Dawn had broken, but already the heat was blistering as Zakir waited in the palace courtyard for Nikki to appear. Soldiers lined the ancient turreted walls, black figures silhouetted against a harsh sky. The flag of Al Na’Jar snapped in the hot desert wind, but the direction of the wind had shifted and it was no longer thick with the red-gold sands of the Sahara. Today the sky above was eggshell-blue, clear as glass. It would grow whiter, almost colorless, during the next hours as the sun climbed to a fiery zenith. Desert temperatures would soar further.
Dogs moving like shadows at his side, Zakir paced in the shade under the arches, the bejeweled scimitar sheathed at his hip bumping gently against his thigh as he moved, the clip of his riding boots ringing out loud on stone. His armed Gurkhas stood with watchful black eyes, their features obscured by the cloth of their red turbans. Their galabiyas—or long white tunics—were cinched at the waist with leather belts from which their sheathed kukri knives hung. The men were also armed with semiautomatic weapons, and they remained strategically and subtly positioned between Zakir and the Sheik’s Army soldiers at all times, watching for signs of treachery among the soldiers.
No one trusted anyone, and shadows lurked within shadows even under the starkly bright skies of the Sahara morning.
In the middle of the courtyard a convoy of black Humvees gleamed in the heat, drivers waiting inside as supplies were carried by palace staff over the flagstones toward them.
Impatient, Zakir checked his watch, then suddenly he spotted Nikki being escorted by guards down the sweeping black marble stairs. They were led by Alar, his mother’s maid-in-waiting, who had been attending to the prisoner.
Zakir’s heart quickened.
He stopped pacing and stood to face her, squaring his shoulders and hooking his hands behind his back. He inhaled deeply, lifting his chin as he watched her approach.
With approval he noted she was suitably dressed for her trip in a long dark skirt and white blouse with long sleeves. A midnight-blue scarf covered her hair and a translucent veil adorned with small crystal beads covered her nose and mouth. Similar pieces of crystal were sewn along the tops of the slippers she wore and the stones winked in the sunlight as she walked tall and confident toward him.
Her eyes were fixed exclusively on his, and as she came closer a thrill chased up Zakir’s spine.
But while he enjoyed watching her, Zakir warned himself that the eyes of a deeply traditional people were also watching him. As were the eyes of his hidden enemies. When it came to courtship and the relations between a man and a woman, Al Na’Jar was a complex country, one where traditionalists still killed lovers over transgressions of protocol.
Even perceived missteps could result in death.
He needed to be seen to be observing these rules, at least until he was officially crowned.
He smiled. “Good morning, Nikki.”
Averting her gaze, she bowed her head slightly, as Alar had no doubt told her would be a respectable form of greeting the king in public. But up close he saw that her face was frighteningly pale under her sunburn. Dark circles also rimmed her eyes. A pang of sympathy stabbed through Zakir.
“I trust you found everything in your chambers to your satisfaction during the night?”
She nodded slightly, mouth tight. And as she lifted her eyes to his, Zakir saw that they were an even more startling turquoise under the bright sunlight. In them he read a flicker of fear.
“You did not sleep, Nikki,” he said gently. “You are worried?”
“For my children,” she said crisply. “Am I free to leave now? Did my passport and papers check out?”
Zakir frowned. She appeared anxious about her credentials. But her passport had looked legitimate. And the Mercy Missions base on the Canary Islands had also verified that a nurse named Nikki Hunt had been stationed at their outpost in Mauritania. The staff said they’d lost contact with the camp after a rebel attack. So far her story had held.
Beyond this, Zakir had decided not to alert any U.S. authority—and by default, possibly the U.S. media—to the presence of an American in his land. It would make Nikki an attractive target to the insurgents, and thus a danger to Zakir and his country.
That, in turn, could jeopardize sensitive diplomatic talks down the road.
His goal now was to have her expeditiously escorted into the Rahm Hills, where she could minister to her children under the watch of a special Gurkha cadre. As soon as her orphans had been stabilized, his men would transport Nikki and her children to the coast and put them on a ship to Tenerife. End of problem.
Spy or not, she’d be out of his hair.
Yet a part of Zakir was suddenly reluctant to see her leave. He was marching such a solitary road in Al Na’Jar, where he could confide in no one. He was still grieving over the sudden and brutal loss of his parents and older brother, still struggling to come to terms with his unexpected role as king. And deep down he was afraid of the lonely darkness that lay ahead in his life because of his secret disability.
