The Favourite

Chapter 11
Mr Gordo's Secret Plan

Author's note: Okay, I’m not even going to begin to try and make up excuses for the very long break between the last update and this one, life is what happens while you are making other plans. Hope you'll enjoy this chapter anyway. Thank you all for your reviews and kind e-mails!
Thanks and sloppy kisses to my wonderful beta Cile.

"And again, Khari's forgotten you! Poor Mr Gordo," Buffy sighed, picking up the pig from the floor. "This time, I'm definitely not carrying Khari's stuff after him; one of the guards can go and..." she hesitated. Where the pig had been, little pieces of the stuffing lay scattered on the floor. "You're losing weight, huh?" she asked the pig. "Let me tell you one thing about diets, they are not healthy!"

Buffy took pity on damaged Mr Gordo and decided to repair little Khari's pig. She gathered the pieces and sat down by the window to put them back where they belonged. They just didn't make toy pigs like they used to.

Buffy frowned. She was no master at sewing, but even she could see that Mr Gordo had been cut, and very clumsily at that. "Poor thing. Who could be that cruel?" she murmured to herself. "Well, learnt that from mommy, didn't you, Khari?" She slid her hand with the soft stuffing inside the pig. "If I was still talking to your father, I'd have a serious word with..."

Her fingers hit something, flat, hard and made of plastic, like a credit card, inside the pig. Buffy looked around carefully. No one was watching. "Let's see what you've had for breakfast, Mr Gordo," she said, closed her hand around the strange thing and pulled it out. It was a keycard. A yellow post-it note was attached to the card, with a cryptic message:

Hey, sunshine, why don't you ask Clem about my new diet? Love, Mr Gordo.

Buffy was confused; it took her a moment to remember who that was. She had not even seen Clem since he had bought her at the bazaar. Had Strange Tarzan Guy sent her this? Why? How? If she was being honest, she doubted Clem was able to even spell his own name. She slipped the keycard into her dress and began to fix the toy, determined to talk to Clem later.

*
"Mom, it's hot under that stupid veil," Dawn complained.

"We talked about this," Joyce explained with a sigh, "It protects you from sunburns and sand."
And from strange men ogling you.

"Sunburns. At six o'clock in the morning," Dawn pointed out sarcastically. "Like it's not bad enough you drag me out of bed at this hour. No, I have to cover myself like some mummy and scare off all the cute guys by pretending I’m MARRIED?"

Joyce brushed her daughter's head encouragingly. "I'm sorry. I just don't want to put you in any danger. You're all I have." Now.

Dawn nodded, blinking back a tear as she thought of her sister, and held her peace.

Joyce patted her shoulder. "We'd better get going; I don't want to keep the pilot waiting for too long."

*

Clem was living in a small hut in the palace gardens.

He waved when he saw Buffy. She looked so pretty in her pink dress and veil, adorned with golden ornaments. A stray strand of blond hair that had found its way from underneath the veil glistened in the sunshine. Clem smiled with satisfaction, remembering he was the one who had found her. "Ah, Buffy, it's so nice to see you again!"

Buffy looked at him in surprise. "Your English has gotten much better! If I think about the way you spoke back at the market..."

Clem waved dismissively, a little amused at Buffy's surprise. "Oh, that. I only do that in public. Those traders charge you double if they think you can speak English; it's kind of an East-West problem. If I pretend to speak Arabic only, I get much better prices."

Apparently, there were many things she had never thought of. "Oh!"

"How have you been?" Clem asked, tending to a rose bush.

"Not so great," Buffy admitted. "My best friend has been arrested, maybe you've heard."

"Bahramaj," Clem sighed. "Willow. People don't talk about anything else these days. It's so horrible. But it can't be helped, unfortunately." He cut off a rose and handed it to Buffy.

"Maybe you can smuggle it into the dungeon for her."

"Thanks." Buffy took the rose and smelled it. It was lovely.

"Now, why does a pretty lady come down to see old me?" With a twinge of guilt, Clem noticed the sheik's mark on her arm. "You're not mad at me any more, are you?"

Buffy drew in a sharp breath. Of course, she was upset when she thought of their first encounter, but she could not let him notice that now. She forced herself to smile cheerfully and shook her head, patting his hand. "Don't worry, I don't blame you. You were just doing your job. Beautiful garden, by the way."

"Thanks," Clem said gratefully, "I've chosen most of the plants myself." He tilted his head, "But you didn't come down here for the flowers."

"No," Buffy admitted.

"What can I do for you?"

