The Sterling Standard

Prologue

The black sedan skidded to a stop, raising a cloud of gritty dust from the bricks in front of the royal palace of Rashman. On the street an old man leading an oxcart and a hunchbacked beggar watched in wonder as four men carrying automatic weapons sprang out of the car and ran across the forecourt of the palace. The men wore green combat fatigues and black Arab headdresses. They raced past a bubbling fountain and up the marble steps that led to the entrance.

Before the doors, two members of the palace guard in ornate crimson-and-gold uniforms stared at the onrushing men. One of the guards reached for his holstered .45 automatic.

The leader of the four, a smaller man than the others, but obviously in command, swiveled his AK-47 rifle toward the guard and pulled the trigger. The weapon stuttered. The guard spun around and slammed against the wall beside the palace doors. He slid to the ground with great red blotches spreading on his chest. The pistol was still in his holster.

The second guard threw up his hands. The whites of his eyes showed clearly in the dark, frightened face. Do not shoot, Gatrun. I am with you!

The small man studied him with fierce black eyes. You know me?

The guard spoke rapidly, his eyes pleading. Everyone knows Gatrun, the liberator.

You would join me now and deny your king?

Khalil is no king to me.

If you knew Gatrun well, you would know he has no use for turncoats.

The rifle chattered again and the second guard lurched backward, clawing at his throat as blood spewed from his mouth.

At a signal from Gatrun, the armed men ran on past the fallen guards and into the grand foyer of the palace. The heels of their boots rang on the polished floor as they crossed the entrance hall and raced up a broad staircase. At the top of the stairs they kicked in a pair of tall, carved wooden doors.

Behind the doors was a large, sensual room that smelled of perfume. It was filled with cushions and couches, the walls covered with hangings and draperies of rich gold and crimson. At the far end of the room an ornate throne stood upon a dais. No one sat upon the throne.

Two people stood at the edge of the crimson carpet at the foot of the dais. One was an old man, wrinkled and brown as a dried fig. The other was a woman, plump and soft, with straight black hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She snatched up a veil to cover her face as the men burst in. One of the intruders leveled his rifle at the woman.

Hold! barked Gatrun.

She is the wife of Khalil.

She is nothing. You, woman, out!

The woman stepped cautiously past the men, then hurried out of the room. Gatrun turned his attention to the old man.

Where is Khalil? he demanded. Where is the filth who calls himself king?

He is not here, said the old man in an unsteady voice.

I can see that, fool. Where is he? Speak, old camel, or you’ll wish you had.

The sudden thunder of a helicopter passing low over the palace froze them all for an instant. Gatrun ran to one of the high arched windows in time to see the craft pass overhead. It was painted the royal crimson and gold of Rashman. As Gatrun watched, it climbed sharply and headed toward the west.

He swore viciously in Arabic and spun around to face the old man. That was Khalil?

It was.

His destination? Quickly!

The old man spread his hands. It cannot be a secret for long. The king plans exile in the principality of Monaco.

Gatrun glared at the window. The helicopter was no longer in sight. He had word we were coming. Who warned him, old man?

I do not know.

Gatrun stepped forward and brought the butt of his rifle around sharply, catching the old man on the side of the head. He dropped to the floor with a soft cry.

Speak, you ancient bag of bones. Who gave warning to the pig Khalil?

The old man looked up at Gatrun. A trail of blood wormed across his cheek. You cannot beat out of me information I do not possess. Your presence in the city was known to a number of men. Khalil was not unaware of your purpose. But I myself knew nothing of his plans until this morning when he prepared to leave.

For several seconds Gatrun held the muzzle of his weapon close to the old man’s face. Then he raised the rifle and stepped back.

Get up.

Moving painfully, the old man obeyed.

The ruby, Gatrun demanded. The Rashman Ruby?

The old man turned slowly and gestured toward one corner of the room. There a tapestry had been jerked askew, revealing a safe built into the wall. The heavy door hung open.

Gatrun strode across the room and knelt before the safe. He reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Quickly he shuffled through them, then flung them to the floor.

Damn his eyes! He has stolen it. The Rashman Ruby belongs to the people, not the fat jackal who called himself king. You saw him take it?

The old man pulled himself erect. One hand held a bloodstained kerchief to the side of his head. I did.

And you made no move to stop him?

It was not in my power to do so.

Gatrun spat on the carpet. The pig will not get away. We will track him down, and he will pay dearly. He turned to his men. Jamaal, Rashid, you will prepare to leave with me at once for Monaco. Ali, you contact our friends here and tell them to withhold all action until my return.

