As the limousine came to a halt at the front steps of the palace, Bash felt himself tensing up. From this point on, he would have to be on alert every second of the day. He was the only one — or, at least, the only one he trusted — standing between Sean and a killer.
Or killers.
“Stay inside while I check things out,” he told Sean, resisting the desire to reach out and touch his lover to offer reassurance. They had to act as though they were nothing more than acquaintances, and while Bash was used to keeping his feelings hidden, this time it was more important, and far more difficult, than it had ever been before.
Sean nodded, and Bash got out of the car, standing quickly and immediately scanning for threats. There were formal honor guards flanking both sides of the staircase, and he gave them a quick once-over before looking higher. This section of the palace was old, the beige of the native stone showing the weathering of centuries of sand and sun. High arches framed the entrance to a portico, echoing the shape of the windows of the second and third stories above. On each end of this section of wall, a minaret rose against the blue sky, topped by an onion dome in gleaming gold. Bash didn’t like the myriad small windows on the towers which would give a sniper an excellent shot at anyone arriving at the palace, but there wasn’t much he could do about it except make sure Sean spent as little time out in the open as possible.
He rounded the rear of the limousine, glaring at the doorman who had come forward until the man backed away. He opened Sean’s door himself.
“Move quickly,” Bash said, his eyes meeting Sean’s for a moment. Then Sean stepped from the car, blinking in surprise as the forty or so men of the honor guard dressed in the dark olive and scarlet uniforms of the Royal Akkadian Army shouldered their rifles and came to attention with a loud snap of their booted heels.
To Sean’s credit, he hesitated for only a second or two, but Bash didn’t draw in a breath until Sean had walked up the steps to the cover of the portico. Bash followed half a step behind, though he was well aware of the looks of disapproval directed at him from the people who were gathered to await the arrival of their crown prince. It was just too fucking bad as far as Bash was concerned; they could disapprove of him all they wanted, but he couldn’t protect Sean if he was forced to keep a “respectful distance.”
The massive wooden doors of the palace were open, revealing an enormous foyer which rose three stories up to a glass dome above. Bash followed Sean past a line of people who bowed respectfully and into the palace proper, noting the polished marble of the floors and the twin staircases on either side only peripherally. He was glad to see there weren’t even more people waiting inside for Sean; every stranger was a potential threat, and Bash didn’t like being outnumbered hundreds to one.
Sean stopped in the middle of the foyer. “I wish to see my grandfather,” he said, glancing at Mansur. “Now.”
The tension in Sean’s voice made him sound abrupt, but Mansur seemed to take it in stride. “Of course, Your Highness,” he replied, motioning to the right-hand staircase. “It’s this way.”
At a gesture from Mansur, the rest of the people who had followed them into the palace fell back, and only Mansur and Bash followed Sean up the stairs.
“Turn to the right at the top, and continue down the hall,” Mansur directed.
Bash recognized the hallway from the palace blueprints he’d studied as being the one leading to the King’s personal suite. Unlike the rear area of the palace where Bash and Sean had made their escape, this hall was cold white marble, with no furnishings or decorations other than wall sconces to provide illumination. Rather than the deep casement windows Bash had seen elsewhere in the palace, the glass in the inset windows was thick and bulletproof. Bash realized the starkness of the approach to the king’s rooms was deliberate; there were no places where a gunman could hide, and no portals from which a grenade could be tossed toward the end. The ceiling had the domes of covered security cameras at regular intervals, and from what Bash had read of the palace security features, the sprinklers of the fire-suppression system could deliver far more deadly liquids than water if necessary.
It took several minutes to reach the double doors at the end of the hall, which were flanked on either side by guards with machine guns. The doors themselves were embossed with the lion and crossed swords depicting the Seal of Akkadia.
Bash tensed up, expecting Mansur to request him to give up the guns hidden under his suit jacket. Palace protocol demanded that no one save the king’s own personal guards could be armed in the monarch's presence, but Mansur didn’t even mention it as he nodded to the door guards. The one on the right saluted, then stepped back and opened the door on his side, holding it so Sean could proceed through.
