Iris Johansen - A Summer Smile

“You will tell him that we have treated you like a delicate flower.” Ali Hassan dropped down into the seat beside Zilah, a smile of sleek satisfaction on his narrow, catlike face. “That you have been fed and allowed to sleep. We have not beaten you or used you sexually. You will tell him these things when he asks. You understand?”

“I will tell him.” Zilah leaned her head back wearily against the cushioned headrest of her seat. She touched her cut lower lip gingerly. “However, I don’t think he’ll believe me when he sees this little memento.”

“You should not have tried to snatch the gun from Hakim.” Hassan shrugged. “It was a stupid move. We have no wish to harm you. You are too valuable to us.”

“You’re insane to believe that Sheikh Ben Raschid will give you what you want. I’m nothing to him.” Her hands tightened on the padded arms of the seat. “In the end he’ll refuse your demands.”

Hassan’s smile faded. “I hope for your sake he is not so foolish. Your treatment will change radically at that point.” His hand dropped to rest with insulting intimacy on her jean-clad thigh. “You are a very beautiful woman, Zilah Dabala. My friends and I would enjoy using you.” He felt the muscles of her thigh tense beneath his hand, and there was another flicker of satisfaction in his dark eyes. “Did you know I was a student at the university at Marasef eight years ago?”

Zilah felt the breath leave her body; panic rose within her. She knew what was coming. It was there in the expression of feline satisfaction on his face. She mustn’t give in to the panic. She wouldn’t give in to it. She was strong. David had made her strong. “How could I know that?” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I haven’t noticed any measurable degree of educated intelligence in your actions so far. I’m surprised that they let you into any university.”

His fingers tightened on her thigh with a sudden force that brought an involuntary cry of pain from her. “So proud,” he sneered. “Have you forgotten the House of the Yellow Door so quickly?”

“I have forgotten it,” Zilah said quietly. “It doesn’t exist for me any longer.”

“If Bradford fails to persuade Ben Raschid that we are serious, we will remind you. Be sure of it.” Hassan’s hand relaxed and fell away from her thigh. He stood up. “You might shed a few frightened tears for this Daniel Seifert to report back to Bradford. It wouldn’t hurt.” He turned away and made a sign to his cohort, who was lounging in a seat at the front of the plane, a machine-gun lying carelessly in the crook of his arm. “Seifert should be here in five minutes. We will meet him outside and conduct a routine search. I doubt if Ben Raschid would be foolish enough to send one man against us, but Hakim and I will make sure.”

He threw open the heavy metal door and went down the steps of the Learjet. Zilah saw that he said something over his shoulder to Hakim, who was following close behind him, and then laughed. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Animals. They were animals, and she mustn’t let Hassan’s words touch her.

It was so hot in the cabin that she could scarcely breathe. Perspiration was running down her back, causing her short-sleeved white shirt to cling to her like a second skin. She opened her eyes and stared numbly out the window at the desolate wasteland of sand. Nothing but dunes and sky as far as the eye could see, and the heat was rising from those dunes in shimmering waves.

She wouldn’t be afraid. There must be some way she could escape Hassan and his men if she could rid herself of this debilitating fear. The last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare of terror. Yet she couldn’t let them use her like this. David had done so much for her; she couldn’t allow herself to be turned into a weapon against him.

The throbbing chug of a motor caused her to straighten swiftly and lean closer to the window. A jeep had halted a good fifty yards from the plane and the driver lithely swung to the ground. His hands rose quickly above his head. “Daniel Seifert,” he called.

He should have looked cowed and intimidated in that position, but there was nothing in the least tame about the man who was standing with his legs astride beside the open jeep. He was a giant of a man, at least six foot five or perhaps taller, and dressed in khaki trousers that outlined the powerful muscles of his thighs and calves. His khaki shirt seemed barely able to contain the sleek biceps of those massive arms. Auburn hair blazed in the sunlight and a closely trimmed mustache and beard were of the same fiery hue as his hair. He was a wild, barbaric figure and reminded her vaguely of a painting she’d once seen of a fierce Viking warrior.

Hassan and Hakim must have been equally impressed by the air of restrained menace that Seifert exuded because their attitude was distinctly wary as they approached him. They ordered him to lean against the hood of the jeep. The search wasn’t the routine one Hassan had planned. It was very thorough but yielded nothing more lethal than a fingernail clipper. Then they were striding toward the plane, the red-haired giant a few paces ahead, apparently ignoring the machine-gun Hakim was pointing at the small of his back.

“Relax,” Hassan snapped at Hakim as they entered the passenger compartment of the plane. “You saw that there was no sign of a weapon. It appears Ben Raschid is being sensible for a change.” He gestured to Zilah in her seat at the back of the plane. “There she is, Seifert. You can see that she’s alive and unharmed.”

“I want to talk to her,” Daniel said. “Alone.”

“That’s not necessary,” Hassan said sharply. “She will tell you we have not misused her.”

“Then let her tell me,” Daniel said. “Alone. I have instructions to make sure you’ve done her no harm before we deal. I hardly think she’d be willing to spill any beans while you stand there with a gun pointed at her head.”

Hassan hesitated a moment before he shrugged. “Go ahead. We will stay by the door. You will be out of earshot back there if you lower your voice. You have five minutes.”

Daniel Seifert looked even bigger in the confines of the cabin than he had by the jeep as he strode down the aisle toward her. He sat down in the seat facing her, his gaze searching her face. “My name is Daniel Seifert. Have they hurt you?”

“Not really. It doesn’t matter.” She moistened her lips nervously. “You have to tell Sheikh Ben Raschid not to give in to them. I’ll get out of this by myself.”

“Oh, will you?” Daniel asked sardonically. “That might be a little difficult considering the circumstances.”

“I told you. I’ll handle it. I owe too many debts already. I can’t add a burden like this to them.”

He was silent for a long moment, studying her intently. “You mean it.”

“Of course I mean it. I don’t say things I don’t mean,” she said, impatient. “Now, will you tell David and the sheikh I’m fine and that I’ll find a way out of this mess myself?”

He shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. Zilah Dabala looked more tired and more finely drawn than she had in the photograph, but the clear green eyes meeting his were steady and unafraid. There was no summer smile, however. Her lips were taut with the effort she was making to keep them from trembling. Strange that he could miss a smile he’d never really seen outside of a photograph. Suddenly his gaze sharpened as he realized that a cut marred the softness of her lower lip. His expression hardened into a fierceness that startled her. “Who struck you? I thought you said you hadn’t been hurt.”

Her fingers flew automatically to the cut on her lip. “Hassan. Stupidly, I tried to grab a gun from Hakim. I won’t do anything so impulsive again.” She deliberately dropped her hand away. “See, it’s only a little cut. It doesn’t hurt. And, anyway, it doesn’t matter.”