“Can you still speak it?”
“Not much opportunity to brush up, I’m afraid. I can understand it fine, but I’d have to make myself understood in pidgin Arabic now.
“While on those trips together,” Henry continued, “Hasna would often come over to brief the sultan on internal affairs in Ahman. That plainclothesman was Hasna’s chief of security, al Hez.”
“He really looked us over,” Sunday whispered back.
“I know he did, and I’m sure he didn’t recognise us. He’s always been a cheeky sort, but he saved Hasna’s life years ago and of course can do no harm as far as the sultan is concerned. I only wish we could stop in on Mac while we’re in his kingdom.”
“Mac?”
“That’s the sultan’s nickname. At Harvard he was crown prince, and we all knew that before too long he’d be one of the last absolute monarchs alive. His full name is Muhammad Abdul a Faisam, but he loved McDonald’s burgers so much that one of the guys started calling him Mac. He got such a kick out of it that the name caught on. I doubt many people are using it now.”
“Didn’t he make a state visit when you were president?”
“Yes, he did. He brought his son, the present crown prince, and his eighteen-year-old daughter. Mac’s exactly my age, forty-four, but he married young. His entire kingdom trembles at his glance, but that night his daughter took so long to get ready that they were half an hour late, which simply isn’t done at a state dinner. When Mac apologised to me he said, “Henry, wasn’t it Theodore Roosevelt who said that he could either run the country or run his daughter, Alice, but he couldn’t do both?”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“Nice but also formidable and very impressive. Like King Hussein and King Hassan, he’s a direct descendant of Muhammad, which is an extremely honourable state in the Islamic religion. Our CIA guys tell us there are rumours of trouble brewing, but so far no real evidence. With huge oil revenues pouring into the country, that sort of thing is bound to happen. I have a feeling that my friend next door is going around getting support from the neighbouring countries to make sure any rebels won’t find outside support. Now wash your face and put your wig back on. The Potters are going for a walk before dinner.”
Later, when they were settled for the night, Sunday whispered drowsily, “Henry, this is such fun, just being touristy and no one fussing over us. Mumbai is a marvellous city.”
“Another time we’ll see India properly. Now go to sleep. We board the Bel-Mare right after breakfast.”
In the morning when they left their room to check out, the door of the next suite opened and a frail, elderly man came out, accompanied by the man Henry had identified as the chief security officer. Sunday tried to look nonchalant as she passed him, but then acknowledged his courteous nod. He was wearing traditional Arab dress and his fine, chiselled features were enhanced by the white burnoose that covered his head and neck.
I could imagine his face on a coin, she thought.
Henry did not comment until they were in a taxi on the way to the dock. “I was shocked to see Hasna look so frail,” he said. “He’s aged ten years since he was in Washington with Mac two years ago. Things must be worse in Ahman than our guys realise. The strong ties Mac has forged between his country and ours aren’t popular with some of his neighbours.” Then he shook his head. “Wait a minute. This is R and R for you, sweetheart. No political talk.”
And that’s like telling either one of us not to breathe, Sunday thought with amusement. She was enjoying herself thoroughly. Putting on the disguise and travelling without escorts made her feel as though for a very short time she and Henry could be as totally alone in a crowd as they were in their own suite at home.
And after a couple of weeks, we’ll both be anxious to get back in harness, she realised, but for the moment Capitol Hill seemed very far away.
Jack Collins, Henry’s senior Secret Service agent, had been aghast at the plan. “Mr. President, I absolutely have to tell you that it is dangerous, it is foolish, it is reckless.” Then he’d stopped, afraid he’d overstepped himself.
Henry had clasped him on the shoulder. “And it’s also necessary. Come on, Jack. You’ll be glad to have two weeks off, admit it.”
“Not like this, sir. Will we at least know your itinerary?”
“I’m afraid the President has insisted that I leave it here. It’s in a sealed envelope in my desk, which will not be opened unless Sims doesn’t hear from us regularly by either phone or fax.”
Sunday smiled to herself, remembering the shocked expression on Jack Collins’s face when he heard that arrangement.
The cab pulled up to the gangplank of the Bel-Mare. The ocean liner was on a world cruise and they were sailing on the segment from Mumbai to Piraeus.
Nothing in Henry’s demeanour suggested that he was not entirely used to carrying his own tote bag and camera as they made their way up the gangplank with the hundred or so other passengers who were boarding the ship. However, when he saw their accommodations he looked dismayed. “Darling, there must be some mistake. I reserved a first-class cabin.”
“This is a first-class cabin, sir,” the steward said proudly.
When he was gone, Sunday said, “Henry, dear, it’s not trick photography. It is the cabin you reserved. It’s just that on ocean liners there’s an economy of space. Three years ago I went through the Panama Canal with a couple of my college buddies. The three of us were in a cabin half this size.”
“Amazing.” Henry sighed. “Simply amazing. The room in the Taj Mahal suddenly seems gigantic.” He frowned. “Why do I have a bad feeling about Hasna?” he asked. “I’m glad we’re going to Ahman, and not just for sightseeing. I’m beginning to wonder if things aren’t a lot worse there than we’ve been led to believe.”
“Wouldn’t the sultan have asked for help if he needed it?”
“The Muslim states are not very happy with the United States. He might not have thought it politic. On the other hand, Mac is a strong leader. He’s put down uprisings before. Now, love, let’s unpack and go on deck to watch the ship set sail. Then three days at sea to Ahman.”
Hasna Ibn Saata had not survived for seventy-six years, fifty of them as a confidant to the late sultan and then to his son, the present monarch, without having a sixth sense that, like a security system, sounded an alarm when an intruder entered the premises.
But why now? he pondered as he rested in his suite at the Taj Mahal after his morning meeting with the representative of the prime minister of India. There was no intruder. The guards at his door were his personal force, trusted and caring. Al Hez had taken a bullet for him once. He would do it again if need be, Saata assured himself. Even though he now heads our military, he still insists on personally accompanying me when I leave the country.
Then why the growing certainty that danger was close? It was probably because the fruit juice that room service had delivered when he returned was not sitting well. Vague, smothering pains were beginning to cause discomfort in his chest.
Was that the sound of voices in the foyer?
Al Hez was alone there guarding the bolted door. Hasna got up slowly, then noiselessly moved across the room, taking care not to be in view of anyone in the foyer. Standing behind the partially open door, he listened intently.
Age had not diminished his acute hearing. As the meaning of al Hez’s words sank in, Hasna Ibn Saata shook his head sadly. Al Hez was talking to Rasna, the head of the guards, outside the suite. My trusted bodyguard, Rasna, Hasna Ibn Saata thought. My trusted aide, al Hez, who had just said, “Stop worrying. You will be well rewarded. The juice should do its work soon. The old man will be dead in minutes.”