have learned that it was Azzam’s order, if not his hand, that marked the end of Ibrahim.”
Rose pressed her hands to her cheeks, willing herself past the horror, the anger. She had to set aside her sorrow and pain. She had to consider her children.
Drying her tears, she sat down to think. Small and blond, and looking very much the American that she was, she knew that Azzam and many others believed her to be young and witless. An easy pawn.
An easy target, now that her beloved Ibrahim was gone.
How wrong they were.
She was queen of Sorajhee, mother of the heirs, widow of the sheikh.
But even a wise queen knows when preservation means leaving the field, regrouping, gathering her strength. Protecting her young, as a mother lioness would protect her cubs.
Rose stood and ran to the corner of the room and a small locked chest Ibrahim had shown her months ago, when he had first begun his public negotiations with Balahar. She pulled the slim golden chain from her neck and used the key attached to it to open the chest and retrieve its contents.
“What is this, sister of my heart?” Layla asked, standing behind her, watching.
Rose turned, clutching the wrapped package to her. “The last gift of my husband, Layla. A Swiss bank account with enough funds in it to care for my children, the entire trust fund from my parents, and more. Passports for the four of us.”
“Passports? Sister, consider. Azzam will stop you at the border. Unless…no, it couldn’t work. Azzam would find out and kill me, too. He is my husband, Rose, but I fear him. We must all fear him. Remember, I had been promised to Ibrahim before he met you. Azzam would see me as a traitor who favored the widow of his brother and enemy.”
“Don’t worry, Layla. Most of the work has already been done. These are American passports in my maiden name, Coleman. And very American first names for my boys, names no one will recognize unless they have been warned to look for them. I’ve just got to get the boys across the border and we can fly to safety. I know a way—it has already been planned—but I’ll need your help to get Azzam to let me leave the palace.”
She put her hand on Layla’s cheek. “Sister of my heart, you have warned me. Now help me. Please, help my children.”
THREE DAYS LATER, Rose and her boys were on their way to the summer palace, taking with them a carefully chosen retinue of servants loyal to Ibrahim.
It had been announced in the newspapers that Rose and her sons had voluntarily moved from the palace to retire to the privacy of the country, where they would mourn their husband and father.
The number to the Swiss bank account and the four passports traveled with them, as did a young colt, Jabbar, Ibrahim’s beloved Arabian stallion. No one would expect Rose to flee, not when she was taking a horse with her. Azzam let them go.
They never reached the summer palace. Ten miles outside of the city, Rose and her children stopped at a small house owned by relatives of her maid. They changed clothes and changed transport.
Three hours later, they were across the border to Balahar; five hours later, they were airborne, on their way to England and safety. The servants, well paid, were also on their way to safety from Azzam’s revenge. Jabbar was on another airplane, already winging toward Boston and the necessary quarantine for animals coming into the United States.
Rose held Makin, the oldest of the twins, on her lap as his brother Kadar slept in the aisle seat. Barely more than babies, only three years old, they had no idea what had happened to them, but they could sense the nervousness of their mother and had been fractious and demanding until at last sleep had claimed them.
Their older brother, and heir to the throne of Sorajhee, Alim, was only a year older than the twins, but he had a wisdom and demeanor beyond his four years. He sat beside Rose now, holding her hand, stroking it. “I will protect you, Mama,” he told her solemnly. “It is what my father would want.”
Rose felt tears stinging her eyes as she smiled at her oldest son. How like his father he was, with a thick thatch of night-black hair, a handsome but serious face, and already showing signs of being as tall as Ibrahim. They had named him Alim, which meant “wise and learned,” and Alim seemed to know what was expected of him, even in such a terrible time.
“You will be a little boy, my son,” Rose told him, carefully cradling Makin as she bent to kiss her oldest son’s cheek. “And, one day, you will take your father’s place on the throne of Sorajhee.”
They landed at Heathrow airport, to be met by Rose’s brother, Randy Coleman, who had flown out from his home in Boston the moment he got the wire Layla had sent alerting him that a “precious cargo” would be needing his assistance.
That message had hit Randy square in his stomach, as it was the same one Ibrahim had sent him months ago, another precaution he had taken to protect his family. If Randy received such a message, he was to go directly to Heathrow to pick up his sister and the boys, who would be traveling under the name Coleman. Within minutes of receiving the wire speaking of “precious cargo,” Randy had rented a private jet to take him to England, just as his brother-in-law had requested.
Ibrahim, much as he loved his family and wished to protect them, had known that his duty to his subjects was more important, even more sacred, than his own life. But that didn’t mean he would sacrifice his family, and he had planned well. There had never been more than four passports, for Ibrahim would never leave his people, no matter how desperate the danger.
An hour after arriving at Heathrow, Rose was hugging her boys goodbye in another terminal. She had just given them each a different precious gold ring from Ibrahim’s collection, proof of their royalty. Hung around each small neck on slim golden chains, they were the only tangible memory each would carry of their father until Rose could reclaim their destiny.
“My sweet darlings, don’t cry,” she begged the twins, who clung to her neck as she knelt before them. “Mama will join you soon, and Uncle Randy will take such good care of you, I promise. Alim,” she said, reaching past the twins to gather him close. “You know that I must go back and work to uncover the treachery behind your papa’s death. I cannot do that if I am worrying about you and Kadar and Makin.”
“Aunt Layla will help you?” Alim asked, fighting back tears. “I could help you, Mama.”
“And you will, my darling. You will help me by watching over your brothers and obeying your uncle. And you must tell Uncle Randy all about Jabbar, as your papa has already taught you, help raise him to be the champion your papa knew he would become. Now kiss me, and know I love you. I’ll be with you again soon, I promise.”
Randy, already aware that it would be no use to try to talk his sister out of returning to Sorajhee to rally those loyal to Ibrahim, lifted both twins into his strong arms. He kissed his sister and followed Alim into the passageway leading to the plane, as Rose stood with her hands pressed to her mouth, fighting sobs.
Within days she had lost her husband, and now her sons were leaving her. Pain, real physical pain racked her body, and an emptiness such as she had never felt threatened to swallow her, body and soul. She staggered blindly away, down a narrow side hallway, then dropped to her knees and sobbed as if her heart would break.
“I’ll come back for you, my babies, with your father’s murder avenged and your rights restored to you. I promise you that. But now you
