Sweet Revenge

was dim, as blinds and shades and lattices closed out the power of the sun. It was rich, certainly, with wall hangings spun from silk, and Ming vases tucked into wall niches. It was modern. The bath in the suite he’d been given had water that steamed hot out of gold faucets. He supposed he was too British to appreciate the Eastern flavor of prayer rugs and gauzy mosquito netting.
    His rooms overlooked the garden, which he could approve of. In spite of the sun, he threw open a window and let the hot scent of jasmine blow in.
    Where was Adrianne?
    Her brother, Crown Prince Fahid, had met him at the airport. The young man, barely into his twenties, had worn a burnoose over an impeccably tailored suit. Philip had found him a perfect example of East meets West with his excellent English and his inscrutable manners. His only reference toAdrianne had been to tell Philip that she would be taken to the women’s quarters.
    Closing his eyes, he imagined the blueprints. She would be two floors down and in the east wing. The vault was in the opposite end of the palace. Tonight he would take a tour on his own. But for now—he flipped open his suitcase—he would play the perfect guest and prospective bridegroom.
    He’d taken advantage of the huge sunken tub and had finished his unpacking when he heard the prayer call. The deep throated voice of the muezzin came through the open window.
Allahu Akbar.
God is great.
    With a glance at his watch Philip calculated that this would be the third call of the day. There would be another at sundown, then the last at an hour past.
    The markets and suqs would close, and men would kneel to touch their faces to the ground. Inside the palace,
as
everywhere else, all business would stop in submission to the will of Allah.
    Moving quietly, Philip opened his door. It was as good a time as any to take stock.
    He thought it best to check out his neighbors first. The room next to his was empty, the drapes drawn, the bed made with military precision. The room across was the same. He edged down the hall and pushed open another door. Here there was a man, no, a boy, bent in supplication, his body facing south toward Mecca. His prayer rug was threaded with gold and the hangings over the bed were royal blue. Philip pulled the door to before making his way to the second floor.
    Abdu’s offices would be there, along with the council rooms. There was time enough to look if warranted. He walked down to the main floor, where the rooms were quiet as a tomb. Conscious of the time elapsing, he made his way through the winding corridors to the vault room.
    The door was locked. He had only to take a nail file out of his pocket to open it. With a quick glance right, then left, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him.
    Where other rooms had been dim, this was dark. There were no windows here. Wishing he’d risked bringing a flashlight, he groped his way in the direction of the vault. Its door was smooth steel and cool to the touch. Using his fingertipsas his eyes, Philip measured its length, its width, the position of the locks.
    As Adrianne had told him, there were two combinations. He was careful not to touch the dials. He used his nail file to measure and found the keyhole oversize and old-fashioned. The picks he carried wouldn’t work on a lock that old, but there were always other ways. Satisfied, he stepped back. He’d need to come back with a light, but that was for later.
    His hand was nearly on the doorknob when he heard footsteps outside. There wasn’t time to swear as he plastered himself against the wall behind the door.
    There were two men speaking Arabic. One of them, if tone was any indication, was angry, the other tense. Philip willed them to pass by. Then he heard Adrianne’s name. He could only curse the fact that he didn’t speak Arabic.
    They were arguing about her. He was sure of it. There was enough venom in one of the voices to have his muscles tense and his hands ball into fists. There was a sharp command answered by silence, then the impatient click of heels on tile as one man strode off. With his ear at the door Philip heard the one remaining mutter a curse in plain English. Prince Fahid, Philip mused. Then it was certain the angry voice had come from Abdu. Why were Adrianne’s father and brother arguing about her? Over her?
    He waited until Fahid walked away, then let himself out. The hall was deserted again, the door locked. With his hands in his pockets Philip strolled in