The Sheikh

‘Is this your first voyage?’ a rather plump lady called Mrs Vermont asked. ‘I am a seasoned traveller, of course, but my niece Jane is with me for the first time. You two girls will be company for each other. Now, isn’t it lucky that you are both here?’

Jane Vermont seemed rather a silly girl to Chloe, but they were of a similar age so she smiled and agreed. It would be impossible to avoid the Vermonts and she would need someone to talk to. Most of the other passengers seemed to be much older, which was a little disappointing.

‘What are you going to do after dinner?’ Jane asked her. ‘There’s masses of entertainment—a dance, the live show and they are running a film this evening. I would like to see it, but Aunt Vera doesn’t want to go.’

‘It depends,’ Chloe said cautiously. ‘What are they showing?’

‘I’m not sure—shall we ask the captain later?’

Chloe thought the captain would have more important things to occupy his time, and surely there were enough stewards to ask anyway. Jane was looking towards the top table, smiling and waving, obviously wanting to be noticed.

Chloe glanced that way herself and saw that one of the favoured guests was the man she had bumped into earlier. He was wearing a very elegant black dinner suit and a pristine white shirt with a black bow tie. As she looked at him, he seemed to become aware of her and lifted his glass to her in a salute.

‘Who is that perfectly divine man?’ Jane asked immediately. ‘He’s so handsome—just like Rudolph Valentino, dark and mysterious and sort of threatening.’ She gave an artificial shiver. ‘Do you know him?’

‘No—we met briefly on deck earlier, but we weren’t introduced,’ Chloe said and looked down. The smoked salmon she was eating had suddenly become very interesting and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her plate. Her heart was behaving very stupidly, and she was afraid that her cheeks might be flushed.

‘Well, he seems very interested in you,’ Jane said and giggled. ‘I wish he would look at me like that…smouldering, that’s the word.’ She smiled at him, but to her discomfiture got nothing but a blank stare. ‘Did you know that there is a film crew on board? They are American, I hear.’

‘A film crew?’ Chloe looked at her, her attention caught. ‘I had no idea—are there any famous actors or actresses with them?’

‘No—I think they probably flew to wherever they’re going. The director is with the crew, though. I think he wants to take some shots on board for some reason. They say he’s looking for a star for his new picture.’ She preened her fluffy dark hair. ‘Do you think I look a bit like Mary Pickford, Chloe?’

Chloe didn’t think she looked at all like the famous star everyone called the ‘World’s Sweetheart’, but she was embarrassed to say so straight out.

‘Well, perhaps a little bit,’ she said. ‘Your hair is the same as hers was in her last film.’

She saw that Jane was pleased, and it was obvious that she had chosen to wear her hair that way in order to look as much like the star as possible.

She really was a bit silly, Chloe thought, and wished her cousin had been on the ship with them, but it was no use sighing over something she couldn’t have. She glanced briefly towards the table, and saw that he was lighting a cigarette for a woman sitting to his left. She was a very beautiful woman, expensively dressed and very sure of herself as she smiled into his eyes.

Chloe looked away again quickly. She wasn’t in that sort of league, and couldn’t compete with a woman like that—not that she wanted to, of course.

‘Do say you will come and watch the picture with me,’ Jane said as people began to make a move from their tables a little later. ‘I just asked one of the stewards and he said it was Valentino’s latest picture. I am longing to see it.’

‘I saw that before I came away,’ Chloe said, but then as Jane’s face fell. ‘Oh, well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.’

‘You two young things get off,’ Mrs Vermont said indulgently. ‘I’ll sit here and keep the professor company for a while.’

Chloe caught the look of dismay in his eyes before he managed to hide it and smiled inwardly.

‘Do you mind?’ she asked him. ‘Or is there some work you would like me to do for you this evening?’

He looked tempted, but shook his head. ‘I am not such an ogre as to make you work on your first evening, Chloe. No, my dear, you run along and enjoy yourself.’

Jane was full of the film as they left the small theatre afterwards. She went on and on about the star of the film being so handsome and exciting, until Chloe thought she would scream.

‘I really ought to go now,’ she said. ‘I must see if Miss Ramsbottom needs anything before I go to my own cabin.’