Wordlessly, Buffy showed him the card and the note.

Clem's face got a sudden look of panic. "Put it away!" he urged her, pressing the items back into her palm. Looking around like a scared rabbit, he lowered his voice, "Where did you get that?"

"From you? At least that's what I thought," Buffy admitted, slightly confused.

"No, no, I didn't write that!" he protested. "I would never..." he broke off, looking guilty.

"But you know what that is," she suggested.

Clem hung his head. "I can't tell you."

Buffy clasped his arm with both of her hands pleadingly, squeezing a tear from the corner of her eye. "Where there's a keycard, there's bound to be a lock. Willow and Tara are going to die. If this card can help me in any way to save them... please talk to me, Clem."

Although Clem shook his head emphatically, Buffy could practically see him caving in. "Come on, Clem, give me something I can work with! A rose won't save Willow and Tara, but whatever you know about this keycard might! Please, help me," she sobbed, a little more than necessary.

Clem had never been able to stand seeing a pretty girl cry. He squirmed a little, then sighed. "If you get caught, I'll deny I ever talked to you!"

Buffy nodded. "That's fair enough."

After yet another quick glance around, he whispered, "The sheik's army, the Janissaries, have always been a factor of power in this country. The old sheik, Spike's father, was constantly afraid of the Janissaries plotting against him. When his favourite was pregnant with her first - and only - child, he decided he needed to keep his family safe and made plans for an escape in case of a revolt. Few people knew about it. He had a secret passage built which leads from the palace to the city limits. To prevent others from using the passage, Spike had it secured with state-of-the-art technology later."

Buffy's eyes widened, her heartbeat racing. Was it even possible that she was holding not only Willow and Tara's ticket to freedom, but also her own? "There is a passage out? And this card is the key? Do you know how to get there?"

Clem nodded hesitantly. "Well, yes. But... There's a catch."

"What is it?"

"You won't like it."

"Tell me."

"Behind the door, there is a small chamber leading to a second door. That one is secured with a computer panel and requires a four-digit code. The electronic lock of the first door opens with the card, and immediately closes behind you, but you need to enter the correct code for the second door within thirty seconds in order not to set off the alert."

"So without that code, you're trapped between two closed doors."

"Exactly. No one's managed to use the passage without getting themselves caught so far."

Buffy knew the answer before she even asked the next question. "Who's got that code?"

Clem shrugged helplessly. "No one except the sheik. I was there when the electronics were installed. I don't know the code, but when Spike entered it for the first time to program the lock, the technician advised him to choose a number he would easily remember even if years had passed, even in a situation of panic and confusion. He suggested a date of birth. And Spike agreed."

Buffy's mind was working. "Whose birthday would you use to secure a door? Let's see. Probably not your own, would be too easy to figure out. Whose birthdays do you usually remember?"

"Family," Clem suggested.

"That's right," Buffy said, "You'd probably pick your child's..." Then it hit her, hard and mercilessly. "Or your wife's..." she added in resignation.

Clem nodded sadly.

She hardly dared to ask any more. "How many wives exactly does Spike have?"

"Last time I counted... 38."

Buffy wanted to weep in frustration. She sat down on the ground and shook her head, resigned. "No way we can try them all within 30 seconds. Then Willow and Tara are already as good as dead."

Clem bit his lip, looking at her insecurely.

"What?" Buffy asked.

"If someone created a diversion and made an alert go off on purpose within thirty seconds of the opening of the first door, no one would suspect it was the passage that was broken into," he pointed out reluctantly. "Hopefully, it would give you time to try the birthdays of all of Spike's wives. Of course, it would be risky, and timing would be of the essence, but it is possible."

Buffy looked at him pleadingly. "And you could do that?"

Sadly, Clem shook his head. "I'm only allowed into the palace if I am called, Buffy. Sorry, I can't help you there."

Suddenly, Buffy understood. "One of us needs to stay behind to create the diversion." With a resolved face, she rose. "Thank you, Clem. You've helped me a lot."

His expression was one of fear and despair. "And you are sure you want to do this? Help your friends escape and stay behind as a slave?"

Buffy nodded, biting back her tears. "I have no choice."

"You could just... do nothing," Clem suggested.

Her green eyes were full of determination when she replied, "As I said before: I have no choice. Now, tell me where that passage is."

"You'd have to free Willow and Tara from the dungeons first," Clem pointed out.

"Leave that to me, I'll find a way. Now, Clem, where is the passage?" Buffy urged him.

