“Oh.” Tahra looked at her tray, and sure enough, there was a third envelope by her plate. She’d been so sidetracked by the invitation to the reception in her honor and the king’s handwritten note she’d completely forgotten it. She berated herself because there was her name across the front of the envelope in Marek’s incisive handwriting. She ripped the envelope open, pulled out the note card and read what he’d written there.
Dearest Tahra. I could not bring myself to tell you this in person because I know your tender heart, and I cannot bear to see you cry. If that makes me a coward, then so be it—I am a coward in this way.
Ominous opening words, but Tahra forced herself to keep reading.
I regret to inform you the Ibrahim children’s parents were positively identified as having perished in the fire. I have told Rafiq his parents are now with God, and he took the news like the man he will someday be. I would also have explained this to his little sister as best I could with a child so young, but Rafiq insisted it would be easier for Aaliyah to hear the news from him...in private.
Sudden tears blurred her vision, so that the words swam on the page and she could barely make out the rest.
I have spoken with the king, and as I knew he would, the king himself will make all arrangements necessary for the Ibrahim children to be cared for as their parents would have wished.
It is small comfort, I know, but rest assured the men responsible will be caught. You have my word.
Love, Marek.
Tahra was weeping silently by the time she reached the end. “Oh, Marek.”
His voice was rough. “I cannot bear it when you cry.”
“I’m not crying.” But she caught her breath on a sob that gave the lie to her words.
He muttered something under his breath in Zakharan that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Then said in English, “I should not have told you.”
“Don’t you dare even think that.” She struggled with herself, and eventually managed to get her emotions under control. “You promised, remember? No trying to shield me.” She had to make him understand. “Just because I cried doesn’t mean I’m not strong enough to deal with it—I am. I hurt for those children, okay? Because I know what they’re going through right now. I’ve been through it myself. And crying is how I deal with that kind of emotional pain—you’re going to have to learn to accept it. But I won’t fall apart just because I cried. I promise.”
* * *
“She should be told,” Marek announced. He glanced around the conference table. Then he fixed his steady gaze on Colonel Marianescu. “She should be told our plans for the reception.”
The colonel shook his head. “I think not.”
“It is not fair to her, sir. She should know this reception is not just to honor her, but is also a trap for the Zakharian Liberation Front. A trap baited with the king and queen, yes, but also with her.”
“Your personal involvement is coloring your perspective.”
Marek stiffened. “My personal involvement, sir, has nothing to do with it.”
“If the queen is not to be told, Miss Edwards cannot be told.”
Angelina spoke up. “And I must object to that, Colonel. The queen should not be kept in the dark, either. She will be furious—and rightly so—when she finds out I did not tell her of the danger in advance. It is even possible she will never trust me again.”
“Take that up with the king, both of you,” Colonel Marianescu said flatly. “This is his decision.”
Marek and Angelina exchanged glances, and she shook her head. He interpreted that to mean, this is not a battle we can win. He couldn’t just leave it at that, however, even though he’d received a legal order from his superior officer. But he could appeal to the king directly, without disobeying a command...because the colonel himself had said, “Take that up with the king...”
So he merely said, “Yes, sir,” and sat down. Already planning in his mind the arguments he would put forth to the king. Once upon a time Marek would never even have thought the king could be wrong—in anything—much less questioned his decisions. But not anymore.
* * *
Tahra sat in Queen Juliana’s sitting room, watching a private fashion show, Angelina perched on the arm of the sofa beside the queen. Tahra would never have approached the queen for advice about a dress for the reception, despite Ani’s recommendation. But Ani had pulled an end run around her—mentioning it to Daphne, the queen’s personal maid, who had mentioned it to her mistress, who had picked up the phone and called Tahra. Insisting in a charming way that it was no imposition at all, she’d love to do this. “It’ll be fun, Tahra, you’ll see.”
So here she sat, as formal dress after formal dress was presented for her delectation. She’d been a little nervous at first at this private showing, but the queen—who’d insisted Tahra call her Juliana—had soon put her at her ease.
“That’s a lovely fabric,” Juliana said when a floating chiffon number in variegated shades of misty rose made an appearance. “Don’t you think so? And the color is perfect for you.”
“Yes but...isn’t the neckline a little...low?”
The queen’s eyes twinkled. “It would be if you were built on voluptuous lines—which you’re not—or had no figure at all. Which isn’t the case. And that dress will look even better on you than it does on the model. Don’t you think so, Angelina?”
