Desert Rogue

Hayden Reed, consular agent, finished buttoning his trousers and passed the back of his hand across his sleep-laden eyes. Struggling to attach his shirt’s stiff collar, he wondered what emergency it was that would call him from his bed at two o’clock in the morning. He hoped that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him and his work. Yet no matter the situation, the tall, slim Englishman vowed he would handle it. With unperturbed movements that belied his nervousness, he applied pomade to his hair, and a few swift strokes of his silver-backed brush soon had every golden strand impeccably in place.

He rinsed his hands and wiped them fastidiously, then checked his appearance in the mirror. Should the matter now demanding his attention call for the appraisal of his immediate supervisor, Hayden wanted to look every inch the proper British government servant. And if it was, indeed, his superior who had summoned him for questioning, a flawless appearance would not be amiss.

Easing into his expensively tailored suit jacket, and gently tugging the end of each sleeve so that not too much shirt cuff was exposed, he opened the door between his temporary bachelor rooms and the long hallway that led to the government offices at the other end of the building.

His inordinately fine leather shoes softly tapped out his progress as he trod along the corridor, happy that marrying Victoria Shaw meant he could leave his rather Spartan quarters behind and move into a house in a fashionable area of Cairo. A private residence would be so much more useful to a man in his line of work, and he looked forward to taking possession of it two days hence, a full three months before his wedding day.

When he reached the door that led to the office, Hayden straightened his tie and shoulders before making his entrance, his left eyebrow cocked to a suitably inquisitive yet critical degree.

Prepared for just about any crisis, the tall, wiry Englishman had never expected a sight the likes of which greeted him. It caused him to breathe easier. There standing on the costly, intricately handwoven carpet before his desk were two of the most bedraggled human beings Hayden had ever seen in the company of a common Egyptian constable, who appeared to be tempering his own irritation toward the pair with obsequious apologies for disturbing him at such an odd hour.

The unlikely duo was a study in contrasts. One was Egyptian, of obvious Bedouin stock, yet his demeanor and clothing, shredded though it was, proclaimed him to be a man of business rather than a nomad. But it was the other man who commanded Hayden’s attention. A Caucasian, the fellow was nonetheless one of the scruffiest-looking specimens Hayden had encountered in quite some time. Dressed in the sort of well-worn kit one might don on an archaeological dig, the man sported a heavy brown stubble of beard and, judging from his arrogant grin, an attitude that struck Hayden as even more prickly.

“What’s all this, then?” Hayden asked condescendingly. The question had been directed to the police official, the two men apparently in custody being, of course, beneath his notice.

“Most honored sir,” the constable began, “a small problem has arisen.”

“If it is so trifling, why bother me with it?” Hayden inquired, not troubling to offer the policeman a seat. This was merely a civil matter and not his own actions being called to task.

“Please hear me out. You are aware, of course, that the Egyptian constabulary is autonomous,” the officer began, his spine straightening and his chest puffing out with importance. “It is only as a favor to you that I bring these two men here, and certainly not because we are subordinate to Britain.”

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Hayden brusquely commanded with a wave of his hand, knowing as well as the uniformed Egyptian that the police force was independent in name only.

“My presence tonight concerns these two,” the policeman stated with a nod, his tones made more deferential by Hayden’s obvious impatience.

Hayden studied the pair in question, noting the apprehension in the Bedouin’s eyes and the casual nonchalance of the other man. The one was obviously contrite about his part in whatever had occurred, while his companion appeared to be merely amused, a sentiment Hayden did not share as he thought of his comfortable bed at the opposite end of the corridor and the upset he had felt when he had been awakened.

“These criminals were involved in a most dreadful altercation, mudir. But since I suspected that fellow there might be a countryman of yours,” the constable said as he gestured toward Jed Kincaid, “and despite the fact reports show this is the third fight the fellow has been involved in today, I thought it best to learn your wishes in the matter before I placed him and his opponent in jail.”

“I tried to tell him I’m an American and not English,” came a casual drawl from across the room, forcing Hayden’s attention.

“Your nationality is quite evident,” the British official replied in clipped tones. The man, with his sun-burnished skin and raw strength, was all too primitive for Hayden’s taste. There was very little that was civilized about him, from his clothing to his manner. Dismissing him, Hayden pointedly turned to the portly constable once more. “As far as I am concerned, you can throw them both in jail for as long as you wish.”

“No, most respected sir,” the Egyptian in custody protested, his concern for Fatima overcoming his natural cautiousness in dealing with British officials. “I am not to blame. I was merely trying to recover money from this villain for the damages he did to my humble shop during one of his rampages. I asked him for payment, and that is when he set upon and attacked me.”

“And with good reason,” Jed growled, remembering the dark eyes and soft femininity of the woman employed at Nadir’s establishment.

“There was nothing to excuse your assaulting me,” interrupted the constable, his pride as bruised as his jaw.

“I wouldn’t have had a chance to hit you if you hadn’t been in that brothel,” Jed replied, his low, husky voice ripe with insinuation.

“I—I was merely con-conducting an investigation,” sputtered the squat, little police official.

“Yeah? Maybe you should ask him just what it was he was investigating,” Jed muttered skeptically to Hayden Reed.

“Never mind that! Let’s get back to the original issue. Why did you attack this Egyptian?” snapped Hayden with a nod in Ali’s direction.

“He asked for it. Besides, he deserved a good pounding for retreating into his shop when those other three jumped me. Is that what the shopkeepers in the medina do when an innocent man is beset by cutthroats?”

