'Place your bets, mesdames et messieurs'
Sheikh Tahir Al'Ramiz glanced around the gaming table, at
the crowd watching him with rapt attention, eager to see his
next move. His gaze trawled past the stack of chips he'd won
in the last hour.
A waiter hovered with a fresh bottle of champagne. Tahir
nodded and turned to the woman pressed so eagerly against
his side. Blonde, beautiful, accommodating. She'd turned
heads from the moment they entered Monte Carlo's opulent old
casino.
She moved and the fortune in diamonds encircling her throat
and dripping down her superb cleavage flashed in the
chandelier's mellow light. Her stunning evening dress of
beaded silver was testament to the effect wealth and a
world-class couturier could achieve.
She smiled, the sort of intimate, eager smile women had been
giving him since adolescence.
He passed her a flute of France's finest champagne and leant
back in his seat, finally acknowledging what he'd felt all
evening.
He was bored.
Last time it had taken him two days to tire of Monte Carlo.
This time he'd just arrived.
'Last bets,
mesdames et messieurs'
Stifling a sigh, Tahir caught the croupier's eye.
'Quatorze,' he said.
The croupier nodded and moved Tahir's chips.
A hush fell as the crowd sucked in its collective breath.
People on the other side of the table hurried to follow his
lead, placing last-minute bets.
'Fourteen?' said the blonde, eyes widening. 'You're betting
it
all on one number?'
Tahir shrugged and lifted his glass. Idly he noted how the
faint tremor in his hand made the surface of the wine ripple.
How long since he'd slept? Two days? Three? There'd been New
York, where he'd finally closed that media deal and stayed
to party. Then Tunisia for some all-terrain racing, Oslo and
Moscow for more business, then here to his cruiser in the
marina.
Was his lifestyle finally catching up with him?
He tried to dredge up some interest, some concern, and failed.
With a flourish the croupier set the roulette wheel spinning.
Slender fingers gripped Tahir's knee through the fine wool
of his trousers. His companion's breathing quickened as the
wheel spun. Her hand slipped up his thigh.
Did she find the thrill of gambling, even by proxy, so arousing?
He almost envied her. Tahir knew that if she were to strip
naked and offer herself to him here and now, he'd feel
nothing. No desire. No excitement.
Nothing.
She flashed him another smile, a sultry invitation, and
leaned close, her breast pressing against his arm.
He really should remember her name.
Elsa? Erica? It eluded him. Because he hadn't been
interested enough to fix it in his mind? Or because his
memory was becoming impaired?
His lips quirked briefly. Unfortunately his memory still
functioned perfectly.
Some things he'd never forget.
No matter how hard he tried.
Elisabeth. That was it. Elisabeth Karolin Roswitha, Countess
von Markburg.
Clamorous applause roused him from his thoughts. A cushioned
embrace engulfed him as the Countess von Markburg almost
climbed onto his lap in her excitement. Soft lips grazed his
cheek, his mouth.
'You've won again, Tahir!' She pulled back, her eyes
glittering with excitement. 'Isn't it marvellous?'
He moved his lips in what passed for a smile and raised his
glass.
Tahir envied her that simple rush of pleasure. How long
since he'd experienced that? Gambling didn't do it for him
any more. Business coups? Sometimes. Extreme sports? At
least he got an adrenalin rush when he put his neck on the
line. Sex?
He watched another woman approach. A dark-haired seductress
wearing ruby drop earrings that brushed her bare shoulders
and a dress that would have her locked up for indecency in a
lot of countries.
And he felt not a flicker of response.
She stopped beside him, leaned down, giving him a view right
down her dress, past unfettered breasts to her navel and beyond.
'Tahir, darling. It's been an age.'
Her lips opened against his and her tongue slicked along the
seam of his lips. But he wasn't in the mood.
Fatigue suddenly swamped him. Not physical tiredness, but
the insidious grey nothingness that had plagued him so long.
He was tired of life.
Abruptly he pulled back from her hungry kiss. It was only
months since they'd been together in Buenos Aires yet it
felt a lifetime ago.
'Elisabeth.' He turned to the blonde still glued to his
side. 'Let me introduce Natasha Leung. Natasha, this is
Elisabeth von Markburg.'
He nodded to the waiter, who produced another champagne flute.
'Ah, it's my favourite vintage,' Natasha purred, standing
closer, so her thigh slid against his. 'Thank you.'
Over her shoulder Tahir caught the croupier's expressionless
gaze.
'Place your bets,
s'il vous plait'
'Quatorze,' Tahir murmured.
'Quatorze?' The croupier's impeccable reserve
couldn't hide the astonishment in his eyes.
'Old,
monsieur.'
'Fourteen again?' Elisabeth's voice rose shrilly. 'But
you'll lose it all! The chances of getting the same number
again are impossible.'
