ALEXANDRA SELLERS - Sheikh's Honor

No wasted effort. She felt no anxiety from him, just watchfulness. Waiting, like a cat, till the moment when effort would be needed. Then the muscles would bunch and flex, but for now they were long and easy.

She was sure she was completely safe with Jalal, whatever they might find.

“What is the position of Solitaire?” he asked.

She described it to him: an island in a narrow, shallow river, surrounded by forest. At the top end, beyond the island, the river narrowed and became an impassable creek. There was only one way out by water, the way they would go in. A picturesque wooden footbridge led over the water on one side, but only to a footpath that went for miles through the forest before you reached even another cottage.

He took it in in silence, and she could see him building a picture in his mind. She did her best to fill in the details, describing the dock, the approach, the land around the house, even though she was almost sure he was overreacting. There was something about his air of readiness that communicated the more serious possibilities.

“Here’s the river mouth,” she said at last, and he nodded. His mouth was set, his jaw firm but not clenched.

“You will stay in the boat until I make a check,” he said. “You will keep the motor running. If there is danger, you will turn the boat immediately when I tell you, and go to find your father, or the police. Do you understand?”

Clio stiffened. “You aren’t in your rebel camp now, Prince Jalal! And I am not one of your followers!”

“No,” he agreed calmly. “None of my followers would act so stupidly as this. Nevertheless, you must obey me. If someone captured you, I could do nothing. I would have to surrender if they threatened to hurt you.”

It was called Bent Needle River because of its shape. A long ribbon of water looped around an island that formed the eye of the needle. The river twisted at the bottom end of the island, so that from the air its shape was like a darning needle bent sharply just before the eye. Beyond it, a few hundred yards of creek stretched like a short thread trailing from the eye of the needle.

The cottage was on the far side of the island, and the sound of their approach, she knew, would be well muffled by the trees and thick foliage until they were around the bend and almost at the dock. She approached at low speed. The channel was not marked and there were shallows on both sides.

A small motorboat bobbed against the dock, secured only by the stern rope. Goods were stacked on the dock. Clio saw the television set, the video player, a cardboard box. The front door of the wide-windowed cottage gaped open, broken on its hinges. There was more loot collected on the porch.

Not a raccoon, then. She thought of her danger if she had come here alone, and threw Jalal a look as she guided the powerboat quietly around the bend and coasted up to the dock. Just then a man stepped out onto the porch, carrying the vacuum cleaner.

Jalal seemed to take in the whole scene with one comprehensive glance and make up his mind. “Stay in the boat, keep the engine running, and be ready to go if I give you the signal,” he commanded quietly. He leapt lightly off the boat onto the dock and stood there, leaning casually on the paddle he had taken with him.

She saw the man break stride for a second, then make up his mind to brazen it out. He kept walking down towards the dock. Thin and wiry, with shoulder-length dirty brown hair, in his forties, she thought. His clothes were grubby but not really dirty—a light grey T-shirt with some kind of logo, black denims.

“Hello there! Can I help you?” he called casually, but too loudly, and she hoped Jalal had picked up the information that there was someone else in the cottage.

“Are you moving out?” she heard Jalal ask, with easy interest.

“Oh, I wish, eh?” The man was grinning self-deprecatingly when she looked again. He clearly did not want to arrive on the dock, but had no choice. He set down the vacuum cleaner and straightened warily.

In the doorway of the house a shadow moved. “Naw, I’m just the hired moving man, eh?”

Jalal nodded. “I understand. But you have the wrong address. No one is moving from this house. So why don’t you get in the boat and go?”

The man feigned indignation. “Hey, buddy, who ya think you’re talking to, eh?” But Clio could hear his essential weakness in his voice and breathed a sigh of relief. He would bluster and then obey.

Already he was inching towards where his boat was moored.

“I know very well who I am talking to. Now I tell you, you are making a mistake, and you can get in your boat and leave, and your friends, too.”

He raised his voice. “Why don’t you come out? Your friend is leaving and you may go with him.”

A figure appeared in the doorway. “What the frig’s goin’ on?” he said, and Clio’s breath hissed in between suddenly clenched teeth. This man was very different from his partner. He was big and muscled, his head shaved, his lower jaw protuberant with low intelligence and aggression. His white singlet and camouflage pants were cleaner than his partner’s clothes. He wore a wide belt and hard boots, several metal studs in one ear.

He clumped deliberately down the broad steps from the porch and strode down to the dock with a threatening swagger. Jalal’s posture, negligently leaning on the paddle, did not change. The thug stopped a few feet away from him and spat deliberately on the ground.

“Hey, a Ay-rab!” His eyes swept past Jalal and over Clio with a look that turned her stomach. “And a skirt!” But he did not say skirt. She shuddered with revulsion. He turned to Jalal again. “Thanks for bringing my dessert, Saddam! You can go now, less you wanna be the main course.

“Oooffff!” The breath seemed to explode out of his body as, almost faster than she could see, Jalal drove the paddle into his solar plexus. The thug seemed to leap into the air and fold in the middle simultaneously.

“Behind you!” Clio screamed, as the smaller man leapt for him, and somehow, instead of connecting, the thin man seemed to sail over Jalal’s shoulder as Jalal dropped the paddle, grabbed his arm and assisted his forward motion.

He landed sprawling on the big man, and screamed like an animal, a sound that sent a rush of horror over her skin. His partner threw him impatiently aside, and the reason for the scream was suddenly evident as blood spattered the thug’s hands. The thin man had landed skidding on the knife that the thug had pulled from somewhere, and his chest was sliced from shoulder to waist. His T-shirt gaped. Blood poured from the wound.

The wounded man cursed violently. “I’m hurt, man, I’m hurt!”

The thug ignored him and got to his feet. He was sweating. “Okay, Saddam, you shouldna done that. You shouldna made me mad.”

Jalal stood with his arms loose at his sides. “Your friend needs a doctor,” he said. “Get in your boat and go.”

“Jeez, man, I’m hurt bad! Let’s do what he says!”

“Drop the boat keys on the dock, Saddam, leave the skirt, get in my boat and take off, and nobody’ll get hurt,” said the thug to Jalal, as if he hadn’t heard his friend’s cry.

Jalal said nothing. She could not see his face, but from the back he looked so lightly poised he almost seemed to move with the breeze.

“You hear me, Ay-rab?” The thug began to toss the bloody knife between his two hands, bouncing his weight from foot to foot. He was inches taller than Jalal, and thirty pounds heavier. And clearly he made it his business to be menacing.

Still Jalal made no reply.

“I’m not gonna hurt her, don’t you worry none about that. I’m gonna treat her real nice. Whereas you, I’m gonna hurt you bad, if you don’t—”