“What?” Angelina seemed a little distracted, but then she said, “Oh, yes, absolutely.”
“But it looks a little...I don’t know...more like a bridesmaid’s dress than a killer evening gown,” Juliana stated. “Let’s see what else there is.”
Several more garments passed in review, none of which caught Tahra’s fancy. Then she and Juliana both spotted it at the same time. “That’s the one,” the queen murmured.
Tahra was speechless, but inside she was saying, Yes, yes, yes!
“Try it on,” the queen insisted.
When she did, Tahra knew it was perfect—and she wanted to see Marek’s eyes when he saw her in it. Sophisticated, but not brazen. Elegant, yet sexy. The sapphire blue color made her skin translucent, and the sequined fabric clung in all the right places, making it look as if she’d been dipped into the dress—but in a classy way, not trashy. The gown made a definite statement about the woman who wore it. Shy Tahra would never have even tried it on, deeming it too...something. But the new, self-confident Tahra?
“How much is it?” she asked, craning her neck to try to locate the price tag.
When Angelina found it and told her, Tahra winced. Then she gazed at herself in the mirror once more, and knew that even if she had to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the rest of the year, Marek was going to see her in this dress.
* * *
Marek had plenty of time to regret his decision to see the king, to argue his case for telling Tahra everything planned for Saturday evening. He’d arrived extra early for his appointment—God forbid he should be late!—and was forced to wait almost half an hour in the outer office, thinking and rethinking his arguments.
“Captain Zale?” The king’s appointments secretary stood in front of him. “The king will see you now.”
The king was sitting behind his desk, talking with Major Lukas Branko—one of his two favorite bodyguards—but he stood to greet Marek when he walked in.
“That will be all, Lukas,” the king said. He smiled his faint smile. “I think I am safe with Marek.”
“Yes, Sire.” The major rose and cast an assessing eye over Marek before heading for the door, as if he thought the captain was a potential threat...despite the king’s assurance. Marek was one of very few men who could go armed in the king’s presence—which he was—and he didn’t blame Major Branko one bit for being extra cautious. Still, he couldn’t help but be amused, even though he presented nothing but a serious, unsmiling, professional face to the major, and then to his sovereign when they were alone.
“Have a seat,” the king invited as he reseated himself behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I would prefer to stand, Sire, if it is all the same to you.”
That drove the smile from the king’s face. He leaned back in his chair with a slight creak of leather and said, “That sounds ominous.”
Marek shook his head. “That is not my intention, Sire.”
“I take it this has nothing to do with my son.”
“No, Sire.”
Marek drew a deep breath, but before he could speak the king said, “Then it must be about the plans for Saturday’s reception—and my order regarding the secrecy around them.” When Marek raised his eyebrows in surprise at the king’s perspicacity, the king smiled again. “My cousin mentioned you were not happy about keeping your fiancée in the dark.”
“She should be told, Sire. As should the queen.” He hesitated. “Three years ago I would have agreed with you. Even two years ago. But Angelina—Captain Mateja-Jones—taught me a few things about women and their abilities, as I think you are well aware. Those lessons were hard-won, Sire—I will not deny it. But I cannot believe the king whose first proclamation upon ascending the throne granted women the right to serve in the military, the king who subsequently maneuvered the Privy Council into allowing women to serve in combat, thinks women cannot be trusted to keep a secret. His own wife among them.”
The king steepled his fingers, then touched them to his lips as he considered this. Finally he said, “It is not that I think women cannot be trusted to keep a secret—Captain Mateja-Jones is proof of that. And it is not that I think my wife and your fiancée cannot act as if the reception is nothing more than a way to honor Miss Edwards—the queen especially. She was a brilliant actress, as you well know.”
“If not that, then what, Sire?”
The king sighed. “Major Stesha reminded me we do not know who is a member of the Zakharian Liberation Front and who is not.”
“You cannot think—”
“Of course not. The queen would risk her life to save me...and has already done so. I would trust her with anything. As for your fiancée, her actions that day speak for themselves. No, Major Stesha’s point is that traitors could exist inside my household, and we have no way of knowing...yet. Every person working inside the palace could be a member of the Zakharian Liberation Front. Even the bodyguards.” The king’s eyes were as cold as Marek had ever seen them. “Which is why we must limit knowledge of our plans on Saturday to a select few. Every person added to the secret is one more person who could accidentally slip up and say something that would mean nothing to someone who is innocent, but would betray us to someone looking for the smallest sign.”
