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Authors: Alexandra Thomas
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defector.
But John could respect the old man’s wish to live out his old age in a high-walled, windowless Arab house which was more home to him than any retirement to Tunbridge Wells. There was even more sense in the loose robe and headscarf in this weather. The sand seeped everywhere. It even got into pockets.
“Is that what you are so worried about?” John asked, more gently. “I don’t quite see myself as Lawrence of Arabia.”
“But the robe?”
“Will it make you feel any better if I tell you it is nothing like that? You’ll have to take my word for it.”
The last call to passengers asking them to embark came over the loudspeaker, first in Arabic and then in English, though it was difficult to distinguish one language from the other. But any announcement at this time could only mean one thing, and the last passengers began to filter through the exit onto the tarmac.
“Will you drive back with Sheila?” he asked Don Parker. “Brett will send a boy to pick up your car when the shammal’s over.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, mate,” Don grinned.
John gripped Sheila’s arm briefly. It was an inadequate gesture, he knew, in the circumstances.
He hurried through the exit, anxious to be away to freedom, to England, to an uncomplicated bachelor life. The swirling sand flew up to meet him.
He ran up the steps to board the gleaming aircraft. The hostess stood at the top, holding on to her smart hat with one hand and trying to control her boarding list with the other.
“Mr. Cameron? Mr. John Cameron. You are the last. Welcome aboard.” John followed the hostess into the aircraft, ducking his head as he went through the cabin doorway.
The cabin door clanged shut behind him. They were wasting no more time. The notices NO SMOKING and FASTEN YOUR SAFETY BELTS had already flickered on, green and red.
“Your seat is reserved for you, Mr. Cameron,” the hostess went on, indicating an empty aisle seat. An Arab woman was sitting in the other seat, heavily robed and veiled. A slender hand was timidly holding the window curtain aside. The Arab woman turned, and John found himself looking into the unmistakable dark eyes of Khadija.
Chapter Four
“Khadija!” There was rising anger in his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I journey to London with you, my husband,” said Khadija, as meek as a mouse.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said John curtly. “I’m not standing for any more of your harem tricks. You’re getting off this plane this instant!”
He lurched up the aisle, aware that the aircraft was moving, slowly taxiing to the head of the runway for take-off. The air hostess was settling herself into a seat at the back, clasping the safety belt round her neat waist.
“Can you stop the plane?” John shouted. “This woman has got to get off.”
The air hostess looked up in alarm. “Please, sir! Will you get back to your seat and fasten your safety belt. We are just about to take off.”
“We can’t take off,” John insisted. “There has been a terrible mistake.”
But the rest of his words were lost in the roar of the powerful engines as they thrust into life. With immense quickness of mind, the air hostess pulled John down into the empty seat beside her and flung the safety belt round his middle, snapping it into place just as the plane began gathering speed.
“Surely you don’t want to start your leave with a dislocated neck,” she said, trying to regain her composure.
“Thanks,” said John, aware that she must have hurt herself straining against her own strapping. “But it is an emergency.”
“Only life or death is an emergency, Mr. Cameron,” she replied. “If there has been a mistake, then the passenger can alight at Kuwait and fly back to Shuqrat.”
The plane soared into the air, climbing fast at a steep angle. John looked over the heads of the passengers. The black robed figure of Khadija looked unnaturally limp and huddled.
“Can I go forward?” John asked. “I
But John could respect the old man’s wish to live out his old age in a high-walled, windowless Arab house which was more home to him than any retirement to Tunbridge Wells. There was even more sense in the loose robe and headscarf in this weather. The sand seeped everywhere. It even got into pockets.
“Is that what you are so worried about?” John asked, more gently. “I don’t quite see myself as Lawrence of Arabia.”
“But the robe?”
“Will it make you feel any better if I tell you it is nothing like that? You’ll have to take my word for it.”
The last call to passengers asking them to embark came over the loudspeaker, first in Arabic and then in English, though it was difficult to distinguish one language from the other. But any announcement at this time could only mean one thing, and the last passengers began to filter through the exit onto the tarmac.
“Will you drive back with Sheila?” he asked Don Parker. “Brett will send a boy to pick up your car when the shammal’s over.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, mate,” Don grinned.
John gripped Sheila’s arm briefly. It was an inadequate gesture, he knew, in the circumstances.
He hurried through the exit, anxious to be away to freedom, to England, to an uncomplicated bachelor life. The swirling sand flew up to meet him.
He ran up the steps to board the gleaming aircraft. The hostess stood at the top, holding on to her smart hat with one hand and trying to control her boarding list with the other.
“Mr. Cameron? Mr. John Cameron. You are the last. Welcome aboard.” John followed the hostess into the aircraft, ducking his head as he went through the cabin doorway.
The cabin door clanged shut behind him. They were wasting no more time. The notices NO SMOKING and FASTEN YOUR SAFETY BELTS had already flickered on, green and red.
“Your seat is reserved for you, Mr. Cameron,” the hostess went on, indicating an empty aisle seat. An Arab woman was sitting in the other seat, heavily robed and veiled. A slender hand was timidly holding the window curtain aside. The Arab woman turned, and John found himself looking into the unmistakable dark eyes of Khadija.
Chapter Four
“Khadija!” There was rising anger in his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I journey to London with you, my husband,” said Khadija, as meek as a mouse.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said John curtly. “I’m not standing for any more of your harem tricks. You’re getting off this plane this instant!”
He lurched up the aisle, aware that the aircraft was moving, slowly taxiing to the head of the runway for take-off. The air hostess was settling herself into a seat at the back, clasping the safety belt round her neat waist.
“Can you stop the plane?” John shouted. “This woman has got to get off.”
The air hostess looked up in alarm. “Please, sir! Will you get back to your seat and fasten your safety belt. We are just about to take off.”
“We can’t take off,” John insisted. “There has been a terrible mistake.”
But the rest of his words were lost in the roar of the powerful engines as they thrust into life. With immense quickness of mind, the air hostess pulled John down into the empty seat beside her and flung the safety belt round his middle, snapping it into place just as the plane began gathering speed.
“Surely you don’t want to start your leave with a dislocated neck,” she said, trying to regain her composure.
“Thanks,” said John, aware that she must have hurt herself straining against her own strapping. “But it is an emergency.”
“Only life or death is an emergency, Mr. Cameron,” she replied. “If there has been a mistake, then the passenger can alight at Kuwait and fly back to Shuqrat.”
The plane soared into the air, climbing fast at a steep angle. John looked over the heads of the passengers. The black robed figure of Khadija looked unnaturally limp and huddled.
“Can I go forward?” John asked. “I
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