Clem nodded slowly. "It is in his bedroom. The lock for the keycard is behind the faded Union Jack that was Spike's mother’s. To get into his bedroom without being noticed, climb up into the tunnels of the ventilation system. They run through the whole palace. You will need to crawl, it's not very comfortable and probably dusty, but it will get you there safely. If you decide to do this, today around midday would be your best chance. Spike is waiting for a delivery and won't be in his chambers."

Buffy remembered that Spike had mentioned a work of art he had purchased recently. "Thank you, Clem. I owe you."

He waved dismissively.

Buffy turned to walk away.

"Buffy," Clem said, his voice trembling.

She looked back at him expectantly. "Yes?"

"What if you get caught?"

She smiled weakly. "Then we've never had this conversation."

He walked up to her and squeezed her hand so tightly it hurt. "Be careful."

"I will."

*

Buffy was confused and agitated when she got back to the harem. If Clem hadn't made sure she got the keycard and hardly anyone knew about the secret passage, who else could have left the pig where she was bound to find it?

Back in the bedroom, which was empty at this time of the day, she carefully examined the post-it. Was it possible that little Khari...? No, definitely not a child's clumsy hand. Yet there was something familiar about it. She had seen this writing before. Her heartbeat almost stopped. With trembling fingers, she reached under her pillows and unfolded the poem she had nicked from the sheik's study.

The words sunshine, love ... The slope of the l, the thin line that connected the em in Clem in the note and remote in the poem, the characteristic leaning to the left... Buffy was not an expert on handwriting analysis, but the similarities strongly suggested that the two samples had been written by the same person.

Spike? Why would he of all people give her a key to free her friends when he could have just taken back their death sentences? And why those secrets, why make her believe Clem was the one helping her? She tried to remember their previous conversations. You know everything, Buffy, don't you?... This is not a game, it's politics! The Sheik of Aftab-Rawad cannot let a woman defy his authority in public ... When people think a sheik is weak, they crawl out of the woodwork and try to seize power. Power is usually seized by murder... Do you want me to lay down my own life for their sake?... She'd seen him cry. And he had tried to send her away. You're not supposed to see me like this... You're not supposed to see me like this... You're not supposed to see me like this... Suddenly, Clem's words came back to her. The old sheik, Spike's father, was constantly afraid of the Janissaries plotting against him.

Maybe that was what Spike was afraid of? Political conspiracies against him? Was he treating his women like property in public and like queens in the bedroom in order to maintain some stupid tough guy image for the army and his subjects?

"Hey, B, what are you up to?" Faith asked, casually strolling into the bedroom, breaking Buffy's train of thought.

Buffy crumpled the paper in her hand quickly. "Faith, can I ask you a question and get an honest answer?"

Faith sighed, "All right! I'll make a confession! Yeah, I did tie him up and make him call me 'Mistress Faith,' so sue me!"

"Huh?" Buffy blinked. "Okay. Too much information." She shook her head to get the pictures out of her mind, especially the one of Spike's well-muscled body tied up spread-eagled on a bed with black silk ribbons, and Faith clad in leather with a vicious-looking braided whip.

Faith crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I'm kidding, B."

"Oh."

Faith grinned. "So what did you want to know?"

"Faith, when I first got here, Anya told me a story that Spike had his opponents' heads pierced with long iron railroad spikes. Is that really how he came to that nickname?"

Faith smirked. "All right, I'll tell you. But you haven't heard it from me." She lowered her voice, "One of the older servants told me. On a particularly hot day when Spike was five, he refused to put on his shoes before going out in the gardens, although his mother did tell him to. He stepped on a corroded nail and hurt his foot; they rushed him off to hospital in Cairo to avoid blood poisoning. You can still see the scar at the sole of his left foot. The whole incident was so embarrassing for a Sheik of Aftab-Rawad he made everyone swear never to tell the truth about how he got that nickname. That's how legends are born."

Buffy nodded slowly. "He wanted to keep his tough guy image."

"You wouldn't believe how important the whole macho thing is for men in this country," Faith agreed. "You know how vulnerable the male ego is," she chuckled.

Buffy took in a sharp breath. Your crying about Kendra and the baby, you can't tell me that was all an act? When would she ever learn to trust her instincts? Could she really have had all those confusing feelings for a bad person? A kidnapper? A slave trader? A murderer? Buffy now fully realized what she had known deep down all along. Spike wasn't the act. Sheik Khari Ahani was.

