Lucy and the Sheikh(7)

“A burqa?”

“No, the black coat is called an abaya and you wear this scarf—it’s called a hijab—over your hair. As a non-Muslim you don’t need to cover up with a burqa.”

“But—” spluttered Lucy.

“When in Rome, Luce.”

“But I’m not in Rome, I’m here—”

“In a Muslim country. Exactly. If you want to get a stamp on your passport you’ll need the King’s support. Nothing goes on around here without his knowledge, or approval. If you want the King’s support, wear this.”

She sighed and took the robe. “I just thought with the King’s reputation that I’d be able to wear what I liked.”

Alex laughed. “Inside the palace, yes. But outside? No.” He squinted at the horizon. “See over there, on top of the ridge, that long white building? That’s the palace.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes, intent on focusing on the building, until her eyes watered with the effort. Had her sister stayed there? Or had she somehow disappeared into the sprawling city. There were many questions but she knew only one fact. Alex’s words echoed in her mind.

Nothing went on without the King’s knowledge. Nothing.





The small car wove its way carefully through the narrow streets of the old city. The stone walls of the merchant houses, painted soft shades of ochre, terra cotta and lime white, were peeling in places. Small shops opened out onto the street displaying the kinds of goods that had been traded for millennia: incense such as frankincense and myrrh from Sitra itself, spices from India and silks from China. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted into the car from the many street stalls, making Lucy’s mouth water. It was a long time since breakfast and she’d been up most of the night.

Despite trying to focus on what was before her, her mind lingered on the man she’d met on the beach. Just the thought of him sent flutters into her stomach. He’d said they’d meet again but she couldn’t see how they would. He knew the name of her boat, knew her captain, but that was all. No one knew her real purpose in coming to Sitra. And that’s the way it had to be.

It was curiosity only that had made her try to elicit information from Alex earlier that morning. But it hadn’t been forthcoming and she hadn’t dare to press it. For all his kindness to her, he was a stickler for rules and his “no swimming at night” rule was non negotiable. Her reveries were suddenly interrupted by a sharp shove in her ribs.

“As much as I hate to stop the day dreams that seem to having such a pleasurable effect on you, we’re here.”

Lucy followed Alex and the others out of the car and into a large, formal courtyard. Here, the heat of the morning sun was filtered through a tracery of branches interwoven to form an overhead canopy to protect visitors. A phalanx of white-gowned men awaited them. All tall, armed and wearing stony expressions, they were obviously designed to impress and intimidate—and they did. Lucy was glad she was wearing the abaya now. It gave her a feeling of protection, no matter how small, something she could hide behind.

Their small group was ushered through the massive, solid double doors and into an empty hall, in which the slap of their sandals and shoes echoed too loudly. Lucy’s heart thumped heavily in her chest and sweat trickled down her back. It was far more formal, far more awe-inspiring than she’d imagined. They waited for several minutes in the hall until they received a signal from a guard who opened an adjoining door. They entered the vast reception room and were ushered over to a group of rococo gilt-edged chairs ranged at one end. The room was filled with ornate furniture, magnificent paintings and priceless rugs covered the marble floor.

“You may wait here.”

They sat on the chairs that were grouped around a low table, opposite one empty chair, and looked around.

Lucy’s heart thumped in her chest. Four months of planning, sixteen weeks of worry, one hundred and twelve days of waiting, to meet the only known lead she had to her sister’s whereabouts, were finally over. The heavy tick of an over-sized clock marked the passage of long minutes as the others, also feeling some kind of tension, fidgeted.

“Do you think he’ll give us permission to continue the research?” whispered the lead scientist.

Alex shrugged as he glanced around at the paintings. “Maybe. Although the Sheikh’s got enough on his plate here—”

“Sheikh? I thought he was a King?”

Alex grinned at Lucy. “He is King. We used to call him ‘the sheikh’ at school—it used to really piss him off.”

Lucy frowned. “At school? How many people do you know in Sitra?”