“I am nothing if not a law-abiding citizen. I do not become involved in common street brawls,” objected Ali. Never, in all his years in Cairo, had he called himself to the attention of the police or the English authorities.

“All that effort to recover a few piasters for some cheap tin and copper? I doubt that. It could be that you’re associated with the men who tried to rob and kill me. Maybe it was your job to see that I didn’t get away,” bluffed Jed coolly. He’d be damned if he was going to spend a night behind bars while the fellow who had interrupted his pleasure went free.

“My only quarrel with you was to recover the price of the goods you had ruined. By Allah, I swear it,” Ali maintained, casting a nervous glance in Hayden’s direction. One never knew what these foreigners would believe.

“This doesn’t concern me,” Hayden stated with the exasperation of one of the upper class forced to deal with inferiors. “Though I thank you, Constable, for your intention of allowing me to help decide the fate of one of my countrymen, what you do with these two is your concern. For all I care, you can lock them up and lose the key.”

“Whoa, one minute, Mr. Hayden Reed!” Jed shouted over Ali’s moan of despair. “I happen to know Great Britain runs the show here, and if you think you can turn your back on this Yank and wash your hands of me, you people are going to have another damn revolution on your hands!”

When Hayden replied, his ice blue eyes had turned frostier. “Is that a threat, Mr....?”

“Kincaid. Jed Kincaid.” He’d dealt with men like this before, Jed thought, long-suppressed images of his stepfather coming to mind after so many years. And he’d see himself in hell before he surrendered to propriety and played by this stuffy Englishman’s absurd rules. “And it’s no threat, Reed. It’s a reality.”

“See here, you colonial clod, your blustering has no effect on me,” Hayden retorted with disdain, half wishing that he had grounds to order this upstart American’s execution. Looking at the restless energy of the man before him, he doubted many jail cells had been built that could contain this powerful thug for very long. To imprison him and then have him escape would only feed the American’s already considerable ego as well as give the consul general cause to reassess his junior aide’s performance. The possibility made Hayden decide he should settle this matter—thoroughly frighten the man and then extract a promise from the bloody bounder to leave Cairo immediately and not return. As for the merchant, he would lecture him, as well. It wouldn’t do to have the natives think they could do whatever they pleased.

“I will tend to this problem,” Hayden began, waving the policeman out the door. Then he turned to Jed Kincaid. “Someone has to teach you proper respect for authority.”

“Many a man has tried,” Jed retorted, a dangerous glint lighting his emerald eyes, “and not one of them has succeeded.”

“Obviously,” Hayden replied dryly. “But now it is my turn.”

Concerned with their confrontation, both the American and Briton had forgotten Ali, standing quietly in the corner, viewing the escalating tension with growing anxiety. Hayden was determined to bend Jed Kincaid’s will to his own, and the American was just as resolved not to comply. As the two proud males squared off against each other, Ali feared that no matter who won, he would ultimately emerge as the loser.

But before either man could take any action, the door to the office burst open and one of the fellaheen entered quickly, carrying a message for the person in charge at the moment.

“Put it on the desk and then get out,” Hayden Reed ordered brusquely, not sparing the native Cairene a glance.

“But, mudir, it is most important!” the fellow protested vehemently. “This is from Mrs. Shaw.”

“There’s nothing so important that Mrs. Shaw would feel compelled to send me a missive at this time of night,” Hayden replied, the servant’s insistence filling him with uneasiness all the same. Then a possibility emerged, ladening him with dread. Could Cameron Shaw have died, gone to his Maker before he could use his influence to procure a title for his future son-in-law? Reed paled at the thought, forgot the disturbers of the peace and whirled around to confront the Shaws’ employee. “Nothing has happened to Mr. Shaw, has it?” he demanded anxiously, “or to Miss Victoria?”

“It is the young miss, to be sure,” the servant replied while Hayden tore open the seal and scanned the letter addressed to him.

Its contents all but undid the consular agent’s practiced reserve, and he sank into his seat, an upset and bitter man. Life’s greatest treasure had been stolen from him. Yes, of course he was worried about Victoria, she was everything he could want in a wife, and he had grown fond of her. But along with his fiancée, it was his own rise to power and social position that had, it would seem, been abducted. He slumped down further into his seat. Wondering if it was Victoria’s link to him and his own profession that had precipitated so tragic an event, he threw Grace Shaw’s letter onto the desk and rested his throbbing head in his hands.

Sensing that he and Ali had been forgotten, and curious as to what could visibly move a man of Reed’s reserve, Jed drew closer to the desk to read the decidedly feminine scrawl on the proper, watermarked stationery. The first few lines caused his lips to curl in a grim smile. It would seem Hayden Reed was in for a long night.

“Is this Victoria anything special to you?” Jed asked the benumbed British official.

“Miss Shaw is my fiancée, and I will thank you to refrain from mentioning her name. It should not be uttered by a man of your ilk,” Reed snapped before turning back to the servant. “Five thousand pounds! I can’t possibly raise such a sum in time.”

“The money is no problem, mudir. The mistress has sent someone to Mr. Shaw’s bank to fetch it.”

“But even given that, do you think we can get it to the oasis south of Wadi Halfa in five days’ time?” fretted Hayden.

“Wait a minute!” interrupted Kincaid. “I can’t be hearing right. You aren’t planning on paying the ransom for this girl’s return, are you?”

“What we do is none of your affair, Kincaid,” growled Reed.