Panther's Prey Page 3

  Kalid’s face appeared in the glass window of the door as he tapped on it. Sarah walked over to the door and opened it, admitting her husband.

  “Lunch time,” he said.

  “In a few minutes.”

  “Can we take a nap?” he asked, grinning.

  Sarah smiled, feeling her face grow hot. After ten years he was still the most attractive man she had ever met. Nearly forty now, with some gray threads running through his coal black hair, Kalid still exuded the same sexual energy which had captivated Sarah from their first meeting. It was difficult to remember now that she had hated him then, and had spent the first months of their relationship fighting with him continuously.

  “How was the tax collector?” Sarah asked him, referring to his morning meeting with the Sultan’s magistrate.

  “Angry, and now I am too,” Kalid replied. “No wonder the rebels are gaining adherents every day. If the Sultan tries to squeeze one more drop of blood from the people of my district I think there will be open revolt.”

  “I had a letter from Roxalena today,” Sarah said quickly, to change the subject, which was not a pleasant one. She reached into the pocket of her capacious bengaline skirt and produced it. Sarah favored wearing western dress in the classroom, it made her feel once more like the public school teacher she had once been.

  “What does she say?” Kalid asked, picking up one of the English readers and examining it.

  “That Osman has been away for two weeks and she misses him. That the baby is just beginning to talk, but he only says ‘wet’ and ‘eat.’”

  “That’s all he needs to say,” Kalid replied, laughing. “Come on, Sarah, let the nippers go, I’m starving.”

  Sarah clapped her hands and the children erupted from their seats, the three Shah children dashing for their father. He entertained them for a few minutes and then shooed them off for lunch with Memtaz.

  “Alone at last,” he said, his British accent, the legacy of his time at Oxford, strong as always when he spoke English. “You spend too much time with this kindergarten and not enough with me.”

  “You’re busy all day with Bursa’s affairs.”

  “Never too busy for you. Now come along, Kosem is expecting us in her apartments, and then we should have time for a short ‘rest’.” He kissed the back of her neck.

  “How is Kosem feeling today?” Kalid’s aged grandmother was now confined to her couch most of the time, but her mind was as agile as ever.

  “A little tired. But she was calling the cook on the carpet when I saw her, so there’s no cause for concern.”

  Sarah chuckled. They left the classroom and stepped into the marble floored hall just as Turhan Aga, the captain of Kalid’s guard, appeared around a corner and bowed.

  “What is it?” Kalid said to him impatiently, eager to get away with his wife.

  “A message from the pashana’s kinsman, James Woolcott. It was hand delivered to me just now,” Turhan said.

  “James?” Sarah said. “What does it say?”

  Kalid unsealed the envelope and opened the missive, scanning the lines rapidly. “He says that he will be traveling to Bursa shortly and requests an immediate audience with me once he arrives,” Kalid replied, his expression puzzled.

  “That’s all? Nothing to tell you what it’s about?”

  “Nothing.” Kalid nodded to Turhan, dismissing him.

  “That’s odd. Will you see him right away when he comes?” Sarah asked.

  Kalid put his arm around her shoulders. “Darling, of course. Now don’t worry. It’s probably nothing serious, you know that your cousin’s wife has a flair for the dramatic and she is doubtless behind this. Come along, Kosem is waiting.”

  Sarah followed him, not as certain as her husband that there was no cause for concern.

  * * *

  The ride across the sandy flatlands seemed to last a long time. Amy was too scared to struggle any further, so she sat before the bandit on the horse and tried not to think about the fate in store for her as the scenery passed in a blur.

  Would she be raped and then murdered? If the objective of her captor was robbery then why had she been taken? In her present state she couldn’t think clearly and couldn’t formulate a plan of action. When the horse made a sudden turn and began to ascend into the surrounding foothills she stirred, looking around at the changing terrain. The bandit’s arm tightened warningly.

  Amy subsided, feeling dwarfed by his size and strength. He was much taller than most of the Turkish men she had seen and the body pressed to hers was slim but very muscular. She had no chance against him so her only option was to bide her time and see what happened.

  They climbed steadily for a while, the horse picking its way along the rock strewn path between crags, the clopping of the second horse’s hooves signaling that her captor’s companion was right behind them. Amy had just about decided that her back was broken from the jouncing ride, which made the passenger coach seem like a pleasure craft, when they arrived at a clearing where several tents stood around a central campfire. Veiled women tended smoking cook pots, and at the far end of the glen Amy saw a cave hollowed out of the rock where another, smaller fire was burning. She hardly had time to take it all in before her captor jumped down from the horse and then lifted her to the ground after him. Before she could move he whipped a rope from under his saddle and bound her hands with it, then led her stumbling to a nearby tent.

  All the inhabitants of the camp stopped what they were doing to stare at the oddly dressed newcomer, her hat lost on the road, blonde hair tumbling loose from its knot, the ripped and stained hem of her blue silk skirt trailing on the ground. Amy refused to look at any of them, keeping her head high and her eyes focused on the distance until she was inside the tent, where more women waited.

  Her captor tied her to a tent pole and issued several curt orders in Turkish, which Amy did not understand. Then, with one last glance in her direction, he turned on his heel and left the tent.

