A Desert Rose

Chapter 3 - The Prince

Chapter 3

Prince Zahir Bin Abdul Aziz was in his office on the top floor of the twenty storey office building looking out over the capital city of Riyadh, when a knock on the door drew his attention. 

Omar entered and bowed slightly before walking to the desk.  “Forgive the interruption my Prince, but we have a man on the line who demands to speak with you.  He’s calling from London and says it’s urgent; something about BBC.” 

Zahir sat down at his desk.  “Probably another reporter; tell him I’m busy and to leave a message.” 

Omar nodded his consent and left. 

Frowning, Zahir reached for the remote control to the flat screen on the wall.  He switched it on and turned to the BBC channel. 

A woman was reading the news headlines.  Nothing interesting. 

He turned down the volume and picked up the folder he was reading to return it to the filling cabinet. 

Another knock on the door and Omar entered again looking apologetic.  “My apologies Emir, the man, he says it’s too urgent.” 

Zahir felt his temper rise “what is his problem, doesn’t he understand English?  What’s his name?” 

Omar looked worried, “Marc Livingston.” 

A feint bell of recognition rang in Zahir's head.  It sounded vaguely familiar; he probably saw it on the news. 

Omar shifted nervously then drew a breath before blurting it out, “Emir, it’s concerning the woman.” 

Zahir turned around, “what woman?” 

Omar pointed towards the flat screen, “that woman.” 

Zahir followed Omar’s’ hand and the folder he had been holding fell from his hand to the floor.

“I’ll take the call,” he growled, but Omar was already on his way out. 

Seconds later the light flashed on Zahir’s phone.  Zahir spoke quickly and after every reply he felt his anger rise.  A few minutes later he slammed down the receiver in fury. 

“OMAR!”  He bellowed. 

Omar entered partly relieved, partly anxious. 

“Why wasn’t I told immediately?”  Zahir demanded. 

“Emir, my apologies, you asked not to be disturbed by anything except national security.”  Omar explained.

Zahir’s temper didn’t cool off.  “You should have told me!  Ready the helicopter.  We’re leaving immediately.” 

Omar left to do the bidding while Zahir stared at the screen and the picture of the woman for a few minutes.  He grabbed his briefcase and stormed out of the office to the helipad on the roof; fear and anger driving him. 

***** Meanwhile in London *****

Marc has not slept in almost 28 hours.  He was exhausted and gratefully put down the phone.  Finally, he knew Prince Zahir would do something.  After his flight from Dubai landed he had been on the run non-stop. 

First he made arrangements for the crates to be delivered to the university; then trying but failing to get anyone to help him at the Arabian embassy.  They had him wait for hours before finally telling him that except for assigning a lawyer, they could do nothing else. 

Out of desperation he called the BBC, hoping some press will put pressure on the embassy.  He went back to his flat and practically dumped the entire contents of Aimee’s suitcase on his bed.  Ignoring the mixture of dirty and clean clothes he found the little card that Zahir had given Aimee and immediately called the number. 

At first he couldn’t get any answer but he kept calling every 15 minutes.  At last he got through and refused to get off the line until he had spoken to Zahir.  He only hopes that Zahir has enough influence to get Aimee out.  He does after all owe Aimee his life. Before falling asleep on the bed on top of Aimee’s dust-covered clothes he remembered that night more than a month ago.  

After Aimee had sped off into the desert, Marc and the rest of the men had just started eating supper when gunshots echoed through the camp.  It was distant, but unmistakable.  They had just decided who should go and investigate when the hum of the dune buggy interrupted.

Aimee brought a badly bruised and bleeding man back to camp.  This was nothing out of the ordinary.  Aimee was always making friends, helping people or dragging some injured animal home. 

However, his first clue was when the local hired workers fell to their knees as Aimee assisted the man into the camp.  The second clue was the silk shirt she pushed up to examine the injuries on his back.  After stopping the bleeding head-wound and treating what she could she offered him supper.  He accepted but ate little. 

Aimee brought the satellite phone they had and he made a short call.  Only minutes later two helicopters approached their camp and armed, uniformed men jumped out of the one to help the stranger into one helicopter while the other landed not far away to pick up the men Aimee had tied up and left with the vehicles.

Once they resumed eating Aimee told him what had happened when she disappeared earlier.

Early the next morning the helicopter was back and the man, now cleaned up, walked straight to Aimee where she stood logging samples on a table.  The hired help did another falling down stint and he was introduced as Prince Zahir, paramount Sheikh and ruler of the state. 

He offered Aimee a huge reward for saving his life, but she graciously declined and settled for dinner instead.  The Prince offered them more.  They were granted full access and all resources to finish their expedition and even spent a night at the palace before they flew to Muscat, Oman three weeks later. 

Zahir came back to take Aimee to dinner in the city one night, and they were treated as kings at the palace.  But that was the last Marc saw of him. 

Still holding the business card Zahir gave Aimee before they left, Marc gratefully fell into a deep sleep.