Tahir shrugged and, alerted by a discreet ring tone, dragged
his mobile phone from his pocket. 'Then I'll lose.'
At the look of horror on her face Tahir almost smiled. Life
was so simple for some.
He looked at the phone, frowning when he didn't recognise
the number displayed. Only his lawyer and his most trusted
brokers had his private number. This wasn't one of them.
'Hello?'
'Tahir?' Even after so long that voice was unmistakable.
Tahir surged to his feet, dislodging both the women clinging
to him.
'Kareef.'
Only something truly significant would make his eldest
brother call him out of the blue and after so long. He
turned his back on the table, gesturing to his companions to
stay where they were. The crowd around him parted, as it
always did, and he strode across the room to the privacy of
a quiet corner.
'This is an unexpected surprise,' he murmured. 'To what do I
owe the pleasure?'
Silence. It stretched so long the back of his neck prickled.
'I want you to come home.' Kareef's voice was as calm and
familiar as it had always been.
But the words. They were words Tahir had never thought to hear.
'I don't have a home any more. Remember?'
A tiny part of long-dormant conscience told him he took out
his old bitterness unfairly on Kareef. His brother wasn't to
blame for the disaster that was Tahir's past.
He clamped his mouth shut.
'You do now, Tahir.' Something in his brother's voice sent a
tingle of premonition down his spine.
'Our revered father would have something to say to that.'
'Our father is dead.'
The words rolled like thunder in Tahir's brain.
The brute who'd ruled his people and his family so corruptly
was gone for ever.
The tyrant who'd betrayed his wife with a string of whores
and mistresses. Who'd ruled his tribe by fear. Who'd
thrashed Tahir time and again to within an inch of his life.
Then had his thugs take over when Tahir grew old enough to
defend himself against his father.
The man who'd exiled his youngest son when he'd finally done
what the old Sheikh had probably secretly wanted and
overstepped the mark completely.
Tahir had never been able to please his father, no matter
how he tried. He'd spent his boyhood wondering what fault of
his inspired such hatred.
But he'd long ago given up caring.
Tahir turned to look across the elegant room and its throng
of late-night pleasure-seekers. In his mind's eye it wasn't
the glamorous crowd he saw, the flirtatious and curious
glances or the opulent display of wealth. It was Yazan
Al'Ramiz's bloodshot eyes, his bristling moustache flecked
with spittle as he ranted and bellowed. The violent pounding
of his clenched fists.
Surely Tahir should feel something, anything, at the news
his tyrant father was dead? Even after eleven years' absence
the news must evoke some response?
A yawning void of darkness welled inside where once emotions
had lodged.
He supposed he should have questions.
When? How? Wasn't that what a child asked about a father's
death?
'Still, I don't feel a burning desire to return to Qusay.'
His tone was as blank as his mood. There was nothing for him
in the land of his birth.
'Damn it, Tahir. Stop playing the arrogant unfeeling bastard
for a moment. I need you here. Things are complicated.'
Kareef paused. 'I
want you here.'
Something unfamiliar roiled deep in Tahir's belly.
'What do you need?' Kareef had always been his favourite
brother. The one he'd looked up to, in the long-ago days
when he'd still tried to emulate his elders and betters.
'What's the problem?'
'No problem,' Kareef said in a curiously strained voice.
'But our cousin has discovered he isn't the rightful king of
Qusay. He's stood aside and I'm to take his place on the
throne.' He paused. 'I want you here for my coronation.'
Tahir walked slowly to the roulette table.
Kareef's news was momentous. To discover their cousin had
been made King in error was almost unbelievable. He was no
blood relation to the old King and Queen, but had been
secretly taken in by them while they grieved the death of
their real son. If it had been anyone other than Kareef
telling the story Tahir would have doubted the news.
But Kareef would never make such an error. He was too
careful, too responsible. He would make the perfect King for
Qusay. Either of Tahir's older brothers would.
Thank merciful fate their father wasn't alive to inherit the
throne! As brother to the old King and leader of a
significant clan he'd been too powerful as it was—too
dangerous. Having him rule the whole nation would have been
like letting a wolf in amongst lambs.
A heart attack, Kareef had said.
No wonder. Their father had liked to indulge himself and
hadn't limited himself to one vice.
Tahir approached the gaming table. He saw his barely touched
champagne and the two women waiting for him, both
undoubtedly eager to give him whatever he desired tonight.
His lips curled. Perhaps he was more like the old man than
he realised.
'Tahir!' Elisabeth's voice was a shriek of delight. 'You'll
never believe it. You won! Again! It's unbelievable.'
The babbling crowd hushed. Every eye was on him, as if he'd
done something miraculous.
Before him, piled high, were his winnings. Far larger than
before. The croupier looked pale and rigidly composed.
