old, unmarried. For the last three years she’s been caring for her sick grand mother. The old lady died two weeks ago. At present she’s living alone in her grandmother’s house in Camden, where the khanjar was found. The equity of the house is owned by a property company, however, so she is about to become homeless.’

      Fayad raised an eyebrow and the ambassador smiled. ‘I don’t ask how he does it, but in any exchange of information you can be sure that our man came out with the better deal.’

      ‘Thank him for me.’

      ‘I will.’ Then, ‘You’ll make her an offer for it? You know it can’t be real, Fayad. The original was surely broken up for the gold, the stones, decades ago.’

      ‘Princess Fatima would never have done that. She knew that its worth lay in more than rubies and gold. Knew its power in the right hands. But, real or fake, it’s a bad time for it to come to light. There are tribal factions who will move heaven and earth to get hold of it.’

      Because of the reclusive nature of his grandfather, and the lack of interest his father had shown in anything but money, Ras al Kawi had remained relatively untouched by the tide of offshore banking and tourism that had swept through neighbouring countries.

      Fayad had such plans for it, and now, just when things were finally beginning to take shape and he was preparing to move the country into the twenty-first century, onto the international stage, he was being faced with some mystical symbol straight out of a medieval melodrama.

      It couldn’t just be coincidence.

      This had to be some elaborate hoax set up by someone planning to seize power. Except for the story of the runaway princess. And yet, for power, some disaffected member of the family might have betrayed them. Even his disinherited father…

      ‘It scarcely matters if it is real or not, Hamad,’ he said abruptly. ‘We have to secure this knife before the story gains ground. And the woman, too.’

      ‘The woman? You’re not suggesting you carry her back to Ras al Kawi as symbolic proof of the restoration of Kuwani pride? As your grandfather’s ambassador, I really could not allow that.’

      ‘As my grandfather’s ambassador I suggest you concentrate on the word “symbolic”. Forget the khanjar for a moment. How safe do you think Miss Hamilton will be once it becomes rumoured that she is a descendant of Princess Fatima? There will be people ready to use her as a cipher at best. At worst…’ He left that to his cousin’s imagination.

      ‘And you? What do you want with her, Fayad? Bearing in mind that I will be the one carpeted by the British Foreign Secretary if anything should happen to her.’

      ‘What could I possibly want other than to extend to this descendant СКАЧАТЬ