The Desert Sheikh

Chapter 1

Book 1 of The Desert Sheikh ~ Kidnapped By The Sheikh

“Get out of the car, now!” the man yelled through the thick glass of the British ambassador’s car.

“What are we going to do?” the driver, Hussein, asked. “If these bandits take us, they’ll almost certainly kill me.”

“But they won’t kill me, will they? And I think it’s me they want,” replied Sarah, the young blonde woman who sat in the back of the car. The man outside banged his rifle against the passenger window and called out again for both of them to get out.

The driver started reciting his prayers, asking God to save him.

“Hussein, it’s going to be okay,” the woman tried to reassure him.

“No, madam, it is not! I have a family back in Pakistan. If I die, what will become of them?”

“Hussein, open this window and let me talk to them. I’m sure I can sort this out,” Sarah said with a lot more assurance in her voice than she really felt.

The driver pushed a button next to his seat and the passenger window came down. A sudden rush of hot, dusty air blew into the car.

“Who are you?” she asked slowly and clearly.

“I am Sheikh Akbar Al-Zafir. I rule over Sakara.”

Sarah thought about this for a minute. Sakara was a wilderness in the south of the country. It was the most remote part of the entire Arabian Peninsula, an area that Westerners did not travel to. Even the most intrepid journalist shielded away from going there.

She looked at the sheikh. He was wearing traditional tribal clothes of baggy cotton trousers and a loose shirt with a broad sash around the waist. Tucked into the sash was a large, curved dagger and in his hand was an old AK-47 rifle. Around his head was a red and white patterned strip of cloth that had been wound around many times. His clothes had a rough, homespun look about them and were well-worn; however, they were in much better condition than the clothes of the other men standing next to him. They were wearing garments that were little better than rags.

“What do you want, Sheikh Akbar Al-Zafir?” There was no harm in trying to show a little respect and it seemed to work. The man smiled at her in a way that was almost royal.

“Please, get out of the car. You will come with us.”

“Why?” she asked again, only this time she said it in both English and Arabic. The men looked surprised, though she was not sure whether it was because of the question, or because she was one of the few foreigners in the country that spoke Arabic.

“We want you because once we have you, the British ambassador will pay me a handsome sum of money to get his wife back.”

So the men thought that she was the British ambassador’s wife and wanted to take her hostage. Similar kidnappings had happened before in Yazan, a country that was ruled by a series of warlords who ignored the weak, ineffective government in the capital and saw kidnapping influential people as an easy source of income. Only a month ago, a Dutch businessman’s teenage daughter had been taken, but once her father paid her captors a few thousand dollars, she was returned unharmed. The embassies warned their citizens to avoid all travel outside the capital. However, sometimes travel was unavoidable.

“I am on my way to collect an important person from the airport. I would be grateful if you could let me continue my journey,” Sarah said, trying to contain the panic that was rising in her throat.

“Your driver can get them. You are coming with us,” the sheikh replied.

At least they would let Hussein go. She leaned forward to speak to him in a low voice. “Hussein, drive to the airport, collect Dr. Roberts when he arrives from New York, and then drive back to the British Embassy and tell them what has happened.”

“Madam! You must not go with these men. What will they do to you?”

“They won’t dare touch the wife of the British ambassador,” she said.

“But you’re not Lady Amanda Bolton.”

“Not so loud! We don’t have any other choice. If you try to drive off, they will shoot at the car and we could both die.”

“This is the ambassador’s car. Property of the British government. It is completely bulletproof!”

“Including the tyres?” Sarah asked.

The driver shook his head.

“If they shoot the tyres, they’ll capture the pair of us. This way, at least you can escape and tell someone what’s happened. Now, Hussein, you must pretend that I am the ambassador’s wife, okay?”

“Lady Amanda Bolton,” Hussein said loudly from the driver’s seat, “I will tell your beloved husband, Sir Humphrey Bolton, of your dire predicament.” He then released the lock on the passenger door. Sarah opened it and stepped out.

“Lady Bolton, I’m glad you understand the situation and have agreed to come peacefully,” the sheikh said.

She looked into his large brown eyes. “If you dare to lay a finger on me, you will be answerable to the British government for your actions.”

“Of course.” The sheikh bowed low and then held out his hand to assist her with getting into his Jeep. She ignored his offer of help and hoisted herself up into the passenger seat. Through the dirty windscreen of the vehicle, she watched Hussein drive away in the ambassador’s car, the British flag fluttering regally at the front.

It took a few minutes for the sheikh’s men to organise themselves and climb into the back of the open Jeep, but once they were settled, the sheikh took off his gun and gave it to one of them. He then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Before he put it into gear, he turned and smiled at his passenger.

“Don’t worry, Lady Bolton. I will treat you as my honoured guest. Please see this as an excursion into a part of Yazan that few foreigners ever have the opportunity to visit.”

She hoped that as long as he thought that she was the ambassador’s wife, she would be safe. However, she wasn’t Lady Amanda Bolton; she was Dr. Sarah Greenwich from the Women’s Hospital in the capital. As they started out on the long drive through the desert to the wastelands of Sakara, she wondered what would happen to her when Sheikh Akbar found out.