Chapter 2 Chapter 1 Ramat's Revolution

About two months before the summer term at Green Meadows began, certain events occurred which would have unexpected repercussions at the prestigious girls' school. In the royal palace of Ramat, two young men sat smoking and contemplating the immediate future.A young man was dark, with large, sad eyes in a clean olive face.He is Prince Ali Yusuf, the hereditary chief of Ramat.Although small, Ramat is one of the richest countries in the Middle East.The other, a young man with reddish-sallow hair and freckles, was practically penniless apart from a lucrative salary as a private jet pilot for HRH Prince Ali Yusuf.Despite their different status, they are completely equal to each other.They were classmates in public school and have been friends ever since.

"Bob, they shot at us," said Prince Ali, who found it almost unbelievable. "They did shoot us," Bob Rawlinson said. "They mean it. They want to kill us." "That's what the bastards do," said Bob grimly. Ali thought about it. "Isn't it worth trying again?" "We might not be so lucky this time. Honestly, Ali, we put things off for too long. We should have gone two weeks ago. I told you that." "One is always reluctant to flee one's country," said the ruler of Ramat. "I see what you mean. But remember, Shakespeare or some poet said: Run away alive and fight later."

"Just think about it," said the young prince passionately, "how much money has been spent to turn this place into a welfare state. Hospitals, schools, health care facilities..." Bob Rawlinson interrupted him to keep the list from going on. "Can't our embassy do something for you?" Ali Yusuf flushed with anger. "Take refuge in your embassy? Absolutely not. The extremists might storm the embassy—they won't respect diplomatic immunity. And, if I do, it's really all over: the main thing they added to me The accusation is pro-Western." He sighed, "It's incomprehensible." He seemed to be lost in thought, and looked younger than his twenty-five years. "My grandfather was a brutal man, a true tyrant. He had hundreds of slaves and treated them cruelly. In tribal wars he brutally massacred his enemies, executing them with horrific torture. As long as A mere utterance of his name would turn everyone's face pale with fright. And yet - he is still a legend! Respected! Call him the great Ahmed Abdullah! And I What? What have I done? Building hospitals, schools, welfare facilities, housing... They say people want these things. Don’t they need them? Would they rather have my grandfather’s reign of terror?”

"I guess so," said Bob Rawlinson. "It doesn't seem fair, but that's what it is." "But why, Bob? Why?" Bob sighed, twisting his body, trying to explain how he felt.He tried hard, but could not express himself. "Let's put it this way," he said, "he's going to put on a spectacle—I think that's why. He's—kind of—theatrical, if you know what I mean." Bob casts a glance at his friend, who is sure to have no drama at all.Quiet decent man, sincere and easily embarrassed, Ali was such a man, and it was for this that Bob liked him.He was neither striking in appearance nor violent in character.In England, people with striking looks and rough personalities were unsettling and obnoxious, but in the Middle East, Bob was pretty sure, it wasn't the same.

"But democracy—" Ali began again. "Ah, democracy—" Bob waved his pipe, "that word has different meanings in different places. One thing is certain, it never meant what the ancient Greeks originally used it to mean. Kind of stuff. I'll bet you anything you want, that if they kick you out of here, some upstart, braggart businessman will take over, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Almighty God arrests or beheads anyone who dares to express even a little bit of dissent. And they, listen up, say this is a democracy of the people and for the people. I reckon the people will even like it .They were thrilled enough. There was a lot of bloodshed."

"But we're not savages: we're civilized now, too." "There's all sorts of civilizations..." Bob mumbled, "and—I'd rather think we've all retained some savagery—if we can find a proper excuse, we'll let the savagery out come out." "Perhaps you're right," Ali said darkly. "It seems like the only thing that isn't welcome everywhere these days is someone with a minimum of common sense," Bob said. "I've never been a smart guy—you know that, Ali—but I've often thought that what the world really needs today is nothing but common sense." He put his pipe aside and sat up straight in his chair. "But never mind that. The important thing now is how we get you out of Ramat. Is there anyone in the military you can really trust?"

Prince Ali Yusuf shook his head slowly. "Two weeks ago, I would have said yes. But now, I don't know...I'm not sure..." Bob nodded: "That's the trouble. As for your palace, it scares me." Ali acquiesced, showing no emotion. "Yes, the Crown is full of spies...they can hear everything—they—know everything." "Even in the hangar—" Bob paused suddenly, "old Ahmed was good. He's got a sixth sense. He found a mechanic trying to mess with the plane—a mechanic we'd swear Said he was totally reliable. I said, Ali, if we are going to send you out of the country, we have to do it quickly."