In her haste to escape her chattering companion, Chloe took the next turning, which she imagined to be the corridor leading to her own and Miss Ramsbottom’s cabins. However, when she got to the end and found that it led into yet another corridor leading in a different direction, she realised that she had come the wrong way.

As she turned to retrace her steps, she saw someone coming towards her and hesitated, wondering if there was some way to avoid another meeting. It would look foolish if she went back the way she knew led only to the staterooms, so she really had no choice but to stand her ground.

‘Ah, so we meet again,’ he said and looked amused. ‘I really think we should introduce ourselves, Miss…?’

Chloe hesitated, then took a deep breath. This was ridiculous!

‘Chloe Randall,’ she said and offered her hand. ‘I am travelling with Miss Amelia Ramsbottom and Professor Charles Hicks—and I seem to have taken a wrong turning.’

‘Very easy to do,’ he said, and took her hand, holding it for a moment before releasing it. ‘I am Armand…Philip Armand…and if you would care to tell me the number of the cabin you seek, I should be delighted to help you find your way, Miss Randall.’

Chloe was trying to make up her mind what nationality he was. His surname sounded a bit French, but she didn’t think he looked French—and he had hesitated for a moment, almost as if the name he had given her was not his own. But surely he wouldn’t lie—why should he?

‘I—it is nice to meet you,’ Chloe replied formally and then felt silly. ‘My cabin is number fifty-two and Miss Ramsbottom’s is fifty-nine. I was going to call on her and see how she was feeling before I went to bed. She wasn’t well earlier.’

‘Bed so early?’ His brows rose, a curl of amusement on his lips. He was very much the sophisticated man of the world, and made Chloe aware of how young and naïve she must seem. She knew that her clothes were too young for her, and nowhere near as elegant as the other women on board were wearing. ‘You shouldn’t think of such a thing while on board ship, Miss Randall. A young girl like you should be dancing the night away with a handsome partner.’

Chloe knew he was mocking her. She hadn’t seen any handsome young men on board—and the few older ones who fitted his description would be dancing with someone more interesting than little Chloe Randall.

‘I assure you that I have no intention of dancing with anyone, Mr Armand,’ she said. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. If you could please direct me to my cabin, I shall not trouble you longer. Especially if there is someone waiting for you…’

Now why had she said that? It sounded as if she were interested—and she wasn’t! Not in the least.

‘Unfortunately there is no one I care to dance with either,’ he replied, smiling oddly. ‘My fiancée was forced to remain in London. However, I should be happy to have you as a partner if you do feel tempted to dance another evening—when you are not so tired.’

To her annoyance, Chloe found herself blushing again. How was it that he was able to make her feel like a stupid schoolgirl? She was about to ask him for directions again when she saw a steward come out of one of the cabins, and turned to him quickly.

‘Certainly, I can show you the way, miss,’ he replied to her hasty question. ‘I am going that way now. Please follow me. Goodnight, Mr Armand.’

So he had not been lying about the name after all, Chloe thought as she nodded to him and followed the steward. Philip Armand shot her an amused glance and walked on down the corridor to where Chloe knew the staterooms were situated. They were much larger than her cabin, and had an opening so that the fortunate guest could step outside in privacy and take the air. She had been told that there was also a sitting room and two large bedrooms, and felt a little envious of the passengers who could afford such luxury.

But she was lucky to be here at all! Chloe reminded herself. She would never even have had the chance to travel abroad like this if it had not been for the generosity of Charles Hicks.

She knocked at Amelia’s door and was asked to enter. When she went in, she saw that the poor woman was lying flat on her back and looked most unwell.

‘Can I do anything for you?’ she asked, and Amelia shook her head. ‘Would you like me to call the doctor to you?’

‘Thank you, no,’ Amelia replied. ‘The steward has already given me something to help settle me. It was good of you to ask, Chloe—but all I want is to be left in peace. I shall be all right in a day or so.’

‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ Chloe said and closed the door quietly as she left.

She was thoughtful as she went into her own cabin. Who was Mr Armand, and why had she had the distinct impression he was lying when he gave her his name?

