Danielle Steel: H.R.H.

After Christianna went back to her bedroom to get her backpack, her father walked her and her two bodyguards to the car.

“Go with God,” he said as he hugged her, with tears in his eyes.

“I love you, Papa,” she said calmly. “Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”

She got in the car then, with the two men. All three of them were wearing boots and warm jackets. She had called for a reservation on the flight several hours before. She was planning to find the Red Cross, and volunteer once she got there. She had seen on CNN that they were on the scene, doing whatever they could.

The prince stood watching until the car went through the gates. She hung out the window and waved to him with a victorious smile. She blew him a kiss and mouthed the words I love you , and then they turned the corner and were gone. He walked back into the palace with his head bowed. He was sick over her going, but he knew there had been absolutely nothing he could do to stop her. She would have gone in any case. All he could do now was pray for her safety and safe return. More than she knew, he admired her with all his heart. She was a remarkable young woman, and as he walked into his office, he felt a thousand years old.

Chapter 4

Christianna and her two bodyguards drove to Zurich and flew from there to Vienna, where they boarded a flight to Tbilisi in Georgia, which was a five-and-a-half-hour flight.

They landed in Tbilisi at seven o'clock that night, and half an hour later, they took an ancient, wornlooking small plane to Vladikavkaz in the southern Russian territory of North Ossetia. The plane was crowded, the interior looked threadbare and poorly maintained, and the turbo-prop plane shuddered noticeably on takeoff. It had been a long day on the first plane, and all three of them looked tired when they got off the final flight just before nine o'clock that night.

The bodyguards she had brought with her were her two youngest ones. Both had been trained in the Swiss Army, and one of them had served before that as an Israeli commando. She had chosen the right men to accompany her.

She had no idea what she would find when she reached Digora, where they were going, some thirty miles from Vladikavkaz, where they had landed. Christianna had made no definite arrangements beyond the flight. She was going to look for the Red Cross as soon as they arrived at the scene of the hostage situation in Digora, and offer them whatever assistance they needed. She assumed they would be allowed at the scene, and hoped she was right. She was not afraid of what would happen, and had made no efforts to secure a place to stay or a hotel room. She wanted to work at the scene, around the clock, if necessary. She was prepared for long hours on her feet, and no sleep, while she helped either the frantic parents or the wounded children. She had taken first-aid training in school, but other than that she had no specific skills, other than youth, a good heart, and a willing pair of hands. And in spite of her father's frantic warnings, she wasn't worried about whatever potential dangers she might encounter. She had been willing to take the risk, and she was sure that for those outside the school the terrorists had taken over, the risk was slight. In either case, she wanted to be there. And she knew her bodyguards would protect her, so she felt safe.

Her first run-in with an unexpected stumbling block happened as she came through immigration at the airport. One of her bodyguards handed the customs officer all three of their passports. Her agreement with them had been that under no circumstances were they to reveal her royal identity once they got to Russia. She hadn't anticipated it being a problem before that, and was startled when the customs official stared at her passport at length, and then at her. The photograph was a good likeness, so it was obviously not that.

“It's you?” he asked, looking slightly belligerent. He was speaking to her in German, as he had heard her speak to one of her bodyguards in German and the other in French. She nodded assent, forgetting the difference between their passports and hers. “Name?” And then she knew what it was.

“Christianna,” she said quietly. There was only a single name on her passport, her first name, as was the case with all royals. Queen Elizabeth of England, Princess Michael of Kent, who was Marie Christine. All passports issued to royals in every country showed only their first name, but not their title or surname. The Russian customs official looked angry and confused.

“No name?” She hesitated and then handed him a brief letter issued by the government of Liechtenstein explaining the circumstances of her passport, and her full identity as a Serene Highness of the principality. She had needed the letter while she was studying in California and had had similar problems going through

U.S. Immigration. The official letter was written in English, German, and French, and she kept it in her travel pouch with her passport. She only presented it if asked. He read it carefully, glanced up at her twice, then at the bodyguards, and back at her. “Where are you going, Miss Princess?” She tried not to smile. He was obviously not familiar with titles, having grown up in a Communist state, but looked moderately impressed. She told him their destination, and he nodded again, stamped their passports, and waved them through. Hers was a neutral country, like Switzerland, which often opened doors for her that another passport would not have been able to do. And her title usually helped. He questioned them no further, and they went to a car rental office and stood on line for half an hour with everyone else.

All three of them were starving by then, and Christianna handed the two men a small package of biscuits, and two bottles of water she had carried with her in her backpack, and opened a third for herself. It seemed like an eternity to get their turn. And when they finally did, all that was available was a ten-year-old Yugo, at an astronomic rate. Christianna agreed to take it, since there was nothing else, and handed her credit card across the counter, which once again had no last name. The woman asked if she had cash. Christianna had brought some with her, but didn't want to give it up so early in the trip, and the woman finally agreed to accept the credit card, after offering them a better deal if they paid cash, which Christianna declined.

She signed the agreements, took the car keys, and asked for a map. Ten minutes later she and the two bodyguards, Samuel and Max, went out to the parking lot to find the car. It was tiny and looked battered. The two men barely fit into the car, as Christianna slipped easily into the backseat with her backpack, grateful that she was small. Samuel started the car, as Max opened the map. From what the woman at the car rental had said, they had a thirty-mile drive ahead, and would probably arrive at eleven o'clock that night. Samuel was driving, and once in the parking lot, they had taken their weapons out of the bag they'd checked, and put them on. Max loaded them for both of them, as they drove out of the parking lot, and Christianna watched. She had no qualms about guns, and had been around them all her life. Her bodyguards were useless to her without them. She had even been taught to fire weapons herself, and was an unusually good shot, better than her brother, who found weapons offensive, although he liked the social aspects of duck and grouse hunting and went often.

They were starving by the time they left the airport, and stopped for dinner halfway through the trip in a small restaurant by the roadside. Samuel spoke a few words of Russian, but mostly they pointed at what others were eating, and sat down to a simple, rugged meal. The other diners were mostly truck drivers, traveling at night, and the pretty young blonde and two powerful healthy-looking men were instantly noticeable among them. They would have been even more so if any of them had even imagined that she was a princess. But all she looked like was a pretty young girl, in jeans, the heavy workboots she'd had in Berkeley, a thick sweater, and a parka. She had her blond hair pulled back. The men were similarly dressed and had a military look about them. Others would have guessed easily that they were security of some kind, but no one questioned them here. After eating, they paid and drove on. They noticed a number of Daewoo minivans on the road that were used as shared taxis and were called “Marshrutkas,” Christianna learned later. They were a favorite form of transportation.