His argument was powerful, and one with which Marek was reluctantly forced to agree. Even if Tahra never forgave him for keeping this secret from her, he could not go against the king, could do nothing that would put any of the royal family in danger. “I understand, Sire.”
“Good.” The king’s smile turned rueful, and the look he gave Marek was man-to-man. “If it is any consolation, I will have no easier time than you explaining my decision...after the fact.”
He allowed himself to return the smile. “Small consolation, Sire.”
“Yes, well...it is possible nothing will happen at the reception. We can but pray the attack will come when we are best prepared for it, but there are no guarantees. And if nothing happens, there will be nothing for you to explain.”
Marek shook his head slightly. “I see your point, Sire, but I have already kept too many secrets from my fiancée. I will not add to the list by availing myself of that excuse. Besides, Sir Walter Scott said it best when he wrote, ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive!’ Trying to keep lies, half-truths and deceptions straight is too exhausting...and too demeaning to both Tahra and me. I have vowed there will be nothing but honesty between us from now on. Which means I will confess the truth...eventually.”
The king’s smile deepened, and he made a fencing gesture indicating a hit. “A good policy to follow, and one I learned myself...but only after paying a steep price.”
Then his smile faded. “One more thing before you go,” he said before Marek could leave. “I want your best, most trustworthy men guarding my son Saturday night. Lukas and Damon have convinced me I need them both on duty to watch over me,” he said, referring to Majors Branko and Kostya. “I have already spoken to Captain Mateja-Jones about who I want guarding the queen, and she assures me that in addition to the two bodyguards on duty she will also be there. Ostensibly as a guest with her husband, the US embassy’s RSO, but also to watch over the queen. Which relieves my mind of one great worry.”
“Then I should also stay with the crown prince, in addition to his—”
The king shook his head. “Miss Edwards needs protection, too, and no one is better suited to that task than you. I would not buy my son’s life by placing her life in jeopardy. But...” The king’s face was implacable. “My son is the key. The Zakharian Liberation Front cannot succeed in seizing power without him to cloak their actions. Let nothing happen to him, Marek.”
“No, Sire. You have my word.”
* * *
Sergeant Thimo Vasska rode the train back to Drago, his thoughts in turmoil. On the one hand, he was glad he was being recalled to participate in what was being planned for Saturday. It meant a chance to redeem himself in Colonel Borka’s eyes. On the other hand, he still couldn’t shake the feeling he was being kept in the dark. That something was going on to which he wasn’t privy. It shouldn’t matter to a soldier—a good soldier didn’t question the reason behind his orders. He merely followed them to the best of his ability. But still...
He sighed. He’d served his mandatory four years in the Zakharian National Forces and had left the military after working his way up to corporal and becoming something of a demolitions expert. Then he’d gone to work for a construction company and had made a decent living, until...
Until he’d lost his job to a refugee. And he’d been recruited into joining the Zakharian Liberation Front, which had promised to put a stop to the flood of immigrants taking jobs from hardworking Zakharians like himself.
In the first flush of zeal, he’d bought into everything he’d been told. He’d even come up with the idea for the bombs with the fléchettes in the knapsacks, an idea that had been seized upon with fervor. And he’d assembled the ten knapsacks that had been the Zakharian Liberation Front’s first blow for freedom, that had put the organization on the map, so to speak.
But since then he’d had plenty of time on the eastern border to think about exactly what he’d done. Too much time. And he realized he’d let his anger and desire for revenge against one man—the man who’d taken his job—cause him to do what would have been unthinkable a year ago.
But it was too late to turn back now, because he already had blood on his hands. All those who were dead or wounded because of the bombs he’d constructed—war or no—were on his conscience. Added to that, his deliberate attempt to kill the woman who’d seen his face the day he’d left the bomb at the preschool by bribing that nurse’s aide meant he was guilty as hell. No, he hadn’t been personally responsible for the aide’s subsequent death in police custody—Colonel Borka had ordered that. But her death was on his conscience, too.
If he could turn back the clock—but he could not. So all he could do was carry out his new orders. Kidnap the crown prince and force the king to accede to the Zakharian Liberation Front’s demands to close the borders, to let no more refugees enter and to expel those who were already here. That, at least, would be some small reparation to his fellow citizens for what he’d done.
Then and only then would he be free...to make his peace with God.