44
THREE MONTHS LATER.
BACK IN THE WORLD.
BUT NOT QUITE OUT OF THE WOODS.
“By Allah, I was a fool to do nothing,” the Sheikh roared, holding the phone away from his ear and looking at Irene. Then he glared at the phone and directed his rage at the people on the other end: his head of security and the director of Khiyani Intelligence. “I said I want him tracked, found, and brought to me in chains, handcuffs, or a goddamn sack. Get it done, or I will put you in a sack and tie you to the royal camels to be dragged through the streets of Khiyani. La takhtabirni. Now!”
He slammed down the phone and glanced over at Irene, who was sitting by the balcony of the Royal Palace, swathed in robes of woven silk, a color palette of deep blues with red and gold trim and the most intricate Eastern embroidery. Sage wore a little brown tailored tunic that came down to his knees. The royal tailors had presented him with matching pajamas, but the little prince preferred to run through the warm hallways of the palace without pants. Soon the adoring attendants began calling him Al’amir Aldhy Yartadi ‘ayu Alsarawil—the Prince Who Wears No Pants. And River was a dream, happy and perfect, content to feed and laugh and smile and grow as she watched the waters of life flow around her.
Mala had flown to Khiyani immediately upon getting the Sheikh’s phone call three months earlier. He’d called her from that satellite phone and told her that he was alive, that he was sorry to have put her through the grief, that he was coming home and wanted nothing more than to see her smiling face. He also said he’d explain everything when he saw her.
Of course, when he saw her, the Sheikh could not explain everything. He could barely explain anything at all. How to explain emerging from the dead with an American wife and two babies, one of whom was almost four years old but still his natural born heir! The truth was so twisted it would be easier to say it was magic!
Strangely though, Mala did not press him to explain much. She was relieved and elated at first. Then she hated him and called him cruel and mad. But the anger could not last, and within a week she was her happy self again, a young lady of royal blood and upbringing. She was gracious to Irene, playful with Sage, and doting with River. And when the Sheikh explained everything by simply saying, “I will explain it all someday, my sweet Mala. But for now just know that I am back and you are safe and this is our family, always and forever,” she nodded and accepted it without question.
The other brother had disappeared the moment news of the Sheikh’s return hit the Internet. At first it had been a relief to the Sheikh and perhaps the best outcome that could be expected. The Sheikh’s greatest fear—that this brother would kidnap Mala or perhaps even just kill her—did not materialize. The brother had chosen to run instead. Perhaps he would never re-emerge. It was something to worry about, but at least Mala was safe. Doing nothing appeared to have worked—at least at first.
The first two months were wonderful. Chaotic, but wonderful. His return created a minor stir in the Middle Eastern world, with other Sheikhs sending gifts and good wishes, a few clerics in the Pan-Arab Council grumbling about the state of the world when Sheikhs were marrying American women willy-nilly, and Arab gossip websites having a field day with the back-from-the-dead Sheikh and his beautiful mixed-race family.
After returning to Wyoming to check that Beauty and the horses were all right, they had all moved to Khiyani (horses included, though the Sheikh had to install air-conditioning in their stables as they got acclimatized to the heat), and it was wonderful. Irene took to her new role as queen with vigor and grace, and the attendants of the palace were delighted to have the energy of new life in the old hallways, with Sage the pantless prince splashing through the fountains of the courtyard while River tried to suckle at every female attendant’s breast to the point where she was given a nickname too—Amirat Ghadibat min Algharb—that Irene was slightly disturbed to learn translated as “Hungry Princess of the West.”
Nicknames aside, it all seemed like a honeymoon to Irene and the Sheikh—just with two kids along. And the spaciousness of the palace, the thick walls of sandstone, and the many trustworthy and loyal attendants made it quite easy for the two of them to enjoy at least some of their honeymoon in private, so at the end of the second month, when River was three months old, Irene broke the news:
“I’m late,” she said one morning to him as he scanned the headlines of one of the ten Arabic newspapers he read at the breakfast table, which was bigger than Irene’s old ranch-house kitchen.
“A queen can never be late, because nothing begins until the queen arrives,” the Sheikh had said without thinking. Then he crumpled the newspaper as his fists closed tight. “Ya Allah, wait. You mean to say . . .”
“I mean to say that you’d better order the royal bathtub to be filled and ready in nine months,” she’d whispered, blushing slightly as she saw her personal attendant flash an involuntary smile before quickly regaining her poise. “And I’m not lying about the timing on this one.”
The Sheikh had been overjoyed, and he’d taken her in his arms, gathered both his other babies close, and roared in delight. But slowly, over the next few weeks, as the Sheikh thought about a new child coming to this world, a defenseless innocent of his own blood that he was sworn to protect, those old habits of paranoia and distrust began to seep back into him.
“He is out there,” he’d muttered to Irene as the three month mark approached. “Who knows where he is, what he is planning. The news of your pregnancy will be public soon. It may drive him to try something.”
“What? Are you insane?” Irene had answered, shaking her head like she was trying to get a persistent fly away from her. “The boy is probably shivering in fear somewhere! You killed his father, his uncles, and his brother. You are a billionaire king with the training of a Navy SEAL. From what I can tell, the boy is a sensitive, talented playwright who has neither the gumption nor the resources to threaten any of us. Let it go, Bilaal. Let it go, please.”
“You know nothing about him. But I will concede your point. Here’s what I will do: I will just have him brought here,” the Sheikh had said. “Just for a chat. Some sweet tea, almonds, red dates, and conversation. That is all.”
“So you’re going to hunt him down and bring him to your kingdom, your palace, your domain. Where you make the rules. Don’t you think that will make him more afraid rather than less? Doesn’t that increase the risk that he does something reckless or dangerous? Doing nothing has worked so far. He is no danger to your niece at her fortress of a school. It is time to let go. Time will heal us all, Bilaal. Just let it go.”
But the Sheikh could not let it go, and eventually he put the order out to his head of security and the director of Khiyani Intelligence. And once he did it, those old habits kicked in, and the Sheikh became obsessed with finding him. He ordered daily updates on the status of the search, getting increasingly agitated when his men turned up with nothing. He considered calling John Benson for CIA help, but better sense prevailed. After all, deep down the Sheikh did not know what he would do with this other brother once he was brought in. Yes, he truly intended to talk to the boy. But who knew where that would lead? What if the boy spat in his face and swore vengeance for the next ten generations? What would the Sheikh do then?
The obsession grew over the course of their third month back, and by then Bilaal was openly berating his head of security over the phone, often in front of Irene and the children, once even on a day-trip out to the open desert, when Mala had come down from Switzerland to visit.
And then, four days after Mala returned to school for the last segment of her senior year, the call came in:
“Swiss police have put their top detectives on it,” said the head of the school, his voice shaking as he informed the Sheikh that Mala had been missing for twelve hours and although there was no indication of violence or foul play, they were treating it with the utmost seriousness.
The Sheikh left Khiyani that night, his face the color of sin, his eyes harder than steel, his blades sharpened, his guns loaded, his top men filling the seats of his private jet.
“Utmost seriousness is what the head of the school told me,” he thundered to John Benson over the phone while asking for the CIA’s help. “By Allah, John, I will have his Swiss head turned into Swiss cheese when this is over.”
And Irene said nothing but goodbye and goodluck when he left. She was true to her word that she was his wife no matter what. In happiness and sorrow, sickness and health, love and violence.