  Amy looked at the women, who were staring back at her with frank interest. Then she glanced quickly around the tent, spotting a crude, hand printed flyer stamped with a half moon and a star lying on the dirt floor, its incomprehensible text partially obscured by a muddy footprint. She realized with a sudden shock that this was one of the broadsheets distributed by the rebels against the Sultan, a call to arms which appeared at uncertain intervals whenever the insurgents had the facilities to print it. She had read a description of such notices in a British newspaper article while waiting for the coach.

  Was she in the hands of the anti-government rebels, who bartered hostages for anything they needed to continue their fight? Or had the flyer been brought in carelessly by a group of bandits, who stole only for their own profit and had taken her merely for sport, to be passed around from man to man until they tired of her? Or was there some other, worse fate in store, too horrible for her to even imagine? There was no way to tell, and all the prospects were terrifying.

  The oldest of the women, who seemed to be in charge, unbound Amy’s hands as she barked at her companions. They seized Amy’s arms when she began to struggle, holding her until a young girl entered with a steaming cauldron full of hot water. She dumped it into a cast iron, footed tub as the old lady indicated it with her hand, wearing an expression of exaggerated innocence.

  Amy eyed her and then the waiting tub. The old woman raised her brows, as if to say, “All we want to do is give you a bath.”

  Amy subsided and the women holding her released her arms. Amy knew that she needed a bath, probably more than she ever had in her life. The trip had been hot and dusty before she was kidnapped, and her struggles with her captor afterward had only added to the grime adhering to her skin, hair and clothes.

  “I’ll take a bath if you get all of these people out of here,” she said to the old woman.

  The response was a blank stare.

  Amy made a sweeping gesture to include all of her audience and then jerked her thumb to indicate
distance.

  The old woman shook her head, the black veil wrapped across her forehead and sweeping down to her shoulders wrinkling with the gesture.

  Amy shrugged. “All right, you stay,” she said, pointing to the crone.

  The old woman nodded and put her hand on the shoulder of the girl.

  “The two of you?” Amy asked.

  They stared back at her impassively.

  Amy sighed. “Fine,” she said resignedly. “Get rid of the rest of them.”

  The old woman clapped her hands and said something in Turkish. The remaining women filed out reluctantly, glancing over their shoulders as they went.

  Amy was left with the old lady and the girl, who went to a chest in the tent and removed from it a stack of thick, rough towels, a folded gown, and what looked like a lump of wax. As the girl came closer Amy realized that the lump was homemade soap.

  The camp dwellers regarded her expectantly, waiting for her to undress.

  “Turn around,” Amy said, making a spinning motion with her finger.

  They didn’t move.

  Amy turned her back on them and ripped off her clothes, which were in tatters anyway. She heard the women exclaim behind her when they saw her boned corset, the girl bursting into giggles. Amy had trouble getting out of it and finally had to stand still, humiliated, while the women unlaced her. Then they watched as she loosened her stockings from her suspenders and pulled off the rest of her underthings, murmuring admiringly when her body was finally revealed. Amy jumped into the water immediately to escape their scrutiny, gasping when she realized that it hadn’t cooled off as much as she’d anticipated. The girl left the tent at once and returned with a pail full of cool water, which she quickly added to the bath to make its temperature more tolerable.

  Amy was acutely embarrassed to be bathing under the interested gaze of these two strangers, but her desire to get clean overrode her discomfiture. She lathered up with the strange soap, which had a resinous texture and smelled strongly of pine, a pleasant enough fragrance but a strong contrast to the scents from Worth and Cacharel that Amy customarily used. When the old lady lifted Amy’s hair off her neck and removed the last remaining pins from it, Amy did not object. She bent her head as the girl dampened her hair and the crone lathered it, the two of them chattering to one another, doubtless commenting on its pale color, which the uniformly dark Turks found unusual. When Amy was ready to be rinsed the women brought more warm water, dousing her until she held up her hand and stepped from the tub.

  They dried her with the scratchy towels and slipped a light, almost transparent gown over her head. It fell to her heels and its thin sleeves belled at the wrist. They gave her slippers and a knitted cord to belt the waist, as Amy tried to look around unobtrusively, searching for a means of escape.

  She had an inspiration when the older woman paused next to her, pinning a gauzy veil to her hair. Amy tapped her on the shoulder. The woman looked at her and Amy opened her mouth, miming spooning something out of a bowl.

  The woman nodded, then said something to the young girl. The girl left immediately, and Amy saw her chance. The bath had refreshed her and given her time to devise a strategy. When the crone bent to replace something in the storage chest, Amy knocked her down and bolted past her, running through the flap of the tent. She turned immediately to head around the back of the tent and made for the woods.

  She had gone only a few feet outside when she was seized so roughly from behind that she shot into the air with the halted momentum, her feet still moving. Two large men carried her, kicking and yelling, back into the tent and tied her securely, hand and foot, to its supporting pole, as the crone supplied them with a gag to silence her screaming.

  Guards had apparently been posted all around the tent.

