Lord of the Desert (23 page)

“Neither do you.”

“Stay close to the bodyguards anyway.”

She nodded and made her way through the broken masonry and shattered wood, still shaky from the explosion and the aftermath of relief at finding herself alive.

Philippe came back to her. He checked her carefully for damage before he sighed and kissed her forehead tenderly. “Hassan will stay with you, as will Leila. I must go.”

“Go where?” she asked, horrified.

“To catch Brauer before he can swoop down on the palace,” he said, motioning to his men, including the three mercenaries, Bojo, and Marc.

“I want to go with you!” she exclaimed.

He took her firmly by the shoulders. “You carry our child,” he said gently. “This risk you must not take, for his sake. You understand?”

She touched his mouth with her fingertips, worried and unable to hide it. “I can't live without you!” she said huskily

The very simplicity of the statement made it profound. He ground his teeth together as he brought her palm to his mouth and kissed it hungrily. Life became precious. Terribly precious. He looked at her with fear and torment. He didn't want to leave her, but there was more risk in staying here and waiting for Brauer and his lunatics to attack. “Take care of her, if you value your own life!” he called to Hassan, and whirled on his heel.

“He'll be all right,” Dutch assured her grimly just before he followed Philippe. “A man who could unite ten of the most warring Bedouin tribes in all of the Middle East is more than capable of dealing with a terrorist.”

She looked up at him miserably. “Oh, I hope so!”

He chuckled. “You really should read a history of this country, Mrs. Sabon,” he mused. “I think you don't quite know your husband yet.”

“I only want time to get to know him,” she said, and meant it.

 

The palace was like an asylum for the next hour. News media were everywhere, talking to anyone who seemed to understand English or any one of twelve other foreign languages. Gretchen escaped with Leila to the women's quarters, with Hassan close behind, his hand on the automatic weapon he always carried as he looked cautiously from one side of the corridor to the other, pausing to check closed doors.

“He is worried,” Leila said quietly. “So am I. This man Brauer is like a cobra, quiet and shrewd. The man who told them about his approach is not trustworthy. I have known him to do many wicked things for money, and I was told that they didn't have to do much to make him talk. They were much too upset and angry to think rationally about what he said.”

“You think he gave them false information?” she asked Leila, worriedly.

Leila nodded. “I think it is possible. And while a whole force of men might not be able to invade the palace, one or two men with bribed guards could accomplish much.”

Gretchen felt the cold metal of the pistol against her thigh where she concealed it under her wedding robes and narrowed her eyes as she considered what to do.

“We should lock ourselves in your rooms, Lady,” Leila said firmly. “There, at least, you will be safe.”

Gretchen turned toward her, still frowning. “No. That's the last place we'll be safe,” she murmured. “If I were Brauer, it's where I'd be right now. It's the last place anybody would search for him.” She turned to Hassan. “I want you to go and bring that guard I kicked from the stables where the camel is kept.”

Hassan's eyes widened. “I beg your pardon, ma'am?” he drawled.

“The rest of the sha-KOOSH are with my husband,” she reminded him. “He is the only man of the bodyguard left here. And bring Philippe's father with you when you return. His safety is no less important than mine.”

Hassan, to his credit, didn't ask questions. He did immediately as he was told.

“You and I are going to bait a trap,” she told Leila. “I want you to go to the laundry and bring back men's clothing for you and me. But I want women's clothing in a size to fit Hassan and that tall guard who was looking after the camel.”

Leila's eyes lit up with mischief. “You are bad!”

Gretchen grinned. “I am a Texan,” she said glumly. “And even international terrorists should know better than to mess with us!”

The punished guard was uneasy around Gretchen at first and full of apologies. She held up a hand.

“I never meant for my husband to knock your teeth out, just the same,” she said firmly. “But I'm giving you a chance to save all of us, and I promise you, my husband will be very pleased if we can pull this off. I think Brauer is in my suite. Leila and I are going to dress as men and patrol outside my rooms. You and Hassan are going to walk into the room unexpectedly and let yourselves be found by Brauer. The surprise is going to be his, because Leila and I are your backup. And we're going to both be armed.” She showed her pistol and pulled one from the guard's belt to hand to Leila. “Can you shoot it?” she asked the other woman.

“But of course,” Leila told her. “My own husband belongs to the
sidi's
sha-KOOSH.” She grinned.

“Okay, then, we are going to walk in there and give Kurt Brauer the unpleasant surprise of his life. Then we're going to give the international media outside the palace a
much
bigger story than my wedding! Now let's change into our disguises and get moving!”

 

A few miles away, a furious Philippe was sitting beside Dutch and Bojo in a small helicopter talking to his other military vehicles.

“Brauer's helicopters are nowhere in sight, if they even exist,” Philippe said angrily. “But one of the border patrols found evidence of recent movement, and a satellite picked up two Jeeps moving toward the palace. We have been out-flanked. I knew I should never have trusted that informant!”

“We live and learn,” Dutch said quietly. “I'm sorry. None of us are exactly standing out as defenders of the innocent right now.”

“Gretchen,” Philippe groaned. “She and my father were left behind for their own protection. Even now, they may be dead! Turn around,” Philippe told the pilot harshly. “Go back to the palace, as fast as you can!”

“Yes,
sidi,
” came the respectful reply, and seconds later, the helicopter was on its way back.

 

The men had changed, in another room of course, into their wispy
gellabias
with the
hijabs
pulled carefully over their faces. The old sheikh, fuming at being left out of the action, was coaxed into remaining in one of the empty rooms for the time being.

