I opened my eyes after a night fraught with nightmares of strange faces, needles, X-rays and the stink of a hospital.
Khalid and I had both screamed bloody murder when they tried to separate us. Mr. C-B sat with us all night and he’d told me he’d called Khalid’s dad.
I looked over at my right and saw another bed in the semi-private room of a private hospital and clearly not one of national health. Khalid was lying quietly on his side watching me with a liter of blood hanging from a pole. He looked pasty and his face was a mess. My eyes went to his hand and it was in a plaster cast of puke lime green.
“Hey,” I rasped my throat hoarse. “How are you?”
“Alive. Thanks to you.” His eyes were filled with hero worship.
“Not me, Khal.” I shook my head and wished I had not. My neck ached as if a rugby guard had sat on it. Which he had.
“A friend sent a…fixer.”
“He fixed those two good,” he whispered. “Mr. C-B told me what happened. You okay?”
“He didn’t bugger me,” I shuddered. “Christ, Khalid, there was blood, liters of it, everywhere. I think he cut their throats.”
“Mr. C-B said no one’s found their bodies.”
“They won’t.” I knew that Schnee would make sure of that. A nurse walked in, smiled at the sight of us, and helped me to sit up.
“How are you, Aidan? Prince Khalid?”
“Throat’s sore,” I whispered.
“Your larynx was bruised when your assailant sat on you. Your father is here, Prince Khalid. The DI from Somerset wishes to speak to both of you when he’s present.”
A man dressed in a dark Saville Row suit entered after knocking. He was dark skinned with light brown eyes, a neat goatee and I saw the butt of a large gun hanging under his armpit. Khalid looked surprised.
“Rashid.”
He came forward, kissed Khalid on both cheeks, and did the same to me. He smelled of sandalwood. “My eternal thanks, young man, for saving the life of my younger brother.”
I looked at the boy in the bed. “Your brother?”
“One of them,” he smiled, taking Khalid’s unbroken hand. “Rashid el Melek. Number Two.”
“Prince Rashid?”
“Only at home. Here, I am Rashid Melek, bodyguard. Security. Father will be here in ten minutes.”
On the dot, an entourage of Saudi nobles in suits filled our room bringing typical sickroom gifts of fruit, magazines, and fresh clothing for both of us.
I tried to get up and bow; my early training on royal etiquette kicking in but the older gentleman in the sharp suit and headdress pressed on my shoulders and bowed. To me. He was an older version of Rashid, with a devilish twinkle in his eyes and a dimpled chin.
“My honor and eternal thanks to you, Aidan Argent,” he said in proper English with an Etonian accent.
I said in Arabic, “Your son is my friend, Sheikh. I only wish I could have prevented those sons of a diseased camel from hurting him at all.”
His eyebrows rose and he broke into a delighted babble of Arabic. “You speak my language! Who taught you? Your accent is like my own.”
“I speak many languages. It is my blessing.”
“French?” I nodded.
“Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, Farsi, Turkish, Armenian, Arabic, Tuareg, Chinese, Hindu. I speak them all.”
“Allah be merciful! How?”
“Woke up one morning and was the Tower of Babel,” I shrugged.
“I’m taking Khalid home. Would you care to accompany him? He tells me you are alone until your parents come back from sabbatical. The Head Master told me he has attempted to contact them and cannot reach them.”
I swallowed. That could be a problem. They were in Cornwall with no idea I was alive.
“Inspector Novelette wishes to speak with you, Master Aidan. About your attackers. And the disappearance of the two boys, Jason Chelmsley and Peter Glenellen.”
“I know nothing about them,” I denied flatly. He didn’t press us but visited with both of us until the Matron shooed them along.