Climax of Passion Page 4

  Mocca had claimed her. He was an enterprising youth who scouted the airport terminal for foreign pigeons waiting to be plucked. In the guise of offering his services to provide any service–any service at all–he had offered himself to Amanda.

  The clear-eyed limpid innocence, the fresh vitality of his olive skin, helped Amanda to come to a quick decision.

  ‘I need help,’ she declared.

  ‘There is no one better than I with help,’ he had replied with deep fervour to press his claim. Amanda had shown him the sheikh’s note of authority.

  His eyes were larger than saucers and brighter than a Christmas tree when he read it. He treated Amanda with something akin to reverence. She figured she had turned out to be the plumpest, fattest, most succulent pigeon Mocca had ever plucked.

  Amanda thought she needed one truck. Mocca opted for three four-wheeled drives, nineteen heavy-duty trucks and a desert cruiser.

  Amanda thought she might need a little mining equipment. Seven of the trucks were now loaded with enough TNT, plastic explosive and dynamite to make a sizable hole in any mountain.

  ‘What about the cost?’ Amanda had asked cautiously.

  ‘No...o...o problem,’ Mocca assured her.

  Mocca had an incredibly extensive family. It didn’t matter what Amanda requested, Mocca had an uncle or a brother or a cousin who could provide it for her.

  Mocca had brought up the subject of her bodyguard. He eyed her up and down in dispassionate assessment. ‘You will need two, three men,’ he declared. ‘Maybe four.’

  The number turned out to be fifteen, all Mocca’s blood relations. When she accosted him on the subject, Mocca had replied with complete confidence that it was no more than what Xa Shiraq wanted. Mocca displayed an uncanny ability to read Xa Shiraq’s mind.

  Amanda had to put a stop to it. Her secret foray into the Atlas Mountains was taking on the proportions of a Cecil B. deMille Hollywood extravaganza.

  ‘Where is the money coming from?’ she demanded of Mocca.

  ‘It’s simple,’ he explained. ‘I invoice everything to the palace.’

  The invoices to the palace must have been flying thick and fast, a veritable flood of invoices which surely had to be brought to the sheikh’s attention sooner or later.

  Amanda’s blood ran cold. She hoped it would not be sooner. She had to get evidence of what her father had found before anyone was aware of what was happening. That not only applied to people in the palace. Amanda was acutely aware that her trail to Alcabab could be easily picked up by the man she had left behind in the Presidential Suite at Fisa.

  She had caught the last flight to Bejos on the night he had stated his intention to pursue her. That put her at least twelve hours ahead of him since there had not been another flight until the next day. If the entertainment she had organised for him had gone well, he might not have realised she had slipped the coop for twenty-four hours.

  Two days had passed since then. By now he would have discovered at Bejos that she had used the authority that was rightfully his. She didn’t know if he would confess what had happened to Xa Shiraq or try to find her first, but she suspected the latter. He had said himself he was a man who made his own rules. Amanda did not doubt that. The strength of his personality still haunted her.

  As did his challenge to her.

  It went far deeper than a contest of wills.

  It forced Amanda to examine what it meant to her to be a woman, and what part a man should play in her life. Was she short-changing herself with mind over matter, repressing basic needs that she had found easier not to dwell on? Perhaps she was blocking off something more wonderful than she had ever dreamed of.

  When he had touched her...and before that...the way his presence had somehow infiltrated her, tugging on feelings that both excited and frightened her...was she being a coward to deny what might happen with him?

  It was not only the heat in Alcabab that kept her awake and restless at night, yet in the end common sense always re-asserted itself. It would be all too easy to slip into a dangerous, exhilarating affair, but the letdown would inevitably come and it would probably take years to get over the emotional scarring. Or was she too frightened, too cautious? Perhaps if the opportunity came again, she should seize it.