There was really no reason why he should lie to her—or none that she knew of. Perhaps he was travelling under a false name? Yet why should he be? Was he a spy or something underhand like that—a gangster, perhaps?

Chloe didn’t visit the cinema regularly for nothing! And yet he didn’t look anything like the pictures she’d seen of gangsters in the movies.

She considered what he did look like, and decided he was rather like a picture she had seen in a newspaper of a foreign prince a few weeks earlier. No, not a prince…but she was sure it was something of the sort. She couldn’t quite place the article, but she thought it had something to do with politics…or was it big business? She wasn’t certain, and gave it up.

It surely didn’t matter, because she wasn’t likely to have much to do with him. He would probably avoid her like the plague in future, especially if he happened to have a glass in his hand.

Chloe smiled as she remembered his face when Justine had tipped half that champagne over him. He had been rather put out at the time, but on the second occasion he had seemed as if he had begun to see the funny side of it—and he had been perfectly pleasant this evening, even if she did suspect that he had enjoyed mocking her.

She yawned as she began to undress. She really was sleepy, and she had become irritated by Jane Vermont’s meaningless chatter. It would be too bad if she was forced to put up with that for the whole of the voyage, and once again she regretted that her cousin had not been able to come on the trip with them.

Sighing, she went to bed and fell asleep almost instantly, dreaming of the film she had just seen, but at some time during her dream the face of the Sheikh changed, becoming that of someone she had just met.

‘You are a beautiful, dangerous woman,’ he told her as he looked deeply into her eyes. ‘I shall have to take you to my casbah and lock you away.’

Waking briefly, Chloe remembered where she had seen that article, then went back to sleep and forgot all about it again…

Chapter Two

H e stood watching the dancers for a moment, his features as hard as the Atlas Mountains, which banded the plains where his ancestors had roamed for centuries, moving relentlessly through deserts and fertile regions on the caravan routes from Gaza to the Barbary Coast. Pasha Ibn Hasim, otherwise known as Philip Armand—or even on occasions Philippe—watched as the girl danced with her elderly employer, a frown on his face that was generally considered strong rather than handsome.

At first he had thought she must be the professor’s niece or his mistress, for he had watched her saying goodbye to her father and friend that day in Southampton. Pasha was not certain why she had aroused his interest, except that she had something in her manner that brought back memories of another girl—his half-sister Lysette.

Lysette’s mother was a woman of French–Algerian extraction, and had married Sheikh Hasim Ibn Ali after they met when the Sheikh was in Paris following the death of his first wife.

Pasha’s own mother had been the favourite daughter of an English gentleman, but she had a French grandmother. It was his great-grandmother’s maiden name that Pasha sometimes took when he wished to travel to countries and cities where his relationship to a certain prince might cause his life to be threatened. It was easier when he did not wish to make his visit official to use the English passport he had obtained in that name.

His uncle, Prince Hassan, had arranged for him to be given an English education at Harrow and Cambridge after Pasha’s father was assassinated. Lysette had gone to America with her mother—and it was there that she had died in a car accident only a few months previously.

Once again Pasha’s features hardened as he thought of the beautiful sister he had adored. Although they had met infrequently after their father’s violent death, Lysette had been a warm, loving friend. Her needless death had shocked and then angered him as he began to suspect that it might not have been the accident that it was supposed to have been.

The doctors who examined her at the time of her death had told Pasha that she was carrying a child. That alone would have been enough to make Pasha vow to punish the man who had ruined her—but the suspicion that she had been killed because she was carrying a child filled him with a bitter anger.

Pasha would not spare the man who had destroyed Lysette if he could be certain of where the guilt lay, but as yet the agents he had set to work for him in America had come up with little in the way of proof. No matter! He was wealthy enough to pursue his enemy to the bitter end, which for Pasha meant a fitting punishment—but for the moment he had equally important concerns.

His visit to Morocco was dual purpose in that he intended to mix business with pleasure. He had family he had not seen in years, whom he intended to visit—but there were other secret reasons for his journey.

The whole region of the Middle East had become volatile of late. Oil was becoming an increasingly valuable commodity, and the Sheikhs of the various small states were jostling for power and territory. Land that had once been merely poor grazing ground could now be worth millions of dollars. His uncle, Prince Hassan, was the ruler of one such state and a powerful man, but he had equally powerful enemies. If he were not to die at the hands of an assassin, too, his family and friends must be vigilant.

