While she was impressed by the private Airbus 480, and by the opulence of the harem's appointments, and by the attentiveness of the ubiquitous staff, she really disliked the claustrophobia of knowing that she could not just walk out of the door and stroll down the road to nowhere in particular. It was not that she actually wanted to walk anywhere in the oppressive heat of the Kobekistani summer, rather that she wanted the freedom to choose not to do so.As Veronica was preparing to dine alone, in her guest room, as a break from the hectic round of dinners with the Emir, her step-mother, her sister and her niece in various combinations, the telephone rang in the guest suite."Hullo," she said, wondering who might be telephoning her here."Good evening, Countess," said a pleasant tenor voice, "Allow me to introduce myself, since nobody else has seen fit to do so. I am Crown Prince Mustapha, the eldest son of the Emir. We met once at Stapleford Grange many years ago, while I was still at. Obviously, the renegade and Bourdichon were fighting. The French lieutenant was their best chance, Harriet knew.“Jenny, we must help him!” she hissed.She opened the cabin door and peeked out. Nobody was in sight, but she saw the shadows of the fighters cast by the light from Pettigrew’s cabin. Just as Harriet neared the Reverend’s cabin, Bourdichon groaned in pain and sank to the deck, just outside Pettigrew’s cabin. Without thinking, Harriet raised her pistol and fired it at the blood-covered renegade. With a curse, the man sank to the deck, too, blood spouting from his left chest.Jenny at Harriet’s side was thinking on her feet. Quickly, she pulled the pistol from Bourdichon’s waistband and put in on the deck next to his right hand. On first impression, it looked like Bourdichon had shot the renegade. Then she pushed Harriet back into the cabin.With trembling hands, Harriet reloaded the empty barrel of her pistol, whilst excited voices could be heard outside and hysterical screams.
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