The young guard gave Gretchen, in her flowing robes and
igal,
an accusing look.

“If anyone says a word, I'll swear that I ordered you to dress like that, I promise,” she told him. “Think of the mission, not the means.”

“You sound like my army sergeant,” Hassan drawled. He looked very large, for a “woman.”

“If you say I look like him, I'll have you guarding sand dunes for the next five years,” Gretchen told him.

“I never said a word, ma'am, honest!”

She grinned at Leila, who looked as out of place as she felt. She hid the pistol in the flowing robes and indicated that Leila should do the same. She signaled to the men, who began to walk deliberately toward Gretchen's quarters and slowly entered the room.

From the corridor, Gretchen and Leila moved close enough to peer inside. Sure enough, Kurt Brauer, as she'd guessed, was waiting behind the curtains with two armed men. They came forward. Brauer was wild-eyed and angry, and he looked momentarily perplexed.

“Where is Lady Sabon?” he demanded in English. Arabic, obviously, wasn't one of his languages.

“The Lady? She is being taken to the hospital,” the cross-dressed guard said. “She was badly injured, in an explosion in the cathedral! We have come for her gowns.”

Brauer seemed to relax. “And her husband?” he persisted.

“With her. Who are you? What do you want in my lady's chambers?” the guard persisted.

Brauer moved restlessly. “Never mind. Where is this hospital?”

The guard told him.

Brauer was frowning at the “women.” “You look very odd, for a woman,” Brauer said. “Get outside and watch the corridor!” he told the two men with him.

They came barreling through the door and right into the leveled pistols of Gretchen and Leila.

“Say one word, and I'll be looking down the corridor through you!” Gretchen said in a hushed whisper, forcing her captive out of sight of the door.

Leila repeated the command in sharp Arabic, her own pistol in her camouflaged prey's stomach. She added an order for them to drop their weapons.

“What was that noise?” Brauer demanded. “You men…!”

There was a scuffle, quickly over, and Brauer came flying out into the corridor, headfirst. He hit the floor and before he could roll over, the guard who'd insulted Gretchen was all over him. She had to admire that technique. He might have a bad attitude, but he left nothing to be desired as a bodyguard. In no time, Kurt was vanquished, bruised, and neatly tied up with a piece of the “women's” robes.

“Very nice, young man!” Gretchen told the guard, her green eyes twinkling. “I'm proud of you!”

He actually grinned at her. He and Hassan threw off the robes they were wearing over their own clothing and left them on the floor while they marched the three captives down the hall. Gretchen and Leila took only a few seconds to discard their own disguises and follow along.

The old sheikh peered out the door of the room he was occupying, saw the captives, grinned from ear to ear and joined his daughter-in-law and her servant with such pride that Gretchen had to smother a grin.

“Here,” she said, handing him her pistol and urging him forward without actually touching him. Touching him would have broken a local taboo, which she knew. “You get right up there with Hassan and that other guy. It will do wonders for you with the international press!”

He stopped, looking perplexed. “You would do this, for me? After all the insulting things I have said to you about American women and outsiders?”

She shrugged. “You're going to be the baby's grandfather,” she reminded him.

“So I am.” He smiled with real affection and handed her back the pistol. He wrapped both his big hands around hers. “And you will be his mother. This story will be told around tribal campfires for the foreseeable future. It will do your child no little service to have it known that his mother has the heart of a falcon. Go.” He urged her up into the group that was coming to meet the tied, dejected prisoners.

“Kurt Brauer,” Brianne's husband Pierce said with a cold smile. He motioned to the international press to join them. “You people from the American press may remember this scalawag. He invaded Qawi two years ago, slaughtered women and children with his hired mercenaries, and got a short Russian prison sentence. He'll be tried in Qawi this time. And I promise you, he won't get out anytime soon.”

“About that, you are precisely correct!” came a furious voice from behind Pierce Hutton.

Philippe came into view, still wearing his ceremonial robes, with the mercenaries and his personal guard flanking him. He stopped short at the sight of Kurt and his comrades in bondage. Then his eyes went to Hassan, the disgraced guard, and Gretchen with her brother's pistol and Leila with a borrowed one standing behind them.

He grinned outrageously. “As you can see,” he raised his voice, “in Qawi, even the women are dangerous!”

Brauer and his two friends were moved aside so that the press could photograph Gretchen and Leila with their pistols in hand. It was a media event. Philippe folded his arms and smiled with enormous pride as his bride was photographed, interviewed, praised and admired by half the world—including the foreign dignitaries. The U.S. vice president kissed her, and the Russian and Israeli delegates shook her hand warmly. Others surged forward to add their own praise. Gretchen thought she could never withstand such happiness. Sadly, with her condition and all the excitement, it was too much for her. She fainted.

Philippe was at her side instantly, patting her hands, smoothing her hair under the concealing headdress. “Gretchen. Darling! Are you all right?” he asked.

He sounded actually frantic. Gretchen's eyes opened. She was numb and cold and she felt nausea in her throat. She looked up at her husband and smiled gently. “I don't think capturing invaders is good for pregnant women.”

He chuckled, relieved. “Perhaps not, but at least you picked the best time to pass out, my own.” He bent and lifted her into his arms, brushing his lips tenderly across her eyes as she clung to him.

“Did you say that you were pregnant, Mrs. Sabon? I mean, Lady Sabon?” one of the journalists asked, aghast.

“Very pregnant, indeed,” she assured them. “You can all come to the christening. But right now, all I want is my bed and some dill pickles with strawberry sauce.”