Eager feminine hands reached for Tahir as his companions
sidled close. Their eyes were bright with avarice and
excitement.
Tahir slid some of the most valuable chips to the croupier.
'For you.'
'Merci, monsieur.' He grinned as he scooped his
newfound wealth safely into his hand.
Tahir lifted his glass, took a long swallow and let the
bubbles cascade from the back of his tongue down his throat.
The wine's effervescence seeped into him. He felt buoyant,
almost happy. For once fate had played things right. Kareef
would be the best King Qusay had known.
He put the glass down with a click and turned away.
'Goodnight, Elisabeth, Natasha. I'm afraid I have business
elsewhere.'
He'd taken but a few steps when the babble of voices stopped
him.
'Wait! Your winnings! You've forgotten them.'
Tahir turned to face a sea of staring faces.
'Keep them. Share them amongst yourselves.'
Without a backward glance he strode to the entrance,
oblivious to the uproar behind him.
The doorman thrust open the massive doors and Tahir emerged
into the fresh night air. He breathed deep, filling his
lungs for the first time, it seemed, in recent memory.
A hint of a smile played on his lips as he loped down the
stairs.
He had a coronation to attend.
Tahir skimmed low over the dunes of Qusay's great interior
desert.
Alone at the helicopter's controls, he put the effervescence
in his blood down to the freedom of complete solitude. No
hangers-on. No business minions seeking direction. No women
with wide eyes and grasping hands. Not even paparazzi
waiting to report his next outrageous affair.
Perhaps the barren glory of the desert had lifted his
spirits? He even, for this moment, put from his mind what
awaited him in Qusay.
His family. His past.
Yet he'd visited deserts in the last eleven years. From
North Africa to Australia and South America, motor-racing,
hang-gliding, base-jumping—always searching for new
extreme ways to risk his neck.
Finally he recognised his mood was because he flew over the
place he'd called home for the first eighteen years of his
life. The place he'd never expected to see again.
But this realisation came as an almighty gust buffeted the
chopper, slewing it sideways. Tahir grappled with the
controls, swinging the helicopter high above the dunes.
The sight that met him sent adrenalin pumping through his
body. The growing darkness filling the sky wasn't an early
dusk, as he'd thought.
If he'd been flying by the book he'd have noticed the
warning signs sooner. Instead he'd been skylarking, swooping
dangerously low, gambling on his ability to read the
topography of a place that changed with every wind.
This was the mother of all sandstorms. The sort that claimed
livestock, altered watercourses and buried roads. The sort
that could whip up a helicopter like a toy, whirl it round
and smash it into fragments.
No chance to outrun it. No time to land safely.
Nevertheless, Tahir battled to steer the bucking chopper
away from the massive storm. Automatically he switched into
crisis mode, sending out a mayday, knowing already it was
too late.
Calmness stole over him.
He was going to die.
The prodigal had returned to his just deserts.
He wasn't dead.
Fate obviously had something far worse in store. Dehydration
in the heat. Or, going by the pain racking him, death from
his wounds.
The preposterous luck that had seen him win several fortunes
at the gaming table had finally abandoned him.
Tahir debated whether to open his eyes or lie there, seeking
the luxurious darkness of unconsciousness again. Yet the
throbbing pain in his head and chest was impossible to ignore.
Even opening his eyes hurt. Light pierced his retinas
through sand-encrusted lashes. It dazzled him and he
groaned, tasting heat and dust and the metallic saltiness of
blood. His hands and face felt raw from exposure to whipping
sand.
He had a vague recollection of sitting, blinded by dust and
strapped in a seat, hearing the unearthly yowl of wind and
lashing sand. Then the smell of petrol, so strong he'd
fought free of both seatbelt and twisted metal, stumbling as
far as he could.
Then nothing.
Overhead the pure blue of a cerulean sky mocked him.
He was alive. In the desert. Alone.
Tahir passed out three times before he dragged himself to a
sitting position, sweating and trembling and feeling more
dead than alive. His brain was scrambled, wandering into
nothingness and then jerking back to the present with
hideous clarity.
He sat with his back against a sandbank, legs stretched out,
and tried to ignore the brain-numbing pain that was the back
of his skull in contact with sand.
He was drifting into unconsciousness when something jerked
him awake. A rough caress on his hand. Gingerly he tilted
his head.
'You're a mirage,' he whispered, but the words wouldn't
emerge from his constricted throat.
The animal sensed his attention. It stared back, its
horizontal pupils dark against golden-brown irises. It shook
its head and a cloud of dust rose from its shaggy coat.
'Mmmmah.'
'Mirages don't talk,' Tahir murmured. They didn't lick
either. But this one did, its tongue tickling. He shut his
eyes, but when he opened them the goat was still there. A
kid, too small to be without its mother.
© 2003-2026