and, as he always did on the first Monday of the month, he was sitting on a large silk cushion in a palatial tent in the desert some twenty miles from Riyadh. He had driven there in a convoy of four-wheel-drive SUVs. When he had been younger he had made the journey on a camel, as befitting his Bedouin roots, but now he was in his eighties and had a swollen prostate so he had no choice other than to travel by car.
The old man was Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed, and he was worth a little more than four hundred million pounds. By most standards Othman was rich, but he was a pauper compared with the men he served. The princes who ruled the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia measured their wealth in billions, and Othman had made his money by carrying out the tasks they regarded as beneath them. He was a facilitator, a middle man who helped to sell the oil that lay far beneath the dunes, and to acquire the weapons that kept the Kingdom’s enemies at bay. He had bought some of the most expensive homes in the world for his royal clients, ordered jumbo jets with circular beds and Jacuzzis with gold-plated taps. Othman was semi-retired now, though one could never fully retire from the service of the Saudi royals. When they called, Othman would answer. It would be that way until he died.
Othman was a wealthy man, and he believed in helping those less fortunate. That was why, once a month, he journeyed into the desert, sat in a tent and made himself available to any citizen who wanted to speak to him. It was the Bedouin way.
Othman placed the glass on a gold-plated saucer and nodded at his manservant, Masood, at the tent’s entrance. Masood was in his late sixties and had served Othman for a little more than forty years. Othman trusted him like no other. He was his assistant, his butler, his food-taster, though never his confidant. Othman trusted no man with his innermost thoughts. Masood pulled back the silk curtain and ushered in the next visitor. It was just before midday and Othman had spoken to twenty-six men already. Women were not permitted to address him directly, but it was permissible for a man to make a request on behalf of a woman, providing he was a blood relative. Othman would remain in the desert until he had seen every man who wanted an audience. Some wanted advice, some an introduction to further their business interests, some wanted money, some simply to pay their respects. Whatever they wanted, Othman would listen and, wherever possible, grant their requests.
Masood ushered in a dark-skinned man wearing a grubby
‘Sit, please,’ said Othman, waving at a row of embroidered cushions.
The man sat cross-legged and put his hands on his knees, still reluctant to meet Othman’s gaze.
Masood hovered at the man’s shoulder and asked him if he wanted tea or water. The man shook his head. Masood went back to the tent’s entrance.
Othman was used to people being uncomfortable in his presence. He was rich and powerful in a country where the rich and powerful held the power of life or death over lesser mortals. ‘What do you need from me?’ he asked quietly.
The man swallowed nervously. ‘I bring you a message, sir, from your son.’
‘I have many sons,’ said Othman.
‘From Abdal Jabbaar,’ said the man.
Othman’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Abdal Jabbaar is dead,’ he muttered.
‘Yes, sir, I know. I spoke to him before he died.’
‘Where?’
‘I was in Guantanamo Bay. I was held by the Americans, as was your son.’
The man was mumbling and Othman strained to hear him. ‘The Americans let you go?’ he asked.
‘After four years. They decided I was not a threat.’
‘And are you a threat to them?’
The man looked up and smiled cruelly. ‘I was not when they took me to Cuba, but I am now,’ he said. ‘I hate the infidels and I will do whatever I can to eradicate them from the face of the earth. But first your son said I was to speak with you, and to tell you what they did to him.’
Othman studied the man in front of him with unblinking eyes. The other lowered his own, reluctant to meet Othman’s baleful stare.
‘What is your name?’ asked Othman.
‘I am Khalid Wazir.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Othman, picking up the silver teapot. This time the man nodded. Othman poured mint tea into a glass and handed it to him. ‘So, Khalid Wazir, I am listening. Do not be nervous, my friend. You have done me a great service in coming here. Tell me what my son said.’
‘He was tortured by the Americans,’ Wazir whispered. He sipped his tea, then placed the glass on a small wooden table inlaid with ivory.
‘I assumed that,’ said Othman. ‘They said my son took his own life, but I know that he would never have done such a thing.’
‘They tortured us all,’ said Wazir. ‘They are animals. They have no honour.’ He sighed mournfully. ‘Sir, I do not know how to tell you what I must.’
‘My son is already dead. What else can you tell me that would be worse?’ said Othman quietly.
Khalid Wazir took a deep breath, then laid a hand over his heart. ‘Sir, your son wanted me to tell you that they killed his younger brother, your son Abdal Rahmaan.’
The old man frowned. ‘Abdal Rahmaan died in a car crash,’ he said.
Khalid Wazir shook his head. ‘He was burnt alive by the Americans,’ he said. ‘Tortured and killed to put pressure on Abdal Jabbaar.’
The old man sat back in his seat. Abdal Rahmaan had been found in the burnt-out wreckage of his SUV in Qatar after the car had careered off the highway and slammed into an electricity pylon. That was what the police had told Othman and he had had no reason to doubt them. Until now. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘I can only tell you what your son told me,’ said Khalid Wazir. He took a deep breath. ‘There is more.’
‘Tell me,’ snapped Othman. His patience was wearing thin.
‘Your daughter,’ said Khalid Wazir. ‘The infidels tortured your daughter, Kamilah.’
‘That cannot be so,’ said Othman, coldly.
‘They assaulted her. They threatened to rape her when she was pregnant with your grandchild. They did this and showed Abdal Jabbaar what they were doing. They wanted information from Abdal Jabbaar so they killed Abdal Rahmaan and assaulted Kamilah. Your son wanted you to know this.’
‘Did he tell you who did this to him? Did he give you their names?’
Khalid Wazir nodded. ‘An American called Richard Yokely. And an English woman, Charlotte Button.’
Othman sat with his back ramrod straight. He forced himself to stay impassive though his instinct was to scream, curse and swear vengeance on those who had abused his family.
‘I am sorry to bring you such news,’ said Khalid Wazir.
Othman acknowledged the man’s apology with a wave of his liver-spotted hand but said nothing. He had come to terms with the death of his two sons, and even accepted that Abdal Jabbaar had killed himself while in the custody of the Americans, but what Wazir had told him had shocked him to the core. The police in Qatar had shown him photographs of Abdal Rahmaan’s burnt-out car and told him that no other vehicle had been involved, that it had been a simple accident, that Abdal Rahmaan had probably fallen asleep at the wheel. But that had been a lie. A deliberate lie. More than a lie – there had been a conspiracy. And if Abdal Rahmaan had been murdered, then perhaps Abdal Jabbaar had not killed himself. Perhaps he, too, had been murdered by the Americans.
He had not seen Kamilah for three months. She was living with her husband in Nice, in the South of France. Othman had held his granddaughter soon after she was born, and had never suspected that anything was wrong. He understood why. Kamilah’s husband was a good man but he was a devout Muslim and would be unable to live with a wife who had been defiled by unbelievers. No matter how much he loved his wife, Kamilah’s husband would shun her for ever. Othman’s daughter had known this so had said nothing, preferring to hide her shame and suffer in silence.
Khalid Wazir was watching Othman nervously and Othman forced himself to smile. No doubt the man feared for his safety, that Othman would lash out at the bringer of bad news. But Othman bore him no ill will. It had taken courage to tell a father that two of his sons had been murdered, and Othman would reward him handsomely. What
