'I have no idea what you mean. Rumours are gossip and neither interests me.'
'They say you are so much wiser than your years—’
'That's sophomoric,' broke in the sultan.
'He said you had to be to—“run this place”, he said. It's difficult for one who treated you for mumps.'
'Don't dwell on it, Doctor. Just keep me informed.' Ahmat reached into the drawer where the base of the private telephone lay and punched a series of numbers. Within seconds, he spoke. 'I'm sorry, my family, I know you're asleep, but I must again bother you. Go to the compound at once. Amal Bahrudi wants to escape. With fish.' He hung up.
'What's happened?' asked the young sultan's wife as she rapidly walked forward.
'Please,' said Ahmat, his eyes on the stomach of his waddling spouse. 'You have only six weeks to go, Bobbie. Move slowly.'
'He's too much,' said Roberta Aldridge Yamenni, turning her head and addressing Khalehla at her side. This jock of mine came in around two thousand in the Boston marathon and he's telling me how to carry a baby. Is that too much?'
'The royal seed, Bobbie,' replied Khalehla, smiling.
'Royal, my foot! Diapers are one hell of an equalizer. Ask my mother, she had four of us in six years. Really, darling, what happened?'
'Our American congressman made contact in the compound. We're mocking up an escape.'
'It worked!' cried Khalehla, approaching the desk.
'It was your idea,' said Ahmat.
'Please, forget it. I'm way out of line here.'
'Nothing's out of line,' the youthful sultan said firmly. 'Appearances notwithstanding, risks notwithstanding, we need all the help we can get, all the advice we can gather… I apologize, Khalehla. I haven't even said hello. As with my cousins, my lowly policemen, I'm sorry to drag you out at this hour, but I knew you'd want to be here.'
'Nowhere else.'
'How did you manage it? I mean leaving the hotel at four in the morning.'
'Thank Bobbie. I add, however, Ahmat, that neither of our reputations has been enhanced.'
'Oh?' The sultan looked at his wife.
'Great Lord,' intoned Bobbie, her palms together, bowing and speaking in her Boston accent. 'This lovely lady is a courtesan from Cairo—nice ring to it, huh? Under the circumstances—' Here the royal wife outlined her swollen stomach with her hands and continued, 'The privilege of rank has its goodies. Speaking as one of Radcliffe's history graduates, which my former roommate here will attest, Henry the Eighth called it “riding in the saddle”. It happened when Anne Boleyn was too indisposed to accommodate her monarch.'
'For God's sake, Roberta, this isn't The King and I and I'm not Yul Brynner.'
'You are now, pal!' Laughing, Ahmat's wife looked at Khalehla. 'Of course, if you touch him, I'll scratch your eyes out.'
'Not to fear, my dear,' said Khalehla in mock seriousness. 'Not after what you've told me.'
'All right, you two,' Ahmat interrupted. His brief look expressed the gratitude he felt towards both women.
'We have to laugh now and then,' said his wife. 'Otherwise I think we'd go stark raving mad.'
'Raving as in mad,' agreed Ahmat quietly, settling his eyes on the woman from Cairo. 'How's your British businessman friend?'
'Raving as in drunk,' answered Khalehla. 'He was last seen half upright in the hotel's American Bar still calling me names.'
'It's not the worst thing that could happen to your cover.'
'Certainly not. I obviously go to the highest bidder.'
'What about our super patriots, the elder merchant princes who'd just as soon see me flee to the West in frustration as stay here?