  As for his pursuit of her, he would have a difficult job finding her in Alcabab, Amanda assured herself. At her request, Mocca had found her an apartment. If Mr Complimentary Upgrade was scouring hotel registers for her name and a person of her description, he would meet with nothing but frustration.

  In the meantime, her purchases were so outrageous they could not be overlooked by the palace accountants for long. Xa Shiraq would inevitably demand to know who was using his money and authority to buy such things. Once her identity was known, he would have Patrick Buchanan’s daughter brought to him. She would then have the opportunity to demand that he rectify the damage done to her father’s reputation. But not before she had the evidence.

  Amanda decided she must get out of Alcabab as soon as possible. The longer she stayed in the capital the higher the risk that she would be found by the man pursuing her. He knew whose daughter she was. Her purchases were all aimed at a geology expedition. He was quite capable of putting two and two together and then making inquiries that could lead to the apartment she had rented.

  The crisis arose late in the afternoon of the second day.

  ‘Inquiries are being made for a person of your description,’ Mocca had informed her gravely.

  Amanda’s heart rose to her mouth.

  ‘Who is making the inquiries?’

  ‘His name is Charles Arnold.’

  That staggered Amanda. ‘What?... How?’

  ‘Does it worry you?’

  ‘It’s vaguely disturbing.’

  It made no sense to her. Charles Arnold had no reason to pursue her. Surely petty malice didn’t extend that far. Was Mr Complimentary Upgrade making use of that name to confuse her?

  ‘The bodyguard can dispose of him,’ Mocca said with satisfaction. ‘We will throw him in the well from which no-one ever returns.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Amanda said hastily. ‘That’s going too far. But it does mean we must leave Alcabab immediately.’

  ‘All is not yet ready.’

  ‘Then make it ready. We will leave tomorrow morning at three o’clock.’

  ‘But everyone is asleep at that hour.’

  ‘That’s precisely why we’re leaving at that time. Those who are too sleepy need not come.’

  Mocca showed disapproval at such impetuosity, but did as he was bid.

  They left the city only an hour and a half late. None was too sleepy to come. Mocca accompanied her. So did most of his uncles, brothers, cousins and others who laid claim to some more complicated relationship. As occasion necessitated, they were skilled truck drivers, mining engineers, explosive experts, camping specialists or generally useful for such a safari into the Atlas Mountains. What they did in real life, Amanda had no idea.

  Wives came, as well. To do the cooking, Mocca explained. All their wages, of course, had already been invoiced to the palace. Mocca was riding on a sea of riches, the like of which had never come his way before. He clearly believed in making hay while the sun shone. Every night he prayed to Allah for more. The palace was as good as a money-machine, as good as owning the printing press itself. He seemed to have a permanent smile on his young face.

  Amanda eyed him curiously as they began their long trek to the location marked on her father’s map. ‘How old are you, Mocca?’

  ‘Seventeen, but nearly eighteen.’

  ‘How is it that the older members of your family are happy to defer to you and take orders from you?’

  His grin flashed very wide. With his mass of black curly hair, his unlined skin, his dancing dark eyes, he looked like a precocious, mischievous child who was far too knowing for the years that he had lived.

  ‘It has always been recognised that I am the intelligent one in the famil
y,’ he boasted. ‘Much has been expected. Now I have proved myself. I am no longer the boy. I am the man. I bring in the business. Ever since I was a little boy, I make more money than anyone else. This brings me much respect.’

  It did everywhere in the world, Amanda reflected, yet she preferred the respect given to her by the one man who had all-seeing black eyes. He respected the person she was inside. She wished she could stop thinking about him. He disturbed her equanimity, her peace of mind, her composure...even the sense of duty which had driven her to resign her position as general manager of a first-class hotel.

  She concentrated on watching the land unfold as they travelled on. Her father had passed this way many years before. He had headed towards the high plateaus. They were his undoing.

  The Atlas mountain range traversed several north African countries, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia...but here in Xabia, the geological formations were especially rich in minerals. Amanda imagined her father’s excitement at being granted the chance to discover whatever he could find. With his intelligence, knowledge and endurance it would have been the highlight of his career.