The three men nodded assent and started out. At the door one of them turned back. What of Josef Tal? He has a following among the people.

He is no threat to us now. With Khalil fled and the ruby gone, there will be no elections in Rashman. When we have the ruby we will have the power. That is when we deal with Josef Tal.

The others left and Gatrun spoke to the old man. You are lucky. As a loyal advisor to that pig of a so-called king, you should die now. But you are old and feeble, and will not last much longer anyway. Nevertheless, I want you out of Rashman. If I find you here on my return I will kill you. There must be no reminders of the corrupt old regime. He turned abruptly away and followed his men out.

The white-haired man was still standing alone in the throne room several minutes later when an excited group burst in through the broken doors. Josef Tal, a young man with dark Arab eyes but the light brown hair of a European, hurried to his side.

Hafir, you are hurt.

A tap on the head. Nothing.

It was Gatrun?

Yes.

And the king?

Khalil got away. His machine took off for Monaco even as Gatrun and his thugs broke in.

The Rashman Ruby?

Gone with Khalil.

Josef slammed a fist into his palm. Damn!

Is the ruby so important? asked Hafir.

Josef’s scowl relaxed. He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. My friend, I need not tell you that our country is very small and very poor. For neighbors we have big, rich Saudi Arabia, and small, rich Kuwait. Poor Rashman is ignored by the world because we have no oil to offer at a time when oil is everything.

But you have said there is oil here, said Hafir.

I would stake my life on it. But it is deep under the ground. It must be brought up. Khalil, like his father and grandfather, refused to permit drilling in our land. Poor, small-minded men, they feared that to enrich their country would cost them the control of the people. They have let our poor economy rest on a symbol, the Rashman Ruby. For generations our people have revered the gem as though it possessed some magical power. I propose to teach them that our true wealth lies in the ground, and that the ruby is just a stone.

Can you not assume power now that Khalil is fled—and Gatrun gone, at least for the moment?

I do not want power that way. In any event, I would fail. No government can function in Rashman now without the ruby. Before we can make any move, I must bring it back. Once the people realize their stone is gone, it will mean anarchy.

And if the ruby is taken by Gatrun?

He will use it to finance his bloody band of terrorists. We must not let that happen.

What do you propose?

I will go to Monaco. One way or another, I will bring back the Rashman Ruby.

That will not be easy. Khalil has with him members of his personal guard. And there is Gatrun.

I know. But there is no time to spend in preparations. I must do what I can. Who else knows the ruby is gone?

Only you, I, Gatrun, and his men.

Josef crossed the room, slammed shut the door of the safe, and straightened the tapestry that hung over it. Let no one else learn of it. Swear, if you must, that the ruby is here and locked up safely.

I will do so.

The two men faced each other. Josef embraced the old man. I know I can rely on you. He stepped back and seemed to search for words. My friend, of Gatrun and I, only one will return to Rashman. If it is I, I want you at my side as we rebuild our country.

I will be honored.

But if it is Gatrun … He left the sentence unfinished.

I understand, said Hafir. Gatrun already warned me of my fate if I remain here. Rashman is my home. It was my father’s home, and my grandfather’s, and so on, farther back than I can count. I will take my chances that it is you and not Gatrun who returns from Monaco.

Watch over our country, my friend. Until later, then.

Until later.

They clasped hands for a moment, then Josef Tal strode from the palace.

Chapter 1

The principality of Monaco is spread over two rocky promontories that jut into the Mediterranean, and the strip of land immediately behind and between them. The total area is half that of New York’s Central Park. There is a population of five thousand Monegasques and twenty-four thousand resident aliens. Since 1861, when Monaco became an independent state and legalized gambling, uncounted millions of visitors have passed through the country. A considerable number of these visitors have been members of royalty, both reigning and exiled.

The most recent royal arrival was King Ibn Khalil, late of Rashman. The king stood at the window of his sprawling pink villa at the high end of Boulevard d’Italie and stared peevishly out over the sparkling blue sea. He wore a crimson-and-gold dressing gown loosely belted around his ample stomach. He had small eyes sunk in a fatty face. The few remaining black hairs on his round head were combed from one side of his scalp to the other.

Khalil turned from the window to face a scholarly young man in neat tweeds who stood across the room.

It is four days now since we arrived in Monte Carlo, Emmett, he said. Four days the king of Rashman has been here, and how many reporters have come up the hill to talk to me? I ask you, how many?

Emmett Franklin, Boston-born, Harvard-educated, had been personal secretary to Khalil for two years. He knew the king did not ask rhetorical questions. He expected an answer, even when he already knew what it was. One, said Emmett. One reporter.