In contrast to the starkness outside, the king’s receiving chamber was opulent. Thick, ornate carpets in scarlet and gold lined the floor, and the walls were painted a deep crimson. Three chandeliers of delicate crystal were suspended from the coffered ceiling, throwing rainbows of light over the wood and leather furnishings.
Mansur crossed the room to yet another door, one of several set around the perimeter of the semi-circular room. Each door was flanked by two heavily armed guards, but to Bash, the guards on this door were the biggest and meanest looking of the lot.
“Crown Prince Mishaan wishes to pay his respects to his Majesty,” Mansur said. One guard turned to a cipher lock set in the wall next to the door and entered a six-digit code. Bash didn’t even bother trying to guess the code from the guard’s movements, since he was certain they changed it every day. He might not like Mansur, but he knew Mansur would not risk Faisal’s safety by doing otherwise.
The room the guards admitted them to may have once been a sitting room or office, judging by the maps on the wall, but it had been modified to hold a modern hospital bed and enough medical equipment to furnish a moderate sized clinic. There were several people in the room, including more guards, but after a quick scan showed no immediate threat to Sean, Bash’s attention was drawn to the man who lay unmoving on the bed.
No man would look like a king in such a state, and Faisal al Rasheed was no exception. He looked much older and far more fragile than the photos Bash had studied of him, even those taken only a week before. His chest was swathed in bandages, and oxygen was being supplied through a nasal tube. Electrical leads dotted his chest, the wires feeding into an elaborate EKG, while others on his shaved scalp led to an electroencephalograph. Bash was no doctor, but the grim faces of two men in white coats who were watching the monitors told him things weren’t good.
“Prince Mishaan bin Fahd bin Faisal Al Rasheed wishes to pay his respects to his grandfather,” Mansur said, and Bash had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. No doubt everyone in the room knew who Sean was and why he was there, but apparently protocol wasn’t relaxed, even in this situation.
Sean moved forward, standing next to his grandfather’s bed and bowing his head in a show of respect. Bash knew the gesture was more an acknowledgment of the king’s dire circumstances than respect for his title. After a moment, Sean spoke to the doctors, both of whom seemed surprised when Sean launched into a series of questions about his grandfather’s health.
The younger of the two men appeared to be American, at least from his accent, while the other spoke with the mellifluous tones of a native Akkadian. Bash couldn’t understand most of the conversation, conducted as it was in a mixture of Akkadian and English, with plenty of medical terminology tossed in for good measure. Even though Sean nodded, he was frowning at whatever he was being told.
Bash studied the others in the room. The guard who had ushered them into the room had shut the door behind them, but there were an additional four guards in the room, one against each wall. They all were armed with automatic weapons, knives, and swords, which might have seemed like overkill to a civilian, but it earned Bash’s approval. Besides the guards and the doctors, two older women dressed in black robes were seated beside the bed, and Bash recognized them from photos as Faisal’s first and third wives. The older woman had to be Hana, Faisal’s senior wife and mother of Sean’s father, Fahd. Indeed, the woman’s gaze seemed fixed on Sean, and Bash realized with a pang of sympathy that she likely hadn’t seen her grandson since he’d been a small child.
Sean accepted a chart passed to him by the American doctor, looking it over, then handing it back.
“I want to be kept up to date on his treatment.” Sean’s voice contained a note of command Bash had never heard from him before, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of Sean feeling in his element as a doctor or something else. The two doctors bowed slightly in acknowledgment, then Sean turned away.
He paused when he caught sight of the women, and his expression softened. He rounded the bed and went down to one knee before his grandmother, taking both her hands in his.
“Jidda…It’s been a very long time,” Sean said softly.
Hana smiled, a tear rolling down one lined cheek. “My little Mishaan. You look so much like your dear father. I miss him so much.”
“As do I,Jidda.” Sean returned the smile. “May I call upon you later? We have much to catch up on.”