  He had found what he had been looking for in the ancient crystalline rock, but Xa Shiraq had turned on him, smashed his triumph, obliterated its existence from any known map.

  One way or another, Amanda intended to redress that injustice. She was brooding over how it could be most effectively done when she saw a band of horsemen wearing black burnooses moving onto the road to block their route.

  ‘Trouble?’ she asked Mocca.

  He shrugged. ‘Members of the Chugah, the Berber tribe that inhabit this region. They are part of Jebel Haffa’s personal troops. But we have the sheikh’s permission to pass. There will be no trouble.’

  Amanda hoped that was the case. The unsigned chit had worked like a dream so far. Yet the powerful name of Jebel Haffa sent a chill down her spine. He was Xa Shiraq’s right-hand man. What if his troops had received orders to intercept the convoy and escort it back to Alcabab under guard?

  The truck ground to a halt. The rows of horsemen parted to let through one lone rider on a magnificent white Arabian horse. He looked both majestic and intimidating in the black hooded cloak. Was it the Berber chieftain or Jebel Haffa himself? Amanda wondered anxiously. Another horseman broke ranks to follow him, holding his pace to the rear of his leader.

  Mocca seemed to have no concern in confronting them. He alighted from the cabin, as brightly cheerful as ever, and waited beside the truck to greet the two men. The man on the white Arabian stallion did not dismount, nor did he make any acknowledgement of Mocca’s greeting. He remained in his saddle, maintaining a haughty dignity as the second rider dismounted and conversed with Mocca in rapid Arabic.

  Mocca broke away to come around the truck to where Amanda sat on the passenger side. She had the sheikh’s note in her hand, ready to pass it to him but he did not ask for it.

  ‘We are being honoured with a guide to take us through the mountain passes. He is to ride with us,’ Mocca informed her.

  ‘But we don’t need a guide,’ Amanda argued. ‘I have precise maps of where I want to go.’

  ‘It is not a matter of choice,’ Mocca explained with an expressive shrug. ‘It is a matter of honour. They will be insulted if we refuse the offer. It is not wise to insult the Chugah. The guide is to ride with us.’

  Amanda sighed, resigning herself to the customs of the country. ‘Very well. If we must.’

  There was a rustle of cloth, the squeak of the seat beside her. Amanda swung her head around from the passenger window to find their Berber guide already taking up the space between her and where Mocca would sit behind the driving wheel. She instinctively shrank away from the intruder, not because there was anything offensive about him but because she was suddenly assailed by the sense of some powerful alien force in his presence. It had happened to her once before quite recently.

  Her nerve-ends jangled, even as she quickly reasoned that she was being absurdly fanciful. A guide was no more than a guide. She simply wasn’t used to a hooded stranger in close proximity to herself, a big, hooded stranger whose face was obscured by the cowl and a masking cloth. Both were totally superfluous in the cabin of the truck where no dust was kicked up by horses’ hooves.

  The guide did not remove them. His arms were folded beneath his cloak, and his attention remained rigidly directed to the road ahead. He was totally immobile.

  Most probably he was offended by her, Amanda assured herself. A bare-headed, bare-faced, foreign woman in jeans and shirt might be shaking his sense of propriety. They were a long way from the civilising influences of a capital city now, and the Berbers were born and bred mountain men.

  Mocca swung into the driver’s seat and closed his door, trapping the three of them into an awkward intimacy. Amanda steeled herself to get used to it and turned her gaze firmly forward. She was stunned to see the Berber spokesman leading the white Arabian stallion away, a riderless white Arabian stallion!

  The back of her neck prickled.

  Who was the man beside her? Why would the leader of these fighting troops belonging to Jebel Haffa appoint himself her guide? It was a lowly task that could have been undertaken by any of his men. How could any guide give direc-tions to where she wanted to go if the guide did not know where she was going?

