It seemed anachronistic now, raging a blood feud over what had originally been set aside as dowry for a princess. An extremely valuable dowry, Jonathan had to admit, given the considerable oil reserves and mineral deposits that currently existed on the land. Marcus had told him the story years ago when the then crown prince had asked their fledgling organization for help to stop rebel factions on the Arabian peninsula from taking over Montebello.
In the way of aristocratic families in the nineteenth century, King Augustus Sebastiani of Montebello and Sheik Mukhtar Kamal had arranged a marriage between Delia Sebastiani and Sheik Omar in order to form a political and economic alliance between traditionally warring neighbors. However, the land promised as dowry remained in Sebastiani hands when Sheik Omar had been mysteriously killed before the wedding could take place. Mired in grief, Delia had taken her own life.
More than a century later, the tragic drama continued. Just last fall the king had announced his intention to give the disputed land to his son, Crown Prince Lucas, in the hope that it would spur the bachelor prince to think more seriously about marrying and producing an heir. Then late in January, during a blinding snowstorm, Lucas had gone down in a private plane over the Colorado Rockies. Though the wreckage had been found a month later, the prince’s body was missing despite an all-out search.
Cal’s mouth thinned. “Is Sheik Ahmed Kamal rattling his scimitar again?”
Jonathan nodded. “Seems he’s revising that old claim that Montebello rightfully belongs to Tamir.”
Richard snorted. “Hell, those families have been wrangling over that blasted dowry land for more than a century. Kamal’s side has come up short every time. What makes him think he has a better chance than his ancestors to make it stick?”
“Seems in spite of all the security types guarding both families, the sheik’s firstborn son, Rashid, managed to get real cozy with Princess Julia. In fact, he apparently got her pregnant with Kamal’s first grandbaby.”
Eddie whistled through his teeth as he handed Jonathan a bottle of dark lager, his favorite. As unofficial mess steward, Ramsey prided himself on laying in a goodly supply of everyone’s favorite eats and drinks. “What’s Rashid have to say about this?”
“According to Marc, Sheik Rashid suddenly dropped out of sight right after the two of them had, uh, done the deed. That was six weeks ago, give or take a few days.” Jonathan settled into one of the overstuffed chairs and leaned back before allowing himself a long, soothing swallow of lager. “Kamal’s making the case that with Prince Lucas missing and presumed dead, this child, if it’s a boy, will be heir to the throne. And since he claims Rashid is the baby’s father, by both Montebellan and Tamirian law what belongs to the baby belongs to him.”
“To that bastard Kamal, you mean.” Richard’s voice was ripe with disgust. “What time did the king’s aide say to expect his call?”
“Any moment now.”
As if on cue, the phone rang.
“Ah, my dear friends, it is good to hear your voices again.”
King Marcus Sebastiani had a melodious baritone and a Cambridge accent acquired during his school years at that prestigious university. His words were as clear as a bell coming through the speaker phone on the coffee table.
In contrast, Jonathan’s Texas twang had been ruined long ago by the harsh Turkish cigarettes he’d chain-smoked for forty years. “Good to hear yours, too, Your Majesty. Any further news on Prince Lucas?”
“Unfortunately, no, but we will never give up hope. In the meantime, I must attend to my duty to my people, which is why I have asked for this consultation.” His heavy sigh whispered through the speaker. “My advisors and myself believe that maggot-brained back end of a donkey is even now planning action against us.”
“Sutter here, Your Majesty. Any idea what kind of action?”
“Marc, please, gentlemen. Or have you forgotten how we dodged bullets and crawled together through the mud?”
Gordo Hunter chuckled before adding, “Ate a good coupla pounds of that same mud, as I recall.”
“Indeed.” The men in the room exchanged grins before narrowing their focus when the king spoke again. “My chief of security has received what we believe are extremely reliable reports from several key agents, suggesting that Kamal intends to have Julia kidnapped and kept in seclusion until she delivers the child. We have taken steps to protect her, of course, but we cannot protect all our citizens in the same way.”
“Ed Ramsey here, Marc. Have your agents heard tell of any terrorist groups showing up in Tamir anytime during the last few weeks?”
“No, but one of our best operatives, who has become, shall we say, intimate with one of Kamal’s top generals, just sent word that the man is even now planning a massive amphibious-landing training exercise to be held within the next few days. He—” The king was interrupted by what sounded to trained ears like a muffled explosion.
“Marc? Your Majesty, are you all right?” Dalton asked urgently.
When the king came on the line again, his voice was filled with both rage and urgency. “Gentlemen, I have just been informed that a bomb has gone off in the civilian square just two blocks from the palace. It destroyed a building, trapping people inside. There will surely be casualties.” His voice shook slightly as he added, “Gordo, I fear we will need your skills yet again.”
While the others formulated a plan of action to get the appropriate personnel into place quickly, Gordon consulted by phone with the chief of staff of King Augustus Hospital, where even now the injured were being brought by ambulance and private vehicle.
A graduate of Yale Medical School, Dr. Guiseppe Andretti was considered Montebello’s premier cardiologist. Gordon had spent time with him on several occasions while on business and pleasure trips to Montebello over the years. A rotund, jocular sort, Gus, as he had been called since his days in the States, was a first-rate administrator, as well as an excellent surgeon.
From what Gordon had learned so far, the scene at the bombing site was chaotic, with frantic relatives pouring into the area and rescue workers bumping into each other in an attempt to dig victims from the rubble. Andretti had called in all available staff. Unfortunately, a particularly virulent strain of influenza was currently making its way through the capital city, afflicting a good third of hospital personnel.
“So we’re agreed, the first priority is additional surgeons, especially head and bone docs,” Gordon summed up after consulting his notes.
“Agreed.” Although Dr. Andretti spoke calmly, even crisply, Gordon heard a note of underlying urgency in his voice. “Trauma experience would be especially helpful in all areas, of course. Most of the staff here has very little experience with the kinds of massive injuries we’ve seen in several of the twelve victims in house so far.”
“Duly noted, Doctor,” Gordon said, his mind already clicking through the list of field surgeons and specialists available to the Noble Men. It was, he realized grimly, a very short list. “I’ll get right on it.”
“One more thing, Doctor,” Andretti said as Gordon was about to disconnect, “according to one of the paramedics at the scene, a woman who had left the restaurant only minutes before the blast reported that she’d been seated next to a young couple with an infant. A little girl, I believe, around seven or eight months old.”
“Damn,” Gordon said softly. “I don’t suppose this child has been rescued?”
“Not yet. Unfortunately, we’re thin on experienced pediatric surgeons at the moment as well.”
“I’m sure you understand we