"Precisely. And who did he represent, this intrepid newsman? One of the wire services? A television network? The Times? Le Monde? Figaro?"

No, sir.

No, indeed, said the king. He was from some ragtag socialist sheet not fit for a Fedayeen toilet. Where are the others? Have they not been informed that I am here?

I have not invited inquiries, knowing you would not want a lot of vulgar publicity, sir, Franklin said mildly.

Well, no, of course not. Khalil dipped his pudgy hand into a bowl of chocolate creams and stuffed four of them into his mouth. Still, I should think some of them might show some initiative. What about the local authorities? The important visitors? Have there been no gifts? No invitations?

Not yet, sir.

Khalil blew out his breath with an exasperated, bubbling sound. He wiped chocolate from his lips with his fingers, then licked the fingers. I think it’s time I went into the city and showed myself. Let the people who matter know I am here. Besides, I am dying for some of that white fish with cheese and things that they serve at the Hotel de Paris.

Timbales de sole Grimaldi, Franklin supplied.

Whatever they call it. I am fed up with Babul’s cooking.

Do you think it is wise to go out just yet, sir?

I don’t care. I will not be cooped up here like some prisoner. This is not Rashman. There are no maniacs with guns in the streets.

Gatrun?

I am not afraid of him. I need some diversion. A good meal. A good fuck. Speaking of which, has Babul returned yet with the girl?

Not yet.

Why is it taking him so long? Surely Monte Carlo has no shortage of young women willing to sell their bodies at a generous price.

Perhaps Babul is having trouble finding one that fits your specifications. Even in Monte Carlo, beautiful blond girls are not all that plentiful.

Surely more plentiful here than in Rashman, eh?

Khalil laughed, wheezing for breath. Emmett Franklin showed a cool smile.

One thing I won’t have to worry about is Babul taking the girl for himself, eh?

That’s true.

I was born out of my time, Emmett. In the old days a monarch could surround himself with faithful eunuchs. Deprived of their balls, their only satisfaction came from serving their masters. I suppose I should be thankful to have even Babul in these days of so-called humanitarian laws. The poor creature is probably happier in his way than we are.

Quite possibly.

I do wish he would improve his cooking.

The knocker on the villa’s front door banged five times, in the rhythm of two-two-one.

Khalil brightened. This must be Babul now.

Franklin eased aside the drapery that closed off a front window and peered out. No, it’s one of the guards. Ephron.

See what he wants. The king crammed more chocolates into his mouth.

The secretary unlocked the door and spoke in low tones to a bulky man in a black wool suit and a hat that was too small for his head. After a minute he closed the door and returned to the living room.

He says Josef Tal is here.

Josef? What does he want?

To speak to you. Faud is holding him out at the gate. Shall I have him sent away?

No, Khalil said quickly. I’ll see him. Bring him to me.

Is that wise? Franklin asked.

Wise, wise! I will decide what is wise, Emmett. Bring Josef Tal to me.

Yes, sir.

Franklin left the villa with the guard Ephron. Khalil ate two more chocolates and poured himself a glass of thick purple wine from a carafe. Shortly Franklin returned with Josef Tal. The secretary then retreated from the room.

Well, Josef, so you found me.

It was not difficult.

No, I suppose not. May I offer you a glass of wine? Corsican, they tell me. A little heavy, but better than Moroccan.

I am not here socially, sir.

Ah. Well then, what is your purpose?

The Rashman Ruby.

I see. What about it?

You had no right to take it from Rashman.

I had every right. The ruby belongs to the House of Khalil. I am the last. The ruby is mine.

Josef shook his head. The ruby belongs to the people of Rashman. Its symbolic value far exceeds the actual worth of the gem. We must have the ruby to maintain a solid economy during any changeover in government.

My dear Josef, I am afraid that cannot be. You see, I too need the Rashman Ruby. Without it I have no assets. No power. When Gatrun and his terrorists drove me out, they left me little enough. Had the people not listened to this Marxist radical, I would still be in Rashman. And so would their beloved ruby.

It was not Gatrun who drove you out, said Josef. After generations of poverty and neglect, the people demanded a change. An election. Gatrun exploited the unrest to his own ends. If the ruby is not returned, the result will be chaos. It would mean the end of our country.

"And if the ruby is returned, then this so-called election would be held?"

Yes.

And who, dear Josef, do you think our population of camel drivers, date growers, beggars, and herders of goats would elect as their new leader?

For a moment Josef’s eyes shifted away, then they returned to meet the gaze of the king. The talk has it that I would be Rashman’s first president.

Khalil smiled, pleased with himself. Indeed. Then might we not agree that your quest for the Rashman Ruby is not entirely without self-interest?