A recent plot had been foiled thanks to something Pasha had learned in London from someone at the Foreign Office. The British were keen to support Prince Hassan, who had always been very pro-British and was a valuable ally in the shifting sands of a difficult political situation. And it was another such hint that had brought Philip Armand to this ship.

After the attempt to murder his uncle had been foiled, two men had been captured and persuaded to talk—but a third had escaped. Forbes, his contact at the Foreign Office, had told Pasha that according to his sources the culprit might be found in Marrakesh.

‘We can’t touch him, because the French wouldn’t stand for British interference—besides, he’s sheltering with a man of some political influence out there,’ Forbes had said.

‘But I may be able to achieve what you cannot?’ Pasha’s mouth had curved in a wry smile, which hid his true feelings. Clearly Forbes imagined that he would take a thing like political assassination in his stride. Pasha believed that there were certain circumstances that might lead him to kill, for the way of his people was an eye for an eye and a part of him responded to that. And yet there was another side that found what was, after all, little better than cold-blooded murder abhorrent. But he knew that his uncle’s life must be protected, not just because of the family tie, but for stability in the region. ‘Tell me, my friend—what is the British position in all this?’

‘Officially, we cannot meddle in the politics of the Arab world—but between you and me, Abdullah Ibn Hassan has been a thorn in our side for too long. We suspect him of sabotage as well as murder.’

‘Then you would be happy if someone arranged for him to be eliminated?’ He raised his brows as the icy trickle started at the nape of his neck. This thing that was being asked of him gave him a nasty taste in the mouth, and yet he knew that he might be forced to comply—unless there was another way? He would have to give the matter a great deal of thought.

‘Unofficially, we should be delighted—but this conversation never took place.’

‘Of course not.’ Pasha smiled. ‘I am merely taking a little trip for business and family reasons.’

‘Family out there too, have you?’ Forbes asked. ‘I thought your family were more from Algeria…or Syria?’

‘My father’s people were the true Bedouin,’ Pasha replied, pride tempered with amusement in his eyes. ‘That means they never settled in one place for more than a few months. I have uncles and cousins all over Morocco, Algeria—and, yes, one of my own homes is in Syria. The Bedouin knew no boundary—we simply wandered where we chose along the caravan routes.’

Forbes nodded. ‘You’re so damned English most of the time it’s hard to remember you were born out there.’

‘In my father’s casbah,’ Pasha said. ‘I believe I was conceived in a tent under desert stars, but my mother wanted a Western doctor to attend the birth.’

Forbes nodded. ‘Helen Rendlesham was a beauty by all accounts—and brave. The Sheikh must have been devastated when she died so suddenly.’

‘Blood poisoning,’ Pasha said. ‘She was helping one of her women assemble a sewing machine she had imported to help them learn new skills—and she cut her hand on the rusty underside of a metal plate. No one imagined it would kill her.’

‘Septicaemia,’ Forbes said. ‘It killed an awful lot of men in the last war. We’re only just beginning to make the medical advances we need here. It must have been hopeless in the desert—your father couldn’t have got her to a hospital in time.’

‘It was a tragedy and nearly broke his heart.’ Pasha frowned. ‘I was but a child then and I cried for a long time after she died…’

He had wept a few bitter tears for Lysette too, but he was a man now and this new grief had settled into a hard anger that lived with him night and day. For weeks he had retired into himself, hardly noticing what happened around him…but a young girl had startled him out of the black mood that had possessed him.

He saw her dancing again, and thought of asking her to be his partner when the next dance began—and then a man walked into the ballroom: a man that aroused distrust and hatred in Pasha’s heart. He turned and left abruptly as the bitterness mounted in his throat like gall—the dance would keep until another time.

Chloe caught glimpses of Philip Armand over the next few days. She had thought he might ask her to dance one evening, but he hadn’t and for some reason they didn’t meet anywhere else. It crossed her mind that he might have been avoiding her, but she didn’t let it bother her. There was so much to do on board that she was always busy, and she found herself dividing her time between taking dictation from Professor Hicks and attending all the various functions with Jane Vermont.