Nikki was a familiar connection with the ways of the West—and a tempting diversion.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “Your papers appear to be in order, Nikki.”
Her body sagged with such visible relief that Zakir’s frown deepened. “You did not expect this?”
“No. Yes. I mean—” She cleared her throat quickly. “I’m just glad to be able to be going back to my children.”
He handed her a clipboard with her list of supplies affixed to it, then gestured with a broad sweep of his arm to the waiting convoy of black Humvees. “Your supplies are being loaded as we speak. I have included gifts of food and cloth for the Berber clan on my behalf, and I have arranged for a cadre of my personal guards to escort you to the south end of the Red Valley at the base of the Rahm Hills. A small desert camp will be waiting there, along with camels, which are presently en route from a Sheik’s Army base in the area. You will go into the hills on camel—obviously the area is unsuitable for vehicles. Once there you may do what you need to care for your children. My men will then transport all of you to the Port of Al Na’Jar, where a ship will be waiting to take you to Tenerife. We have contacted the Mercy Missions base and told them to expect you. You may make further contact with the mission from the port.”
Her turquoise eyes widened, and under the translucent veil her lips formed a soft “oh” of disbelief. A smile tentatively dimpled her cheeks as it dawned on her that she really was free to go to her children, that Zakir had actually helped her and delivered on his promise. Her hand went to her chest. “Sheik Zakir,” she whispered. “Thank you!”
A soft warmth spurted through Zakir’s chest at the sight of her unguarded pleasure. For the first time in his life it wasn’t jewels or a sports car that he’d used to buy a woman’s smile. It was something so simple, so pure—it satisfied him beyond words to make her happy. He realized then that he’d lost touch with some core elements in his life, and her delight was shifting something profound inside him.
It made him want to know this woman better. It made him wonder why she’d had so little faith that he’d actually keep his word. And it made him wish—just for a moment—that she wasn’t leaving.
“Come,” he said gently, holding his hand out toward the Humvee convoy. “You can double-check the supplies against your list as they’re being loaded.”
Nikki quickly hooked back a strand of gold hair that had escaped her scarf, and she got to work checking the Arabic labels on the boxes. Her movements were swift, efficient, focused on her task. As her long skirt swished about her legs and the sun danced off the crystal beads on her veil, Zakir couldn’t help but watch her with increasing fascination. This job of saving orphans seemed to define Nikki—threaten her children and she became fearless. Offer to help them and she glowed.
Yet he’d glimpsed fear in her eyes.
As he watched her skirt sway about her legs, he felt a sudden surge of desire. He shook himself. This was absurd, wrong. Yet there was something so seductively mysterious about this intriguing woman covered with veils, the promise inherent in the swirl of her skirt. He was finding it incredibly—and disturbingly—sexy.
She checked the last of the supplies off her list and glanced up, eyes now alive with turquoise fire, her skin luminous in the steadily climbing temperatures. “It’s all here.”
A Humvee door opened as she spoke, and the driver’s-side mirror caught a flash of sunlight, bouncing it sharply across his face. Zakir blinked, momentarily blinded by the sudden glare. But while vision quickly returned to his right eye, a dark blurry circle lingered in the middle of his left.
His heart stalled.
Nikki came up to him and held out the clipboard. “Can I have my passport and papers back now?”
He reached for the clipboard, trying to pull focus back into his left eye, but the circle of darkness seemed to be expanding. Perspiration prickled over his skin as he struggled to maintain control. “My men will hold your papers until you reach the port,” he said, turning his head sideways so that she fell at the periphery of his vision where he could see her better. “Why?”
He heard the uneasiness in her voice. “In case you don’t cooperate.”
“So I’m still a prisoner?”
“A guest, under my protection. Be grateful, not angered, by my generosity, Ms. Hunt.” He spun round to leave, desperate to get back into the palace where he could be alone, lie down and close his eyes to see if the vision returned. But the driver closed his door and again the mirror flashed a sharp burst of light into his eyes. Suddenly Zakir couldn’t see a damn thing at all.
Panic slammed through him.
