half-sister Lysette.
Lysette’s mother was a woman of French–Algerian extraction, and had married Sheikh Hasim Ibn Ali after they met when the Sheikh was in Paris following the death of his first wife.
Pasha’s own mother had been the favourite daughter of an English gentleman, but she had a French grandmother. It was his great-grandmother’s maiden name that Pasha sometimes took when he wished to travel to countries and cities where his relationship to a certain prince might cause his life to be threatened. It was easier when he did not wish to make his visit official to use the English passport he had obtained in that name.
His uncle, Prince Hassan, had arranged for him to be given an English education at Harrow and Cambridge after Pasha’s father was assassinated. Lysette had gone to America with her mother—and it was there that she had died in a car accident only a few months previously.
Once again Pasha’s features hardened as he thought of the beautiful sister he had adored. Although they had met infrequently after their father’s violent death, Lysette had been a warm, loving friend. Her needless death had shocked and then angered him as he began to suspect that it might not have been the accident that it was supposed to have been.
The doctors who examined her at the time of her death had told Pasha that she was carrying a child. That alone would have been enough to make Pasha vow to punish the man who had ruined her—but the suspicion that she had been killed because she was carrying a child filled him with a bitter anger.
Pasha would not spare the man who had destroyed Lysette if he could be certain of where the guilt lay, but as yet the agents he had set to work for him in America had come up with little in the way of proof. No matter! He was wealthy enough to pursue his enemy to the bitter end, which for Pasha meant a fitting punishment—but for the moment he had equally important concerns.
His visit to Morocco was dual purpose in that he intended to mix business with pleasure. He had family he had not seen in years, whom he intended to visit—but there were other secret reasons for his journey.
The whole region of the Middle East had become volatile of late. Oil was becoming an increasingly valuable commodity, and the Sheikhs of the various small states were jostling for power and territory. Land that had once been merely poor grazing ground could now be worth millions of dollars. His uncle, Prince Hassan, was the ruler of one such state and a powerful man, but he had equally powerful enemies. If he were not to die at the hands of an assassin, too, his family and friends must be vigilant.
A recent plot had been foiled thanks to something Pasha had learned in London from someone at the Foreign Office. The British were keen to support Prince Hassan, who had always 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