Chloe much preferred the time she spent working for the professor to the hours she was obliged to be with Jane Vermont. He really was a clever man and he knew an awful lot about the history of the region they were going to visit over a period of several weeks.

‘It may even run into a few months,’ the professor told her. ‘We shall disembark at Cetua, Chloe, and make our way to Fez and to Marrakesh, as well as other places of interest I want to visit. I hope you are prepared for a long stay—though, if at any time you want to leave us, I shall make arrangements to get you on a ship going home.’

‘Thank you,’ Chloe said. She was grateful for his kindness, but felt sure it was unnecessary. ‘But I’m really looking forward to this trip. I am confident I shan’t want to leave until you and Amelia are ready to come too, but I know you would look after me if I had to return for any reason.’

Chloe was learning a lot about the nomadic peoples of the Middle East as she took dictation and then transcribed her own notes in a fair hand so that Amelia could type them up into manuscript form on the battered portable typewriter that accompanied her everywhere.

Amelia had recovered her health and her spirits after a couple of days at sea, and seemed friendlier towards Chloe as the cruise progressed. She encouraged her to go on the shore trips at the various ports the ship called during the leisurely voyage, telling her that she ought to make the most of her chances to see a little bit of France and Spain while she could.

‘I’ve been on most of these trips over the years,’ she told Chloe. ‘I was in Egypt with Charles for several years, and we have been all over that whole region. All the regions bordering the Sahara—apart from those to the west. That is why Charles wants to visit Morocco again. He has been there before, of course, but not right to the Western Desert. He is most meticulous, you know, and will collate far more information than he could ever actually put into his books.’ She smiled in a self-congratulatory way. ‘Of course I am the one who does the cutting when the publisher demands at least fifty thousand less words.’

‘You must be of invaluable help to Professor Hicks.’

‘Yes, I believe I am—though what he will do when this last book is finished…if it is his last book, of course.’ Her expression showed that she thought it unlikely.

Chloe listened but offered few comments. She found it all fascinating, including the trips she made ashore to Spanish and Portuguese ports, then to Gibraltar. They were nearing the end of their voyage now, for Cetua was a Spanish port at the edge of Morocco and only just across the water from Gibraltar.

‘Oh, are you leaving us at Cetua?’ Mrs Vermont asked. ‘Jane will be so disappointed. You must keep in touch, Chloe dear, and perhaps come to stay with us when you return to England.’

‘That is very kind of you,’ Chloe said. ‘But I am not sure when we shall be returning. It may not be until next year.’

She had gone up on deck to escape Jane’s chattering on the morning of her last day on board the ship, when she was approached by a man who she knew to be the one Jane believed to be a film director. She had previously only nodded to him in passing—probably because he had seemed to prefer to keep his distance.

‘Good morning, Miss Randall—it is Miss Randall, isn’t it?’

‘Yes…’ Chloe caught the faint twang of an American accent. ‘Someone told me you were Brent Harwood, but somehow we haven’t been introduced.’

He nodded and smiled. ‘You’ve been told I am a Hollywood director and you are wondering if it’s true?’ Chloe nodded herself. ‘Well, I can assure you it is. I do not enjoy being hounded by starstruck young women, Miss Randall—that is why I keep a distance. But I have noticed you. You have a certain poise—a way of holding your head that is most attractive. Have you ever considered becoming an actress?’

Chloe’s heart missed a beat. How many times had she dreamed of something like this? But somehow, now that it was happening, she didn’t quite believe it, and imagined that he was merely flattering her. Though she couldn’t see why he should.

‘Oh, I don’t suppose I could do it,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I have any talent.’

‘Talent is something that is not always required,’ he said. ‘A star is made on the cutting-room floor, Miss Randall.’ He smiled at her a little wolfishly, and she thought he might be a vain man—but perhaps he was entitled to be if he was good at what he did. He could obviously be charming when he chose, but he had acquired a reputation on board for being off-hand with anyone who approached him. What she’d heard had put Chloe off him, but now she responded to his smile. ‘What I had in mind was in the nature of—’