  Amy sagged with frustration and stared daggers at her jailers, who finished binding her, their expressions impassive, and then left. The old lady sat down cross legged on the ground and produced a bag from beneath her voluminous shawl. She took out a piece of embroidery and set to work, holding the cloth close to the small fire burning under the tent hole so that she could see.

  Amy closed her eyes to block out the scene, concentrating on coming up with an alternative route for her escape.

  * * *

  Malik strode into the cave and sat by himself on an overturned boulder, shaking his head at the food offered to him by one of his companions. When the man tried to talk to him, Malik waved him off, grabbing a bottle of raki and rising again, pacing around the confined space.

  His men exchanged glances with one another, then looked away. They had seen Malik in this mood before, and it was best not to bother him, to leave him alone and let him brood. When he wheeled suddenly and stalked outside, they ignored him, continuing with their conversations, dice games and makeshift meals.

  When he had formulated his plans, he would tell them.

  But Malik was not thinking about his campaign against the Sultan. He walked some distance from the camp to a clearing he knew, strewn with the stumps of lightning struck trees and cooled by a nearby stream. He sat on its bank and watched the bubbling water rush by, sipping from his bottle slowly.

  He could not get the woman captive out of his mind.

  He had kidnapped and sold women before, it was a standard practice for his band. The captives were usually so panicked that they cowered and wept, on the verge of hysteria every waking minute until he finally disposed of them to some dealer, glad to have peace and the money at the same time.

  But this one was different. She had looked at him with a very bold eye, and had not cried once, not even when he had tied her up and dumped her in the tent to contemplate a very uncertain future. That was the moment many of them broke down and left dignity in the dust. But she had weathered it all and then attempted an escape, which bespoke a spirit and determination unusual in Western women. He had observed that most of them were pampered, coddled creatures who jumped on a chair if they saw an ant and went completely to pieces in reduced circumstances. Although this one looked and smelled as if she had been raised in luxurious surroundings, her attitude and actions belied her appearance.

  Her appearance posed another problem. It was difficult to dismiss the image of a woman so gorgeous that she would turn any man’s head. He had held her in his arms during the ride to the camp, pressed the slight, curvaceous body to his own, inhaled the fragrance of her hair and skin. He had rarely seen eyes that color, gray without a trace of blue, like the ocean in the rain. And her hair! Pure beaten gold, like the minarets which topped the great mosque in the square of Hagia Sophia. Strands of it had blown back against his face as they were riding, soft as cornsilk and the same color, as fresh as grass.

  Malik drained the bottle disgustedly and threw it into the stream, where it shattered against a rock. This rambling was unproductive and self-indulgent. He knew what he had to do and he would do it. He would forget her as he had the others, and move on, never losing sight of his goal.

  There was no other way to reach it.

  * * *

  James Woolcott sat in the office of Secretary Danforth at the American Embassy and marveled how little the paneled chamber had changed over the years. The Under Secretary he had first met when his cousin Sarah disappeared from the Sultan’s harem was now the Ambassador’s Secretary. The Kirman carpet had been replaced with one of Afghan design, but the red drapes, the gold tassels, and the bust of the late President Lincoln still remained. James was reading one of the framed diplomas on the wall when Danforth bustled in from the next room.

  James rose and shook the diplomat’s hand, noting that Danforth was even more portly and florid than when he had seen him last. The Secretary was also still something of a fashion plate; he sported a full skirted frock coat with braided trim in a gray tweed unsuitable for the climate, and carried a gold topped cane.

  “How are you, Woolcott?” Danforth said, indicating that James should sit again. “I think the last time I saw you was at that Embassy t
ea about six months ago. You look prosperous, I hope that your business is still doing well?” Danforth sat behind his desk and picked up a single sheet of onionskin paper.

  “Very well.”

  “Yes, I assumed so. Well, you are becoming a rich man and I, as you see, am still here.” He sighed, perusing the letter he held. “I have your complaint in my hand, it was passed on to me by my attache´. It seems that now your niece is missing.” He dropped the page and folded his chubby hands on the desk before him. “If I recall the circumstances correctly, I first met you when your cousin Sarah disappeared. I have to ask you, Woolcott, how is it that you have so much trouble keeping track of your female relatives?”

  James stared at him for a moment, then said, “How is it that a country as powerful as the United States cannot guarantee the safe travel of its citizens through Turkey?”

  Danforth, who should have been insulted by the jibe, merely waved aside the remark. “Come, come, Woolcott, don’t fence with me. You and I have both lived here for years. We know what these people are like. If the Sultan isn’t executing some harmless peasant for spitting in the street the rebels are holding up trains and robbing passengers at gunpoint. We cannot change the culture, we can only try to hold our own and keep the diplomatic channels open, hoping that eventually the Sultanate will fall. In the meantime we have issued an advisory to every U. S. citizen who applies for papers to travel to the Empire, describing the uncertain political climate of this area and the risks inherent in coming here. More than that we just cannot do.”

  James was silent.

  Danforth looked down at the letter again. “Your niece was traveling with a chaperone?”

  “Yes, a middle aged woman, a friend of her mother’s. Mrs. Spaulding was not taken by the bandits.”