"I know—I know. I think—I'm sure now—that I'll be killed if I don't go." He spoke with neither emotion nor panic, but a slight detachment. "Anyway, we're likely to be killed," Bob warned him. "You know, we've got to fly out from the north. They can't intercept us that way. But it's over the mountains—and it's this season." ..." He shrugged: "You should understand that this is very dangerous." Ali Yusuf seemed uneasy. "If anything happens to you, Bob—" "Oh, don't worry about me, Ali. That's not what I mean. I don't mind, people like me are bound to die sooner or later anyway. I'm always doing crazy things. No—what matters is you— —I don't want to persuade you to go or not to go. If there is a loyal part of the army..."

"I don't like the idea of ​​running away," Ali said dryly, "but I don't want to be a martyr at all and let the mob chop me to pieces." He was silent for a while. "Okay, then," Ali said finally, with a sigh, "let's try it. When?" Bob shrugged. "The sooner the better. We've got to get you to the airstrip in a way that doesn't attract anyone's attention. Saying you're going to inspect the roadworks in Al Jassar, what do you think? A sudden idea. Go this afternoon. And then, when your car goes over the airstrip, it's parked there - I got the plane ready and started it up. Meant to inspect the roadworks from the air, understand? We'll take off and fly away: Of course, we can't take Any luggage. Everything has to be ad hoc."

"I don't have anything to take with me—except one thing—" He smiled, and the smile suddenly changed his face and made him a different person.He was no longer the young man who aspired to the modern Western way—in that smile was all the cunning and cunning of his race which had kept his ancestors alive through the ages. "You're my friend, Bob, and you can watch." His hands fumbled inside his shirt, then handed Bob a small chamois pocket. "This?" Bob frowned, not understanding what was going on. Ali took the small bag back from him, untied the string that bound it, and dumped the contents on the table.Bob held his breath, then let it out with a soft whistle.

"My God, are these real?" Ali seemed amused. "Of course these are genuine. My father's for the most part. He buys a few more every year. So do I. The jewels come from many places, bought by trustworthy people for our family in London, in Calcutta, in South Africa. It's a family tradition. Use these for emergencies." He added nonchalantly, "These are worth about £750,000 in today's prices." "Seventy-five thousand pounds!" Bob whistled, snatching up some gems and letting them run through his fingers. "It's incredible, like a fairy tale. It transforms you." "Yes." The dark-skinned young man nodded, and the sleepy face of his ancient nation appeared on his face again, "When you see jewelry, you change. There is always a series of Violence. Death, bloodshed, murder. Women are worse. For women, not only because of the value of jewelry, but sometimes because of the jewelry itself. Beautiful jewelry drives women crazy. They want to own jewelry, wear jewelry around their necks on your breast. I would trust no woman with my jewels. But I trust you." "Me?" Bob's eyes widened. "Yes. I don't want the jewels to fall into the hands of my enemies. I don't know when the riot against me will happen. It could be today. I may not make it to the airstrip alive this afternoon. You take the jewels , do it to the best of your ability." "But I say—I don't understand that. What shall I do with these jewels?" "Think of a way to get them out of Ramat safely." Ali watched his distraught friend calmly. "You mean, if you don't bring these jewels, you want me to?" "You can say that. But I think, really, you'll figure out a way to get jewelry into Europe." "But I said, Ali, I don't know what to do with such things." Ali leaned back in his chair.He smiled quietly, a little amused. "You have common sense and honesty. Ever since you were my junior classmate, I remember you always coming up with brilliant ideas. I'll give you the name and address of the person who will do this for me. It's - that is to say - in case I don't survive. Don't frown like this, Bob. You do your best. That's all I ask of you. If you fail, I don't blame you. It's God's Will. To me, it's easy. I don't want them to take the jewels from my body, and as for the rest—" he shrugged, "as I said, everything according to Allah will." "You're crazy!" "No. I'm a fatalist, that's all." "But I say, Ali. You just said I was honest. And here it is seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Don't you think it makes anybody dishonest?" Ali Yusuf looked affectionately at his friend. "Strange," he said, "I have no doubts in your honesty."