*

"Living in a palace and having your own helicopter landing pad, how cool is that?" Dawn exclaimed enthusiastically, but the helicopter's noise carried her words away. Her mother was busy seeing to it that the Galatea, which had been transported in a shock-proof steel casket now dangling down from the helicopter, was taken inside safely.

"Careful," she admonished the servants, who immediately took care of the precious statue.

"Sheik Khari Ahani wishes to see you in the rooms of his private collection," one of the servants informed Joyce in heavily accented English. "He would like you to examine the statue for transport damages."

"Of course," Joyce agreed politely.

Dawn's heart was leaping with excitement. She was going to get to see a real sheik?
The servant led them through countless hallways, all of them with marble floors, fluffy carpets and heavy hangings on the walls, and Dawn felt like she had just stepped into a story from the Arabian Nights. The air was heavy with exotic scents, spices and flowers Dawn could not place, very foreign, but also exciting.

They finally stopped at a door that led to a huge gallery. Joyce held her breath. The sheik had one of the most tasteful (and most expensive) private collections she had seen in her career. His pieces of Islamic art spanned thirteen hundred years of history and three continents, but he also owned Greek, Roman and Etruscan antiquities. Mesmerized, Joyce began to look around.

"Why is the Galatea so beautiful and that statue over there so ugly?" Dawn inquired curiously.

"Because it's Roman," Joyce explained patiently while her eyes were taking in every detail of the breathtaking works of art around them. "Roman art aimed for realism; statues were supposed to be as close to real life as possible. You can see every wrinkle or hooked nose. In Greece, however, all human creation was striving toward perfection, and constant improvement was necessary to win the favour of difficult and capricious gods. So Greek statues show flawless bodies and beautiful faces."

"I like the Greek ones better," Dawn remarked, causing Joyce to have a closer look at the Greek section of the gallery.

"This one almost looks like the Winged Victory of Samothrace," Joyce gasped, "I thought that one was in Paris, at the Louvre!"

"Truth be told, they have a copy," they heard a voice behind them. "Of course they would never admit it openly."

Joyce turned around immediately. If she had imagined a dark-haired, bearded, olive-skinned elderly man with bad manners and a long white gown, she was disappointed. This man was younger than she had imagined, and although she had heard about the sheik's British mother, she had not thought of him as blond and fair-skinned. "Sheik Khari Ahani?" she asked in confusion.

Spike greeted her and Dawn with a radiant smile. "Call me Spike," he replied. "I am so pleased to meet you at last. Mrs Summers, is it?"

Joyce was rather taken aback. She had not expected a sheik of the Arabic world to be so informal, let alone to ask to be called by his nickname. "Joyce," she provided.

Dawn was positively staring at Spike.

"This is my daughter, Dawn," Joyce remembered to introduce her.

"Nice to meet you too, Dawn," Spike said.

Dawn felt her knees go weak as he smiled at her and she became very conscious of his beautiful blue eyes. "Uh... yeah," she stumbled, grinning like an idiot. She cursed the long black dress - baggy style, very popular if you were over 80 - and veil her mother had made her wear, she would rather have shown off how pretty she was in a tight tank top and a pair of jeans cut sinfully short, bringing out her long legs.

Spike was well aware of the impression he made on Dawn, and Joyce Summers' look of concern and warning was not lost on him either. However, he had no intention of adding the girl to his harem - she was not much more than a child.

"Guess your mum's business trip's boring for you," Spike assumed.

"A little," Dawn admitted, "But this place is so cool!"

"Glad you like it here," Spike said, his lips curling into a smile.

Dawn blushed furiously.

"We won't be long," Spike promised, "I just wanted to thank your mum personally for the great job she did and for all the trouble she went through for this statue."

Joyce Summers did not reply anything but a murmur of thanks. This man had no idea what she had been, and was, still going through for the sake of that accursed marble statue. She bit her lip and tried not to think of Buffy. There had been no news from the authorities, an appeal to the US government had earned her nothing but a written statement of sympathy for her situation and empty assurances that people were working on her case. The ugly truth was that as soon as she was finished here, there was no reason for her to remain in this country any more, and no way she could justify any further expenses for the gallery. The thought of leaving without Buffy made her throat tighten.

Spike apparently failed to notice his guest's agitation.

"She's been amazing," Spike continued, "I've charged so many experts to purchase this little treasure for me, but no one but your mum was able to do it. Will you let me take up just a little more of your mum's time so she can have a quick look at the statue? Say, half an hour?"

Dawn smiled under the veil. "Sure!"

"Anything I can do to help you pass the time?" Spike asked.

