Date with a Surgeon Prince(46)

‘So they are in danger!’ Ghazi stormed, as his cousin swept away his last hope that Marni might be safe. ‘Why? Who? Is it to get at me? Who have I offended?’

‘At least we know they’ve got Hari with them,’ Nimr offered, and Ghazi snorted.

‘That’s hardly comforting, Nimr. Those two young brothers of yours have about as much sense as the rabbits they love to hunt.’ He hesitated for a moment, then added, ‘Although, where’s Fawzi? Maybe he knows something.’

Nimr shrugged.

‘He went off a few days ago. Hunting, as you said. The pair of them are obsessed with all the old ways. They believe we should still live in tents and roam the desert sands—in the newest and biggest four-wheel drives, of course.’

Ghazi shook his head. He had no time to be thinking of Nimr’s irresponsible brothers now, not when Marni was missing, perhaps in danger.

His gut had been tied in knots since he’d first tried to contact her at Tasnim’s house, phoning when he’d been on his way from the hospital to Nimr’s dinner, phoning again every ten minutes, feeling more and more desperate until someone finally admitted that neither woman had returned to the house.

If she’d left voluntarily it was because of him, and if something had happened to her, well, that was probably to do with him as well.


Somehow they got through their first full day of captivity, although Tasnim’s mood swings took more out of Marni than the desert heat when she ventured outside during the day. Tasnim’s first idea had been to write the word ‘help’ in big letters in the sand so the searching helicopter Ghazi was sure to send would see the message.

Although not believing for a minute Ghazi would send any form of rescue, Marni did write the word in large letters in the sand a few metres behind their shelter. But the wind that came up in the afternoon obliterated the word in seconds—and gave Tasnim a new idea.

‘We’ll put up a flag—use one of the wuzars in the pile of clothing.’

She dug around and produced a snowy-white length of material and Marni felt blood flowing into her cheeks as she realised it was the kind of undergarment Ghazi had shed on that memorable night.

Did Tasnim see that blush that she laughed and said, ‘It’s only a strip of cloth!’

As they’d agreed Tasnim should stay inside out of the sun, so as not to overheat, once again it was Marni who searched the dunes around their shelter for a stick long enough to hoist a flag.

But a flag with no message? Would it mean anything on the slim chance someone did come looking?

She found a stick behind the shelter where some small branches and bunches of dried grass had been stacked, presumably to provide fuel for a fire on a cold night. Digging around, wary of the scorpions Tasnim kept telling her to watch out for, she discovered another, smaller, though thicker stick. Taking it inside, she put the little gas lighter under one end of it, charring It all around so she could use it as a writing implement.

Tasnim objected to the word ‘help’ this time. It had been chosen when Marni had written in the sand because it was shorter than the local word, but now they settled on the universal ‘SOS’.

It took over an hour, charring the stick, writing, charring again, until it was done. But where to put it? Their shelter was nestled between dunes, and even on the stick and somehow attached to the roof, it would barely be seen above the sand.

‘You’ll just have to climb to the highest dune,’ Tasnim told Marni, ‘and if Fawzi and Hari really are watching us then you’ll get caught but I don’t think they’d shoot you.’

‘Well, that’s comforting,’ Marni grumbled, although she was becoming used to Tasnim’s cheerful fatalism.


Ghazi stared at Mazur in disbelief.

‘You’re telling me those two idiots are holding Tasnim and Marni because they want me to stand down and declare Nimr the ruler?’

Mazur shook the six-page letter he was holding.

‘There’s a lot more than that—all kinds of rot about you having stolen Nimr’s birthright and brought shame to the family’s name, and not having any honour or integrity or cultural importance.’

‘What the hell is cultural importance?’ Ghazi demanded, then shook his head at his stupidity. As if it mattered what the pair had said about him—the important thing was rescuing Tasnim and Marni, although Tasnim would probably be happier to see him than Marni would.

‘Phone Nimr, get him here immediately. If anyone knows where those two reprobates might be holding the women, he should.’

Ghazi hoped he sounded more in control than he felt. His mind had been in chaos since Marni’s disappearance, and now this! His chest was tight with worry, his gut knotted, and his neck ached with tension. It was bad enough that he’d hurt Marni with his thoughtless words, but to have put her into danger purely because of her connection to him—a connection he’d shamelessly used for his own purposes…