He stepped back quickly, reaching out to brace his palm against the vehicle, metal searing hot under his skin. Staring fiercely, sightlessly ahead, he groped with his free hand alongside his thigh for Ghorab, but while talking to Nikki he’d moved around the Humvee without calling his tallest hound to his side. Tension squeezed his chest as he realized that Ghorab was not there the first time he really needed him.
Zakir clicked his fingers softly, and then suddenly he felt the damp nose of his saluki nudging into his palm.
Relief flooded through him as the connection with his dog steadied him slightly. But a new wave of anxiety overcame him. Could his men see what was happening to him? If they could—if the King’s Council got wind of Zakir’s problem before he was sworn in—his throne would be challenged and his kingdom would fall. Hundreds of years of Al Arif rule would be over because of him. Because of a weakness he could not control.
Suddenly, he felt Nikki’s hand, cool and soft on his forearm. There was something reassuring about her touch, and as he breathed in deeply and his heartbeat calmed he found his vision slowly returning to his right eye.
But his left remained sightless.
Zakir realized he was wet with perspiration under his tunic. He glanced around the courtyard with his barely functional eye. Everything appeared to be moving normally—palace staff loading a case of clothes, his soldiers patrolling the turrets…the complete darkness must have lasted a mere nanosecond, but to Zakir it felt like an eternity.
Feigning anger, he quickly grasped Nikki’s arm and pulled her around the side of the vehicle.
Nikki stiffened in confusion. “What are you doing—”
“Quiet,” he growled, waving his bodyguards away as they tried to reposition between him and the Sheik’s Army soldiers. There was a chance the only person who had witnessed him falter was Nikki Hunt. And he had to control the damage.
Blood thudded in his ears as he tried to focus on her with his right eye, but his central vision in that one was still extremely blurry. And she was scrutinizing his eyes intently, looking into the very heart of his secret. Zakir blinked as another shaft of reflected sunlight glanced off a sword as his guards retreated.
Her hand touched his forearm again, and she came very close to him. “Are you all right, Zakir?” she whispered, out of earshot of his men.
“I’m fine.” He glowered at her hand. A female touching him like this in public was inappropriate, a very wrong message to send to his staff, his people.
She retracted her hand quickly. “I…I’m sorry. You looked like you blacked out for a moment.”
He cast his eyes down, spoke quietly, angrily. “Before I can let you go, Nikki, there is something you have not explained to my satisfaction. Tell me why the Rahm Berbers did not kill you on sight? What made them trust you?”
Zakir’s mind raced wildly as he spoke. The vision in his right eye was improving in increments, but his left eye remained blind. This was a terrible shock. This was not supposed to happen for at least another twelve months, according to Tariq. He needed to speak to his brother, find out if there was a treatment to prolong vision loss. But he couldn’t use the palace phones, nor could he consult with a royal physician. The risk of exposure was too great.
Zakir feared another episode like this could hit at any second, any hour. Any day. And it when it did, the periods of darkness would start coming closer and closer together until one final episode would leave him completely blind, permanently. His mouth turned dry. He could not let that happen, not until he was officially sworn in as king.
Nikki’s attention was still riveted on Zakir’s eyes. “I am not some kind of spy for the Rahm tribesmen, or for anyone else, Zakir. They let me live for the same reason your soldiers didn’t shoot me in the street. I am a humanitarian worker who—”
“Nikki,” he said very quietly, feigning complete calm as he desperately tried to bring her features into focus. “Those tribesmen are aggressive—they never ask questions first. They would’ve slit the throat of a strange-looking Tuareg crossing into their territory on sight. Yet they did not. And I want to know the reason.”
“I encountered an elderly Rahm shepherd in the desert,” she said, still watching his eyes. “He’d fallen, gashed his head on a rock and was unconscious. After reviving him I cleaned and bandaged his wound, gave him the last of our water and we got him up onto my camel. He told me how to take him to his village in the mountains, and we did,” she said. “If I hadn’t come across him, he would’ve died.”
“So you saved the old man’s life, and in return for the favor the shepherd’s family was willing to protect your orphans?”
“That’s correct.”
“And this is when they told you about the coup?”
“Yes. They told me that they call you the Dark King.”
His jaw tightened at the irony. The Dark King, destined for a future of darkness…little did they know.
“And they warned me to be very careful, that you could be dangerous….” She hesitated, as if weighing whether to speak the next words.
“All of it,” he demanded. “Tell me everything they said.”