That is not true. My concern is for my country.

"Your country, Josef? Your mother was an American, was she not? And were you not taken to America at an early age and educated there? It is barely more than three years since you returned to Rashman."

I never gave up my citizenship. It is true, as you well know, that I had to go abroad for my education, even as you did. There are no schools in Rashman.

Camel drivers need no schools.

"That is not the way we think any more. Rashman must have schools. We will have schools. I ask you again to return the ruby to your people."

"So they’re my people now, are they? My people would not have turned me out. Savages and scum, that is what the people of Rashman are. They are the refuse from our richer neighbors who would not have them. And you would have me turn over my ruby to this rabble? No, Josef. I will not do it."

Sir, this is not so much a request as a demand. One way or another, I mean to see that the ruby is restored to my country.

Ah, Josef, I do admire your sense of loyalty. Really, I do. However, it is sadly misplaced. These people who now cheer you and would make you their leader, where do you think you will stand with them in a year’s time if you have not fulfilled their dreams? If you have failed to make them all wealthy and beautified their women and cured their boils? They will turn you out as surely as they have me.

I don’t think so.

I will make you a counteroffer, said Khalil. Join me. I will always have room on my staff for a young man of ideals and a sense of loyalty. The funds I managed to place in foreign banks will guarantee us a good life. I can provide you with the finest in food and women, travel, fast motorcars, and the best accommodations always. I need someone like you. Someone I can talk to, play a game of chess with. Someone who is not afraid of me. What do you say? Will you cast your lot with me?

Josef Tal studied the king for a long moment with something like pity. No, he said simply. I cannot do that.

Khalil’s eyes hardened. His round, smooth cheeks flushed. Then the devil take you. Go back to your scabrous followers, your desert vermin, and lead them if you can. But go without the Rashman Ruby. It is mine, and I will keep it.

He made a sign with his hand and the guard Ephron stepped into the room. He moved to grasp Josef’s elbow, but the younger man jerked his arm away. He started out the door, then hesitated and turned back to the exiled king.

Gatrun is here, Josef said.

I know. My men can handle him.

Maybe, said Josef Tal. Take care. He walked out of the villa. Ephron hurried out behind him and closed the door.

Khalil picked up a handful of chocolates, then whirled and threw them at the window overlooking the Mediterranean. They bounced off the glass, leaving little brown smudges.

Behind him, Emmett Franklin cleared his throat.

Well, what is it? Khalil demanded.

Babul has returned with the girl.

Damned well time he did. Run her in and let’s have a look at her.

Franklin slipped out the door and returned a minute later. With him was a tall, expressionless man with a perfectly smooth, hairless face. Between them was a girl in her early twenties. Her hair was a bright artificial blond, her breasts and hips heavy, but set off by a small, cinched-in waist. Her red mouth formed an O as she goggled around the sumptuous living room.

What is her name? asked Khalil.

She calls herself Ondine, said Babul. The eunuch’s voice was a shallow tenor, without resonance.

That will do as well as any, said Khalil. Turn around, girl.

Self-consciously, she did as she was told, keeping her eyes on Khalil. Emmett Franklin and Babul watched impassively.

A little meaty in the buttocks, said Khalil.

There was a limited time for searching, Babul explained, and at this early hour, few of this type are on the streets.

Never mind. This one will do for now. Tonight we can replace her with something better.

Hold on just a minute, said the girl. Her accent was lower-class English, jarringly out of place in the Mediterranean setting. I don’t think I like bein’ talked about like I was a piece of bloody furniture. I’m a person, and I’ll thank you to remember it.

Did you tell her who I am, Babul? asked Khalil, ignoring the outburst.

I tried to, sir.

Oh, sure, he said you were some kind of a king or something. Well, let me tell you, mister, in my business a girl learns not to believe most of what she hears.

A frown clouded Khalil’s face for a moment, then faded. You are quite right, my dear … Ondine, was it? These days, no matter what your profession, it is not wise to be too trusting. Suppose we deal in something more tangible than titles. What is your usual rate?

In dollars or francs?

Let us say dollars.

Thirty for a straight party, fifty for specialties, and a hundred fifty for all night.

I will pay you five hundred dollars for the rest of the day. The night is your own.

The girl’s eyes grew wide. She gave Khalil a bright smile. You’re on. For that kind of money, I’ll play any game you fancy.

The king spoke to Emmett Franklin. Give her two hundred now and the rest this evening when we’ve finished.

Franklin produced a billfold and counted out the money. Ondine took it eagerly and tucked the bills deep into the bag she wore slung on her