She grabbed her scarf and swept it around her face, as she walked the last few yards across the stony, barren land to the Gharb Havilah checkpoint. Both guards were outside watching her approach, which alone indicated how infrequently the border crossing was used. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she’d decided to come overland through the mountains where there was no internet. A desire to be incognito, perhaps? Maybe. But also an instinctive need to take things slowly, to re-acquaint herself with the country a little at a time, to let it seep into her being. Far better this than to be offloaded into Gharb Havilah’s modern airport where she’d have trouble adjusting from her English world to the country in which she’d been raised.
It had taken a week of travel through the desert she’d used to know so well to get here—a week of attuning herself to its slow pace, and its timeless glamor which she loved so much. Her ability to speak the native tongues, and her old friendships in Tawazun—a country which she knew almost as well as Havilah—ensured her safety.
Yes, she wanted the time to sink herself back into this world again. But she had to admit she also wanted to send a signal—to Zavian. He might call, and she might have to come, but she’d do it her way, on her terms. She was not, and would never be, controlled by him.
But, as she handed over her papers to the guards, her eyes were drawn beyond them, to an expensive-looking car, not a taxi, disappearing into a hazy mirage. It seemed she wasn’t the only person seeking entry through that remote spot.
She exchanged pleasantries with the guards as they completed the paperwork. Their responses became friendlier as she answered in their native tongue. But, as she walked toward her taxi, her eyes were once again drawn to the shimmer of the departing car. She suddenly remembered that the border guard had commented on her being the first person that day to cross the border, which meant someone had arrived and then turned back. Why?
She greeted the taxi driver, and he took her battered backpack and placed it in the boot of the car, and they were off, following the faint trace of the previous car toward the capital city of Gharb Havilah. While the driver talked of the country’s gossip—the royal family, the state of the economy, and other things of which taxi drivers the world over were experts, Gabrielle’s thoughts were entirely on the car she’d seen leaving the border and the registration plate she’d caught a glimpse of. It had to have been him. How on earth had he discovered her changed itinerary? She’d underestimated him, certainly underestimated his compulsion to control everything.
As they emerged from the mountain pass, the city revealed itself, spread across the narrow plain between the mountains and the brilliant blue of the sea. Her heart stopped, held tight by its beauty. The color of terra cotta, the ancient city sat unaltered thanks to centuries of control by the Al Rasheed clan. No high-rise glass buildings for them. It made the world believe they weren’t wealthy. The world was wrong. The Al Rasheeds kept their incredible wealth tight, and that knowledge even tighter. They kept their people comfortable and employed, and a tight control upon everything. But it seemed, if the taxi driver’s chatter was anything to believe, that things were about to change—that the new sheikh had different ideas. She didn’t doubt it.
After the wide-open plains of the high desert, the ancient narrow streets of the old quarter—clogged with cars and people, jostling and shouting as they came closer to the bazaar—was noisy and overwhelming. The taxi turned away from the bazaar and headed toward the palace. Gabrielle leaned forward. “The museum. We need to go to the museum.”
“We are, madam.”
“But it’s back there.” She gestured toward the old building, which was soon out of sight, lost amid a jumble of rooftops.
“The museum’s administrative center has recently been moved. You wanted to see the person in charge?”
“Yes.”
“Then, you will find him at the palace.”
Gabrielle felt uneasy as the taxi drove up the wide boulevard—a product of the old King’s fascination with all things French—at the end of which stood a medieval castle, situated on a long, low hill which overlooked the city and the sea.
“Please stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
The taxi driver shrugged and parked abruptly, blocking off a car trying to emerge from a narrow alleyway. The other vehicle beeped his horn continuously. Her taxi driver yelled expletives while extracting her bag from the boot. She paid him, and he wished her well and drove off, leaving her to walk into the square, busy with tourists and street hawkers. She stepped forward, wanting to be a part of them, needing the anonymity they gave her.
Above the clamor of street traders, tourists and people trying to go about their everyday business, sat the palace—a dominant, aloof presence. Exactly like the new King had become, according to gossip. It was strange to think that the man she knew could have changed so much. She hoped he continued to remain untouchable and aloof because she wanted nothing to do with him.
She had no idea if he was behind her visit or even knew about it. But the strange car at border control nagged at her mind. Who was it? Was it Zavian? But how could it be? He had more to do than track her movements. No, there was absolutely no reason why she and King Zavian bin Ameen Al Rasheed’s paths should cross. The palace was vast, and while she’d be working on the PR around the artifacts being exhibited, he’d be ruling the country. She had no wish to stir up anything from the past. There were good reasons why she left—reasons that were still valid, and would always be valid. Zavian was out of her reach, and she intended to keep him that way.
She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder and approached the palace guard, her papers in hand, prepared for the usual third degree. But, after only a few words, the gate opened without her having to show her documents. Maybe the palace was more accessible than it used to be. Maybe security was lax in keeping with the approach of the new king. Maybe not, she thought as she saw others have their papers scrutinized before being allowed inside the hallowed gardens of the Abyad Palace. She’d barely set foot inside the shady cool of the palace foyer when an official approached her.
“Dr. Taylor. Welcome to the palace. Please, follow me, and I’ll take you to your rooms.”
Her bag was taken from her, and, unnervingly, they were followed by two more assistants as they walked up the main stairs and turned left. She hesitated. “Excuse me!” she called to the assistant.
“Yes?
“The museum and administrative quarters, surely they’d be in the east wing, with the other public offices and visitor apartments?” He’d made a mistake. He must have been new there.
“Yes, indeed,” the young man smiled. “The east wing.”
“Then…” she continued, “why are we going to the west?”
The young man assumed a patient smile. “Because I am taking you to your rooms. And they are this way.”
Gabrielle’s heart sank with a sickening thud. What was going on? She knew full well the implications of staying in the west wing of the palace. That was where the royal family stayed, and only the highest-ranking advisors and relatives. She gripped the staircase, its gold scrollwork digging into her flesh. “No, I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”
“Yes, I assure you, itispossible, madam. Your suite awaits you.”
“No. I’m sorry, I can’t stay here. I’ll take a room at a hotel.” She fumbled for her phone.
“And why would you do that?” His smile appeared stuck fast. “You will be working at the palace, and living at the palace.”