She inhaled deeply. “They said you might have orchestrated the coup yourself, using elements in your father’s military.”
“So that’s why you accused me of doing this?”
“The Berbers fear the legacy your rule might bring, Zakir. They know nothing about you because you have been living abroad.”
Her words sparked a frenzy of ideas in his mind, and suddenly Zakir knew what he must do—how he could hide from the members of the King’s Council until he could come up with a strategy to deal with his rapidly failing vision. He also needed to contact his emissary in Europe to hasten the search for a wife. He had to marry before he lost his sight.
“I’m coming to the Rahm Hills with you,” he stated. “I will meet with the tribesmen, speak to them myself. Since you’ve earned their trust, you will introduce me, be an escort to me and my men.”
After he’d met with the sheik of the Berber village, Zakir and a few of his Gurkhas could continue on to the Al Arif Summer Palace, not far from the Rahm range. It would be an ideal place to lie low while he arranged his marriage.
The palace had traditionally served as a refuge for the royal family during the hot summer months. Situated high in the north mountains, it was well fortified, and it enjoyed the cooler winds that blew up from the Atlantic. It also had a much smaller staff.
He could govern from there for a short while, using envoys and telecommunications. He’d send for more security personnel and inform his Council once he’d arrived.
He raised his hand high in the air, snapping his fingers sharply, and his secretary rushed to his side. “Change of plan,” he said. “I will personally accompany Ms. Hunt into the Rahm Hills. Repack the supplies from the royal Humvee fleet into two camouflaged army vehicles. I want to travel under the radar. I will take only my top five trusted bodyguards.”
Zakir spun away from Nikki, barking further orders in rapid-fire Arabic. Staff, guards, soldiers scattered in all directions as if he’d kicked an ant heap. He donned a pair of sunglasses handed to him by an aide as a modified military Humvee drew into the courtyard, followed by a second one. Both were the color of desert sand and shadows. The aide opened the door of the first vehicle, and Zakir gestured to the backseat. “Please get in, Nikki.”
She hesitated, watching Zakir with interest. Nikki had just witnessed him stumble and grasp for his dog. Then when a shaft of reflected sunlight had moved across his eyes, Nikki saw what she knew as a Marcus Gunn pupil—a pupillary defect indicating a lack of response to light in his left eye.
She knew eyes intimately—she’d been a top ophthalmic surgeon.
A normal response to bright light would be equal constriction of both pupils. Zakir clearly had some kind of damage to the optic nerve of his left eye and quite possibly his right as well, judging by the way he’d then stumbled, as if totally blinded for a moment.
She thought again of Dr. Tariq Al Arif and the very specific questions he’d asked after at that medical convention nine years ago. The conversation had stuck in Nikki’s mind because of his interest in a very rare hereditary disorder called Naveed’s Hereditary Optic Neuropathy—named after Dr. Anwar Naveed, the Iranian-born German ophthalmologist who first described the condition.
This genetic disorder was passed only through a mother’s DNA, but the degeneration of retinal ganglion cells and their axons affected only males and only one or two men every couple of generations. The disease was also unique to families of Moorish or Bedouin lineage.
Dr. Al Arif had told Nikki that his own family carried this rare gene, and he hoped to one day be able to cure the hereditary ailment with genetic surgery before any onset of vision loss. He’d asked for her input on identifying markers following her speech on Leber’s hereditary optic neuropathy, a related condition. Worried that the blindness was due to resurface in his generation, he thought if he could find the right genetic markers he’d be able to detect who carried the disease well before it manifested itself. And that was the point he believed it could be treated—and blindness prevented.
Her pulse raced as she put two and two together.
Nikki thought of the candlelight in the dining hall and how in that low and quavering light Zakir had angled his head slightly to the side whenever he’d spoken to her, a sign that his central vision was diminishing.
She thought of the list she’d handed him and how he wouldn’t read it. How his dogs were always at his side. And it hit her with a jolt.
Sheik Zakir was going blind.
And if Nikki was right, if Zakir did indeed have Naveed’s Hereditary Optic Neuropathy, judging by his pupillary reaction, he’d already entered the acute stage of the genetic disorder. If so, he was going to have more of these episodes, each coming closer and closer together.
One of them would be permanent.
And by the way the king had manhandled her behind the car, it was a secret he didn’t want anyone to know.