Soldiers piled out and formed a line facing the plainclothesmen. “What is this?” said Ali.

“I don’t know, Highness.”

Behind them, there was a disturbance. A group of men in military uniform approached.

“General, what is the meaning of this?” Ali demanded of their leader. “Your Highness, I am ordered to escort this woman to that aircraft.” “Ordered! By whom?”

“By the king, Highness.”

“The king!” Laila saw the prince’s lips tighten with rage, but he said nothing more.

“This way, mademoiselle,” said the general. He led her down a ramp to the waiting 747. An attendant sealed the door behind her. The pilot had never cut the engines, and the plane was moving immediately.

Laila saw Malik coming toward her, his face a sculpture of fatherly concern. As he tried to hold her, she half responded, half pushed him away. “Oh, Papa!” she heard herself saying. “Oh, Papa, I hate you!”

O

In the terminal, Ali was on the secret line to the palace. His brother Ahmad—the king since their father’s death—answered immediately.

“I demand an explanation, Brother,” fumed Ali. “I’ve been humiliated here.

Absolutely humiliated. And a criminal has been allowed to go free.”

Ahmad’s tone was dry. “You are too eager in your duty sometimes, Brother. I should have been informed of this, instead of having to hear it secondhand.”

“And what would you have done, then?”

“Just what I have done now. Do you remember the Mirages, Brother? We wanted those planes badly, and a certain individual helped us to get them— against your counsel, if I recall correctly. And in a year or two, God willing, he will help us to buy some American F-fourteens. So I do not wish for him to be interfered with.”

“But—”

“Come to dinner this evening, Brother. We can talk. It’s been too long since I’ve had a private hour with you.”

The phone clicked dead. Distantly, Ali could hear the roar of the 747 as it began its takeoff run.

Part Seven

Part

Seven

40. Truth

Truth

The thump of the plane’s tires on a runway woke Jenna.

The red-haired man sat across the aisle watching her.

“Sleep well, Princess? Get you something? A cup of coffee for the ride?”

“No, thank you.”

“Some orange juice, maybe?” “No.”

The jet taxied to a halt.

“Well, here we are. End of the line. Steady there—legs not quite awake yet, huh? Wouldn’t want a lawsuit, now would we?”

She ignored his offer of help but followed him to the door. What else was there to do?

The sunlight was blinding as they stepped from the jet. The surroundings confirmed Jenna’s fears: a private airstrip in the desert. A limousine was waiting. The red-haired man opened the back door for her. A glance at the driver told her that he was an Arab. Of course.

The redhead climbed into the front. “Off we go,” he said cheerily.