"Can I have a look around? And a glass of water, please, it's so hot out there!" Dawn said.

"It will be my pleasure to show you and your mum around personally after the inspection," Spike replied. "There's a water dispenser if you go out that door and down the hall, on the left."

"Thanks," Dawn said.

"You're too kind," Joyce replied. In a low voice, she told Dawn, "Don't break anything! And don't spill half of the water on the carpets again!"

Dawn rolled her eyes. "I was, like, five!"

Spike gestured toward the door leading to the adjoining rooms of the gallery. "Shall we go check on the Galatea, then?"

Checking out Spike's rear with one last, curious look, Dawn left the gallery to look for the water dispenser.

*

Buffy had taken a bath and washed her hair. She had selected her dress and jewellery very carefully, as if she was going out for a date. She had put on her favourite perfume, "Simply Irresistible", which Spike had imported it from the US especially for her. More importantly, she had made up her mind. She would free Willow and Tara, and she would be the one to stay behind in order to stall the guards. She was good at playing innocent dumb blonde, wasn't she? Not that she had had much time to contemplate the consequences if they were caught. She would probably share Willow and Tara's fate then. But there was no other way of saving their lives. Hero, one of her kidnappers had mockingly called her when she had been throwing herself between him and Dawn. Now was the time to show how much of a heroine she really was.

She had hidden the key card in her bra. No suspicious guard would ever dare to look for it there. She knew where to go. Sneaking past the kitchens would be a challenge because none of Spike's wives normally went there and she felt she would stand out a bit among the servants in her beautiful dress and rich necklace and rings, but she hoped that the hectic hustle and bustle of dinner preparations would conceal her trespass. She would make her way to the part of the palace Clem had grudgingly described to her.

She had expected dark vaults reminiscent of medieval castles, with heavy chains and rats in them, and had been surprised to learn that the palace's dungeon was nothing like that. From what Clem had said, the so-called dungeon was no more than simply a prison cell, a single plain room with access only from a trapdoor in the floor of the room above.

In Spike's world, there was not much room for prisoners, or a long time to spend in such a cell. Buffy shuddered. All she would have to do to free her friends was to get past the heavy security door, which was guarded by two grim-looking Janissaries. Men, of course. She hoped her outfit, her pretense of innocence and batting her eyelashes would help her there. However, that did not change the fact that she would have to get there, first of all.

Buffy strolled down to the ground floor casually, as if she had no particular place to go, but she watched her surroundings very carefully. The timing was perfect, as Spike would be occupied with that art expert and his latest purchase. However, there was a catch to her plan. In order to reach the part of the palace in which the dungeon was located, she had to sneak past the gallery, the rooms in which Spike was most likely to be. She peeked around the corner carefully. The hallway was quiet. Very good. Spike was probably in there with his guest. She quickened her steps in order to reach the end of the hallway before anyone could spot her and felt relief wash over her when she had passed the door that was separating her from Spike. She was ready to rush down the next hallway when she stopped dead in her tracks. She was not alone.

For one frightening moment, she thought she saw Drusilla standing next to the water dispenser, pouring herself some water into a paper cup, but other than her favourite colour, the black-clad figure of a woman had nothing in common with her arch-nemesis. She was taller, thinner, and her hands were tanned instead of pale and white as china. Buffy let out a deep breath and covered her face more tightly with her veil although she was sure the stranger did not belong to Spike's harem. Probably someone of the art expert's party. When the woman raised her head and noticed her, Buffy did not look at her face; she just nodded her head in greeting and practically fled down the corridor, for fear of being held up. Willow and Tara were all that mattered.

Dawn had not met any of the sheik's wives, although she had heard he had more than thirty of them (could you imagine that, thirty wives?), so she was very curious when she became aware of a woman staring at her in the corridor as she was trying to figure out how this water dispenser worked. To her disappointment, she did not have a chance to admire the woman's beautiful dress or her many golden rings and other precious jewellery because the woman would not even look at her. She only nodded a brief greeting and disappeared down the hallway. Probably she was very shy. Obviously, the sheik's wives did not have much contact with the outside world.

Thoughtfully, Dawn sipped on her water.

And then it happened. Among the many different exotic aromas in the air, she distinguished the faint scent of the woman's perfume, lingering in the air long after she had gone. Dawn knew the scent. It wasn't Arabic, it was somehow familiar, triggered off a memory. She had nicked it from her sister's nightstand several times and almost been beaten up for it because it was so obscenely expensive. Simply Irresistible. Buffy's perfume.

TBC...