Prologue

She wasn't sure how she felt. What she did know was that her feelings were different from the first occasion she had pledged herself to a man. Even if her daughters hadn't been there on that occasion either; which would have been something of a miracle anyway given they had yet to be born or even conceived of at the time.

Not for the first time over the last seven months or so on from when he had made his intentions plain, she questioned her feelings for him and why they had changed. Certainly, she no longer felt the same antipathy towards him she had felt in the past. But antipathy in diluted form was still a long way short of love.

Or even genuine fondness.

And it wasn't her feelings alone she had failed to consider.

Her daughters had been against her marrying again right from the start and their feelings towards the man intended to replace their sorely missed father were not becoming any warmer.

In fact, the more he tried to make himself amenable the more they seemed to dislike him.

Again, she cursed the job that had taken her husband from her and transported him to another land from which he was destined not to return. There was not a day that passed during which she didn't miss him. It was as if a part of her were AWOL and to compensate she had filled the void with the first sympathetic man to come along.

It was a disturbing thought and, after only a week of marriage, she was becoming surer by the minute that she had made a very bad error of judgment.

She was also certain her late-husband's parents felt the same way about the new model, though, good people that they were, no mention of their misgivings was made.

Which was more than could be said for her own mother and father who, good people as they were, could not prevent themselves from warning her off the new man.

And her siblings had to be heard to be believed, so outraged were they by her choice.

Alone in the home they had once shared, her new husband away visiting a friend, she looked at herself in the black dress she always wore to take flowers to the memorial plaque she and her daughters had insisted be struck for a loving husband and father.

To outward appearances nothing had changed.

Physically.

On the inside, however, it could just as well have been a pod from the body-snatchers in residence.

Again not for the first time, she took a photo of her late-husband from her handbag and wondered why she had allowed the new version to persuade her if would be a good idea to put pictures of the old out-of-sight.

Far from taking her mind from her loss, she not only felt about him more often but now felt guilty into the bargain.

Her mind wandered back to that day at Gatwick when she had waved goodbye and he had disappeared through departures.

Had she had any idea just what an impact his departure would have on their lives going ahead, she would have dragged him out of that airport and kicked and screamed until he not only left the airport with her but called his company and told them that not only would he not be leaving that day but that he would NEVER be leaving at all...

 

 

Incarcerated - Day One

 

Martin Houseman vaguely recalled being out of his tree drunk - despite the fact he was at the end of only his first week in a country where alcohol was proscribed.

But then the men he had been in company with were old hands in this backward but oil-rich protectorate of Saudi and knew where a good time could be had - even in such a religiously hidebound kingdom.

One moment he was drinking with the rest of the guys on the construction site he had been called over from England to project-manage.

The next he was waking up here!

Laying nude in a filthy cell with a tray of disgusting looking prison food laying upon the dusty floor ignored.

Houseman's head was thumping, his whole body ached, and he felt exhausted.

And with no clear memory of what he had done to get in such a condition.

At this point, though he was worried, he was not exactly panicked. The guys from the site he had been drinking with would surely have noticed he was missing and contacted the British Consulate - if that is, they weren't banged-up in the cells to either side of him. He was English, how serious could it be?

He would soon know.

His head all but exploded when a prison-officer with shinny boots and a twirling

Baton banged it against the bars of his cell.

"You are in deep trouble," he said in flawless English," not to know his prisoner had decent, if not comprehensive, Arabic.

"I was drunk. That's all," Houseman protested.

"A spy and a drunk? It is more serious than we thought."

"Spy? What the hell are you talking about?" he protested. "My name's Martin Houseman and I was invited over here by your Minister of Construction to supervise the building of the new leisure complex on the Gulf. I'm a respected married man of forty-four with a wife and three grown children, not some undercover-agent."

"Then why were you trespassing on the property of Madam Quadira if it was not to spy?"

"Look, I don't remember being on anybody's property. I was simply drunk and I'll apologise to anybody I've offended. Had I been sober and seen the signs I would never have trespassed, I promise."

"The property of a woman as important as Madam Quadira does NOT need any signs. ALL know better than to insult her in such a way.

The man drew himself up and fixed Houseman with a stared that was almost homicidal in its intensity.

"Left to me," he said, "I would simply order your execution."

Had it not been for that fanatical look contorting his features, Martin Houseman might have passed it off as some kind of joke on his part, but there was no question the man was serious when he added:

"You are either an assassin or a spy and at the very least should be soundly whipped!"

Houseman himself was angry now.

Yes, it had been stupid of him. He knew he was in a religiously strict region of the world and had enough experience of working in the area to know how seriously they took infringements of their law. But to be called a spy and threatened not just with a whipping but execution? His only intention had been to bond a little with the other members of the project that it might run more smoothly.

What had seemed a good idea at the time looking more and more flawed by the minute. As did his decision to take up the offer of a two-year contract oversees - no matter how lucrative. Sure, two flights home a year were included, but what had possessed him to leave Christine and the girls for so long - and especially when he knew how smitten his younger brother was with his lovely wife.

Not that he didn't trust Christine. That was a given.

Terry though?

That little shit was another matter entirely.

The saving grace was that his parents and Christine's lived nearby and he knew his daughters despised his brother.

As did Christine.

And most everyone who knew him come to that.

Including his own parents.

Just the same though: "a spy and a drunk?".

How devout could one religious fanatic be?

The answer being, given what he knew of the region and its religious beliefs, a great deal.

"I was asked here to work on a project that will mean much in the way of revenue and prestige for your country and I'm sorry to have offended," he told the man. "But I will not be threatened."

The man simply stared back at him and he went on:

"And I am sure your Madam Quadira, if she is as important in the country as you say she is, would not want to have an invited guest treated the way I've been treated - and she certainly wouldn't want them whipped or executed!"

Houseman's voice had risen as he continued

"How do you presume not know what such an important and powerful person expects?" he asked as his eyes narrowed at the thought he might have made a mistake. "Have you stopped to think that she might be angry with you and your colleagues rather than me, an invited guest doing important work intended to make your country a considerable amount of revenue?"

The prospect the Englishman might not be the one to find disfavour in the eyes of this "Madam Quadira" struck him for the first time and his dark features seemed a whole lot paler of a sudden.

Whoever this woman was, Houseman's thoughts told him, she obviously exerted a lot of clout - which in itself in this region was a rarity for a woman who he assumed was not of the Royal Family.

Certainly, the prospect she could be displeased with the treatment of a foreign national important to a work of infrastructure likely to boost the country's revenue and standing was not pleasing to the guard who was indeed giving the situation much in the way of thought.

"And, while you are attempting to think, where are my clothes?"

The awed guard was, in point of fact, not only pale but appeared to be shaking as he left Houseman alone and went away to give some serious thought to his next moves.

Moves, a naked Houseman prayed, that included the return of his clothes.

"If I were you," he called after him, fatefully as it would turn out, "I would contact your 'Madam Quadira' and let her know exactly what you have done."

No reply came back to him and, feeling a little more certain of himself, he tried to rest in his cramped cell as he awaited the arrival of the British Consulate.

And waited...