Rashid shook his head. ‘Why would the people accept me as leader, when I am supposed to have died in a helicopter crash three decades ago? Why would they believe it is even me?’
‘The people have long memories. Malik may have tried to wipe your father from the collective memory of the Qajarese people, but never could he wipe the love of him from their hearts. Truly, you would be welcomed back.’
‘When I am supposed to be dead? How does that work?’
‘Your body was never found, assumed to be taken by the desert beasts, which means there is doubt. The people of Qajaran are in desperate need of a miracle. The return of you to Qajaran would be that miracle.’
Rashid shook his head. ‘This is madness. I am a petroleum engineer. That is my job—that is what I do.’
‘But you were born Qajarese. You were born to rule. That is in your blood.’
Rashid stood, his legs too itchy to remain seated any longer, and crossed to a window, watching the traffic and the pedestrians rushing by in the street below. They all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Nobody was stopping them and telling them that their lives up till now had been founded on a lie, and that they must become someone they had never in their wildest nightmares thought they would be. Nobody was telling them they had a tiny sister they were now responsible for—let alone a nation full of people for whom they were now responsible.
He shook his head. He didn’t do family. The closest he had ever come to having family was his three friends, his desert brothers, Zoltan, Bahir and Kadar, their friendship forged at university in the crucible of shared proximity and initial animosity, all of them outcasts, all of them thrust together as a kind of sick joke—the four had hated each other on sight—only for the joke to backfire when the four became friends and the ‘Sheikhs’ Caïque’, as their rowing four was nicknamed, won every race they ran.
And even though his three desert brothers had found matches and were starting their own broods of children, it didn’t mean he had to follow suit.
He had no desire for family. Even less now given he’d learned his father had lived all those years and hadn’t bothered to let him know—his own son!
And what was a nation but the worst kind of family, large, potentially unruly and dependent.
He turned suddenly. Faced the man who had brought him this horror. ‘Why should I do this? Why should I take this on?’
Kareem nodded. ‘I have read widely of you and seen your long list of achievements and your powers of negotiation when dealing with disparate parties. You would come eminently qualified to the task of Emir.’
Rashid shook his head, and the older man held up one broad hand. ‘But yes, this is no job application. This goes beyond mere qualifications. Your father was the chosen Emir before circumstances forced him into exile. You are his heir. It is therefore your duty.’
Rashid’s blood ran cold. ‘My duty? I thought you said I had a choice.’
And Kareem looked hard into his eyes. ‘The choice is not mine to give. I am saying you have this duty. Your choice is whether you accept it.’
Duty.
He was not unfamiliar with the concept. His best friends were no strangers to duty. He had seen Zoltan take on the quest for the throne of Al-Jirad. Rashid had done his brotherly duty and had ridden together with him and Bahir and Kadar across the desert to rescue Princess Aisha, and later to snatch her sister, Princess Marina, from the clutches of Mustafa. He had always done his duty.
But never had he imagined that duty would be so life-changing—so unpalatable—for himself. Because if he did this thing, his life would undergo a seismic shift. He would never be truly free again. And if he didn’t, he would be failing in his duty.
Duty. Right now the most cursed of four-letter words.
‘What I tell you is not easy for a man to absorb or accept,’ Kareem said. ‘I can only ask that you will come and see the country for yourself. Bring Atiyah, for it is her heritage and birthright too.’
‘You want me to willingly turn up on the doorstep of a place that was so happy to see my father and me dead? You expect me to take an infant into that environment?’
‘Malik is gone. You have nothing to fear from him or his supporters now. Please, you must come, Rashid. Come and feel the ancient sand of our country between your toes and let it run through your fingers. See the sunrise and sunset over the desert and maybe then you will feel the heart of Qajaran beating in your soul.’
‘I’ll come,’ Rashid said, his head knowing what he had to do, his gut twisting tighter than steel cable in spite of it. ‘For now that is all I am promising.’
The vizier nodded. ‘For now, it is enough. Let me call the lawyer back in and we will make the arrangements.’
* * *
‘What can they be doing in there?’ Tora said as she gave up pacing the lawyer’s waiting room and sat down in the chair alongside her boss. She had to pace because every now and then her lack of sleep would catch up with her and she’d find herself yawning. ‘Whatever can be taking so long?’ she said, trying not to sound too irate so that she didn’t disturb the infant in the capsule alongside. She’d had barely enough time to get home to shower and change and pack her things, before she’d met Sally at Flight Nanny’s office and they’d headed off together to pick up the baby from the foster home where she’d been looked after for the last few days, only for them to have been kept sitting and waiting so long that the baby would soon need another feed.
Her boss twisted her watch around her wrist. ‘I don’t know, but I can’t stay much longer. I’ve got a meeting with Steve’s doctors in less than an hour.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be too long now,’ the middle-aged receptionist assured them when Sally asked how long it would be, before disappearing to fetch refreshments.
The baby started fussing then and Tora reached down to soothe her. She was a cherub. With black curls and dark eyes with long sooty lashes and a tiny Cupid’s-bow mouth, it was obvious that she’d grow up to be a beauty. But right now she was a tiny vulnerable infant without a mother or a father—or anyone who seemed to care what happened to her.
The baby wasn’t about to be placated and became more restless, her little fisted hands protesting, and Tora plucked her out of the capsule to prop against her shoulder so she could rub her back, swaying from side to side in her seat as she did so.
She smiled as she cuddled the infant close, enjoying the near new baby smell. It was unusual to have such a young infant to take care of. Most of Flight Nanny’s charges were small children who needed to be ferried interstate or overseas between divorced parents who were either too busy with their careers to travel with their children, or who simply preferred to avoid any contact with the other party, even if only to hand the children over. Those cases could be sad enough.
But an infant who’d been left orphaned, that was beyond tragic. That was cruel.
‘You poor sweetheart,’ she said as she rocked the tiny bundle in her arms, her heart breaking a little at the injustice of it all.
Sally shifted in her seat and Tora could feel the tension emanating from her friend and colleague. Something was seriously wrong. ‘How is Steve?’ she ventured, once the baby had settled a little, scared to ask, even more scared for the answer.
Her boss grimaced and it occurred to Tora that Sally had aged ten years in the last couple of weeks. ‘He’s struggling. There’s a chance they won’t be able get his condition stabilised enough