‘The local paper picked up the story and passed it along, and, having done some research, the Chronicle has inevitably come up with the mystery of the long-lost Blood of Tariq. They’re running the story using the photograph of your great-great-grandfather with Lawrence, along with the original 1917 despatch from the front line in tomorrow’s first edition. They were hoping for a comment from the embassy.’
‘Did they get one?’
‘Only that many fakes of the Blood of Tariq had been produced over the years, and this is undoubtedly one of them. That the value of the rubies is nothing compared to the value of owning the khanjar touched by Lawrence.’
‘Yes…’ Fayad sat back, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
The Blood of Tariq had a mystical power that put it beyond price. To hold it, possess it, was to hold the fate of Ras al Kawi in your hand.
A fake.
It had to be a fake. But in the present climate that might be irrelevant.
It was what people believed that mattered.
Lost, the khanjar was a legend, a tale for old men as they sat around the campfire recalling past glories.
Found, it was trouble.
His grandfather was failing in health, his father was a disaster, and in the wrong hands even a fake, especially one with such an incendiary story attached to it, could prove disastrous to his country.
‘You know who she is, this woman? Where to find her?’
‘Her name is Violet Hamilton. She’s twenty-two years old, unmarried. For the last three years she’s been caring for her sick grand mother. The old lady died two weeks ago. At present she’s living alone in her grandmother’s house in Camden, where the khanjar was found. The equity of the house is owned by a property company, however, so she is about to become homeless.’
Fayad raised an eyebrow and the ambassador smiled. ‘I don’t ask how he does it, but in any exchange of information you can be sure that our man came out with the better deal.’
‘Thank him for me.’
‘I will.’ Then, ‘You’ll make her an offer for it? You know it can’t be real, Fayad. The original was surely broken up for the gold, the stones, decades ago.’
‘Princess Fatima would never have done that. She knew that its worth lay in more than rubies and gold. Knew its power in the right hands. But, real or fake, it’s a bad time for it to come to light. There are tribal factions who will move heaven and earth to get hold of it.’
Because of the reclusive nature of his grandfather, and the lack of interest his father had shown in anything but money, Ras al Kawi had remained relatively untouched by the tide of offshore banking and tourism that had swept through neighbouring countries.
Fayad had such plans for it, and now, just when things were finally beginning to take shape and he was preparing to move the country into the twenty-first century, onto the international stage, he was being faced with some mystical symbol straight out of a medieval melodrama.
It couldn’t just be coincidence.
This had to be some elaborate hoax set up by someone planning to seize power. Except for the story of the runaway princess. And yet, for power, some disaffected member of the family might have betrayed them. Even his disinherited father…
‘It scarcely matters if it is real or not, Hamad,’ he said abruptly. ‘We have to secure this knife before the story gains ground. And the woman, too.’
‘The woman? You’re not suggesting you carry her back to Ras al Kawi as symbolic proof of the restoration of Kuwani pride? As your grandfather’s ambassador, I really could not allow that.’
‘As my grandfather’s ambassador I suggest you concentrate on the word “symbolic”. Forget the khanjar for a moment. How safe do you think Miss Hamilton will be once it becomes rumoured that she is a descendant of Princess Fatima? There will be people ready to use her as a cipher at best. At worst…’ He left that to his cousin’s imagination.
‘And you? What do you want with her, Fayad? Bearing in mind that I will be the one carpeted by the British Foreign Secretary if anything should happen to her.’
‘What could I possibly want other than to extend to this descendant of Princess Fatima the hospitality of our country?’ he replied wryly. ‘Invite her to discover her true heritage.’
Hamad gave him a look that suggested he could think of any number of things, but confined himself to, ‘And suppose she doesn’t want to go to Ras al Kawi?’
‘I will have to use all my diplomatic skills to persuade her that it’s in her best interests. Have no fear, Hamad. She will be treated with the utmost respect.’ Then, almost as an after-thought, ‘After all, if she genuinely is a descendant of Fatima al Sayyid, then she, too, is a princess.’
‘In other words she’ll be fêted and entertained and never notice that she’s in a gilded cage. What happens when she wants to fly?’
‘My grandfather is desperate for me to remarry,’ he said, without expression. ‘An alliance between the Kuwani family and a descendant of Princess Fatima al Sayyid would be right in so many ways…’
‘The Sayyid family might not take that view. Nor might Miss Hamilton.’
‘True. But possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law.’
‘You haven’t got her yet, Fayad. For all you know she’s already sold the khanjar to one of the dealers who undoubtedly take a keen interest in these events.’
‘HONESTLY, Violet,’ Sarah said, shaking her head, ‘that’s the first place a burglar is going to look for valuables.’
‘Then good luck to them.’
She’d wrapped the jewelled knife, still in its silk bundle, first in bubble wrap, then several layers of kitchen foil, and now, having carefully labelled it “chicken thighs”, was busy chipping out enough space in the thickly frosted freezer compartment of her ancient fridge so that she could jam it in behind the defrosted bag of peas that she’d used as a compress on her ankle to bring down the swelling.
‘As I know to my cost, an hour from now any burglar is going to need a blow torch to get past the peas.’
‘What if someone decides to steal the fridge?’
‘Oh, please! You’ve only to listen to it to know that it’s on its last legs,’ she said, looking around at a kitchen that hadn’t seen more than a change of wallpaper since the Formica revolution in the fifties. ‘Like just about everything else in here.’ She was going to miss it all so much… Then, because nothing, after all, had changed—she’d always known she’d have to leave, she grinned and said, ‘I mean, who would be that desperate? But don’t worry. I’ll hack it out and take it to the bank tomorrow.’
‘If I were you I’d cut out the middle man and take it straight to a dealer. Give that expert a call—he’ll know someone reputable. He gave you his card, didn’t he?’
She nodded.
‘Well, there you are. Sorted. It’ll make a decent deposit on a two-bedroom flat, and if you let a room you’ll have the mortgage covered. You could finish that design course you were taking…’
‘Get real, Sarah. Who in their right mind would give me a mortgage on the chance of me letting a room? Besides…’ She shrugged, shook her head.
‘What?’
‘She stole it, didn’t she? Okay, the jewels may have been technically hers, but the knife…’
‘Violet,