private mobile thrummed a warning in his pocket. Few people had that number and it only ever rang if it was very, very important. Excusing himself immediately, Raj stepped outside, his brain awash with sudden apprehension. Had his father taken ill? Or had some other calamity occurred back home in Maraban?
Maraban was a tiny Gulf state but it was also one of the richest countries in the world. A terrorist incident, however, would bring the home of his birth to a screeching halt because the security forces were equally tiny and these days Maraban relied on wealth and diplomacy to stay safe. When Raj thought nostalgically of home, it was always of a place of stark black and white contrasts where four-wheel-drive vehicles and helicopters startled livestock in the desert and where a conservative Middle Eastern ethos struggled to cope with the very different mores and the sheer speed of change in the modern world.
It was eight years, however, since Raj had last visited his home because his father, the King, had removed him from his position as Crown Prince and sent him into exile for refusing to go into the army and for refusing even more vehemently to marry the bride his parent had chosen for him. No, he had not been a dutiful or obedient son, Raj acknowledged with grim self-honesty, he had been a stubborn, rebellious one and, unfortunately for him, there was no greater sin in his culture.
That said, however, Raj had, since, moved on from that less than stellar beginning to carve his own path in the business world and there his shrewd brain, intuition and ability to spot trends had ensured meteoric success in that sphere. He had also learned how to steer Maraban into the future from beyond its borders, making allies, attracting foreign businesses and investment while constantly encouraging growth in the public infrastructure required to keep his country up to speed with the latest technology. And his reward for that tireless focus and resolve? Maraban, the home that he loved, was positively booming.
He was pleasantly surprised when he answered his phone and recognised his cousin, Omar’s voice. Omar had pretty much been his best friend since the dark days of the military school they had both been forced to attend as adolescents, an unforgettable era of relentless bullying and abuse that Raj still winced to recall. As Crown Prince he had had a target painted on his back and his father had told the staff to turn a blind eye, believing that it would be beneficial for his only child to be toughened up in such a severe environment.
‘Omar...what can I do for you?’ he asked almost cheerfully, relieved of the anxiety that his elderly father had taken ill because Omar would not have been chosen as messenger for that development. That call would only have come from a member of his father’s staff. After all, his mother had died while he was still a boy. The memory made him tense for his mother had died in a manner that he would never forget: she had taken her own life. It had taken a very long time for Raj to accept that her unhappiness had surpassed her love for her nine-year-old son and he had never forgotten his sense of abandonment because, once she was gone, everything soft and loving and caring had vanished from his childish world.
‘I’m in a real fix, Raj, and I think you are the only person with sufficient knowledge to approach with this,’ Omar declared, his habitually upbeat voice unusually flat in tone. ‘I’ve been dragged into something I don’t want to be involved in and it’s serious. You know I’m a royalist and very loyal to my country but there are some things I can’t—’
‘Cut to the chase,’ Raj sliced in with a bemused frown. ‘What have you been dragged into?’
‘Early this morning I received a call from someone at the palace who asked if I would look after a “package” and keep it safe until further notice. And that’s the problem, Raj... I didn’t get delivered a package, I got a woman.’
‘A woman?’ Raj repeated in disbelief. ‘Are you joking me?’
‘I wish I was. All the women in the tribe are outraged and I’ve been thrown out of my tent to accommodate her,’ Omar lamented. ‘My wife thinks I’m getting involved in sex trafficking.’
‘It could not be that,’ Raj pronounced with assurance because the penalty for such a crime was death and his father was most assiduous in ensuring that neither drugs nor prostitution gained ground in Maraban.
‘No, of course it couldn’t be,’ Omar agreed. ‘But even though the order came from the very highest level of the palace I should not be asked by anyone to imprison a woman against her will.’
‘How do you know the order came from the very highest level?’ Raj demanded.
His cousin mentioned a name and Raj gritted his teeth. Bahadur Abdi was the most trusted military adviser in his father’s inner circle and could only be acting at the King’s command. That shocking truth shed an entirely different light on the kidnapping because it meant that Raj’s father was personally involved. ‘Who the hell is this woman?’
‘You’re not going to like the suspicion I’m developing any more than I do,’ his cousin warned him heavily. ‘But I contacted the palace as soon as I appreciated I was being asked to deal with a live package and I was told that she was the last descendant of the al-Mishaal family, which was a shock. Thought they were all dead and buried long ago! Were you even aware that my father divorced my mother two months ago?’
Raj was shocked enough by both those revelations to listen keenly as Omar described his mother’s refusal to discuss the divorce and the oddity of her continuing calm over the termination of a marriage that had lasted almost fifty years and had spawned four children and at least a dozen grandchildren. Prince Hakem, Raj’s uncle and Omar’s father, however, was an embittered and ambitious man, who ever since Raj’s exile had been striving to become the recognised heir to the throne in Raj’s place. Ironically, Raj didn’t even really feel that he could blame his uncle for his ambition because, as the King’s younger brother, Hakem had spent his whole life close to the throne but virtually ignored and powerless, his royal brother refusing to grant him any form of responsibility in the kingdom. Furthermore, only the King could name his heir and Hakem had long desired a role of power and the rise in status it would accord him.
‘So, what’s the connection with this woman?’
Omar shared his suspicions and Raj paled and experienced a spontaneous surge of rage at such a manipulative plot being played out in virtual secret behind the palace walls. ‘Surely that is not possible?’
‘It may not be. I must admit that the woman doesn’t look remotely as if she carries Marabanian blood. She’s got white-blonde hair...looks like something out of that fairy tale... The Sleeping Beauty,’ Omar revealed heavily.
Raj parted compressed lips. ‘Princess Azra of Bania was the daughter of a Danish explorer, who was blond,’ he murmured flatly. ‘I don’t know much about Azra’s elopement with her Greek tycoon, who was working in Maraban when the two countries joined, but I do know her flight with another man created a huge scandal. She was supposed to become my father’s fourth wife and instead, she ran off with Fotakis and married him.’
‘Didn’t know that...but then it’s not really my slice of history in the same way as it’s yours.’ Omar sighed heavily. ‘Just give me some diplomatic advice about what to do next because I’m at a standstill. This woman has obviously been kidnapped. Our doctor says she’s been drugged, so she’s unconscious and she arrived with no means of identification. But even if she is one of the al-Mishaal family’s next generation from that marriage all those years ago I still can’t believe that any young woman would agree to marry a man as old as my father—’
‘It would shock you what some Western women would be willing to do to become an Arabian princess with unlimited wealth at their disposal. Suggest that a crown