  It only made sense if he was charged with more than guiding her. Amanda had told no-one exactly where they were heading. She had given Mocca only the most general instructions.

  Mocca switched on the engine and the truck started to rumble forward again. The rest of the convoy followed suit. If everything went to plan they would be at their first camping site in the next hour or so.

  Amanda concentrated on acting naturally as she put away Xa Shiraq’s note and spread out her map of the area. Any deviation from the route marked by her father and she’d know for certain she had a problem.

  A big problem.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY came to the wine village of Tirham in the Ozimi valley without further incident. Only then did their self-appointed guide break his stillness. He waved his hand and pointed to a junction side road.

  ‘What does he want?’ Amanda asked tersely. She was tired after travelling for twelve hours. Tirham was their destination for today and she certainly did not want to go any further.

  ‘We must go where the guide points,’ Mocca answered, resignation in his voice, and turning the truck onto a narrow road that led away from the village.

  Amanda would have liked to argue the point, gave the inscrutable stranger next to her a quick glance, and decided against it.

  ‘The villagers will be disappointed,’ she reflected in courteous disapproval.

  ‘True,’ said Mocca, but he did not turn back.

  Amanda was not so trusting. On the other hand, Mocca believed he had good reason to trust whereas she knew she was on borrowed time.

  The man beside her was a disturbing enigma. Was he a deaf-mute? There had been absolutely no response from him to the spasmodic conversation between Mocca and herself. His presence had blighted the last hour.

  As much as Amanda had tried to ignore the Berber leader, she had been unable to lessen her tense awareness of him, waiting for a movement, waiting for a word that might confirm her worst fears. She hoped Mocca was right and this detour was insignificant and meant nothing more than the end of today’s journey.

  They passed through a forest of magnificent cedar. At the dawn of civilisation cedar trees like these had flourished throughout the fertile crescent. They came to a cleared area beside a quickly flowing stream of sparkling water. A large, ornate tent and another group of silent, unmoving Berbers filled a small portion of the area.

  Their guide tapped Mocca’s shoulder and pointed to where Mocca should park the truck and those that followed. It was some fifty metres from the tent, the furthest possible distance away within the clearing. Some of the Berbers moved forward to direct the rest of the convoy to their corresponding plac
es.

  Amanda had the sinking feeling she had seen clockwork precision planning like this before. Who, she wondered, was in the tent?

  Mocca hopped out to assert his position in this matter.

  For the first time the enigmatic Berber guide turned his face towards Amanda. All was still hidden, but Amanda had the impression of the darkest sable eyes, deeply socketed, radiating energy and light. He waved his hand and the gesture was unmistakable. He wanted her to alight.

  ‘I’m staying right here,’ Amanda said, hoping the stranger understood English.

  There was a shrug of the shoulders and the guide turned to the other side of the cabin and stepped out, Mocca deferentially holding the driver’s door open for him. Without another sound or gesture, the Berber leader headed for the tent, his cloak billowing out behind his tall and imperious figure as his long strides ate up the short distance.

  He paused at the entrance to the tent, turning slightly to one of the two men who seemed to be standing guard there. The man nodded as though he had been spoken to. Not a mute, Amanda deduced, her fears and suspicions growing stronger by the second.

  She couldn’t drive away. That would be admitting defeat. To run away would be to jeopardise her quest. Besides, if this was, indeed, the long arm of Xa Shiraq reaching out to gather her in, she doubted there would be any way to escape. Better to sit tight and wait to see what happened next. Tomorrow she would insist on having her own way and see if that produced any result.

  The black cloaked figure moved inside the tent and disappeared from her view. The man who had received his instructions moved to meet up with Mocca and converse with him. Both men then turned and came to the truck where Amanda still waited.

  ‘You are invited to take refreshments while the camp is being set up. There are more comforts for you inside the tent,’ Mocca informed her. He smiled infectiously. ‘It is also necessary. There is no other way.’