46
“Go!” Irene gasped through an explosive exhalation. “It’s going to be a little while for me still. Go, Bilaal. Go to her!”
The Sheikh tore out of the room, almost barreling through the solid teakwood doors as the attendants pulled them open just in time. Behind him ran his personal attendants as well as Mala’s handmaidens and even her old nannies. The atmosphere in the palace was electric, with the queen panting and puffing in labor, two new royal babes on the way, and what appeared to be another miraculous return from the dead.
“Mala!” roared the Sheikh as he finally made it to the anteroom in the eastern wing. By then he was almost mad with adrenaline, a part of him wondering how it could be true, another part of him convinced that it was a mistake of some kind and that someone would pay for that mistake with his life. “Is it true? Where are you, my sweet Mala?!”
He did not see her at first, perhaps not able to believe it. But when he wiped the tears from his eyes there she stood, upright and smiling, not a scratch on her brown face, not a hint of pain in her eyes. Her eyes looked different though. No longer the eyes of a child.
“I heard that I will have two new cousins soon,” she said, gasping as the Sheikh almost crushed her with his embrace as cries of Inshallah and Barakallah rose up from the crowd of attendants who’d loved Mala like their own. “So I thought it was time to return to the land of the living.”
It took a moment for the Sheikh to understand what she was saying. “What do you mean? Do you mean to say you . . . you . . . ran away!?”
Mala shrugged her narrow shoulders, her mouth twisting but her eyes staying focused and strong. “Ran away sounds so childish. I prefer off-the-grid. That is the term you used, yes?”
The Sheikh rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. “The term I used . . . ya Allah, Mala! Is this some act of getting back at me for what I put you through? Are you . . . are you mad?! You did this to teach me a lesson?”
Mala shook her head firmly. “Of course not. The lesson was just a side-effect of my act. It is ironic, but it was not the point. I do not harbor that need for revenge and payback like my powerful uncle, the Sheikh. It was not the purpose of my disappearance.”
“And what was your purpose?” growled the Sheikh, slowly regaining his composure even though he was too relieved to truly be angry. Still, he snapped his fingers and waved all the attendants out of the anteroom until it was just him and his niece. “To drive me insane? I had my best men and women searching for you. I called in every favor I had with the CIA. By Allah, Mala, how could you do this to me?”
For a moment her eyes softened. “I did not do anything to you, akhw al’umi. I did it to stop you from doing what you were going to do.” She took a breath and folded her arms over her chest, slowly pacing the empty room, running her hand over the gold-trimmed furniture of the lavish waiting area. “Kareem Abdullah,” she said quietly, finally glancing up at the towering Sheikh. “You know who he is. And I know who he is. I also know where he is.”
The other brother. That was his name, even though the Sheikh had been loathe to even speak it aloud. His body tensed up as a chill ran through him. His head began to spin as he saw the seriousness in her eyes. “What in Allah’s name are you blathering about?! Speak, goddammit! Mala!”
“Six months after I thought you were dead in that explosion in Canada, Kareem Abdullah, my drama teacher, confessed to me. He told me that his older brother was the man found in the rubble, that they had both been granted refugee status in Canada after their family had been wiped out.” She paused and took a breath, her young eyes flashing for a moment. “Wiped out by you.”
The Sheikh grimaced and clenched his fist, but his mind was too clouded to focus on what Mala was saying. He began to pace the room, stomping his feet and pulling at his hair. “Where is he, Mala. I do not care what he said to you. Just tell me where he is.”
Mala’s jaw tightened, and her dark eyes narrowed in a way that reminded the Sheikh that she was eighteen years old, a woman, a woman who’d handled tragedy and heartache and bounced back stronger and wiser. “Why?” she asked, before smirking and waving her hand. “Ya Allah, that is a rhetorical question. I know why. So you can have him torn from limb to limb by your royal camels.” She cocked her head quizzically. “Do we even have royal camels anymore? I mostly see our people riding the desert in Range Rovers and Land Cruisers.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder how it is that although our kingdom has stepped happily into the twenty-first century, our great Sheikh still believes he rides a camel through the dusty desert, scimitar by his side, dispensing justice without trial, without facts, without conscience.”
The Sheikh’s eyes went wide and he roared with laughter. “Trial?! Facts?! Ya Allah, such big words from my little niece! Bring the shriveled bastard to me and I will give him his trial while he is beaten and dismembered and—”
Mala raised her arms to shut him up, and then she turned and walked towards the ornate eastern gate of the palace. “Almost a year has passed. You have a beautiful queen who has stood by your side as you roamed the world with violence in your heart. Two gorgeous children that are the pride and joy of Khiyani. Twin babies on the way as your pregnant queen cries to be held by you. Your beloved niece back home safe and sound. You are surrounded by love, and yet you crave nothing but violence. If Queen Irene has not been able to move you to understand, then what hope do I have?”
The Sheikh frowned as his head began to spin again. “What do you mean? Have you and Irene been talking? Is this some conspiracy? Ya Allah, what in God’s name are you talking about?”
Mala turned just as she got to the teakwood door leading to the outer gate. “Conspiracy? Yes, of course. It is all a conspiracy.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “There is no conspiracy except in your head. I thought if I returned after so long your relief might allow you to listen to reason. I hoped that with the blessing of two new children your heart would have softened and I could free poor Kareem from the hell into which you have cast him.”
The Sheikh stopped his pacing and stared at his niece. His body was rigid, his head still buzzing. “What about the hell into which he and his brother have pulled me and my family into? Irene and Sage were kidnapped. Their lives were threatened. Your life and safety was threatened. I thought you were kidnapped too!”
Mala blinked and looked down at the floor for a moment. When she looked up her eyes were misty. “I know,” she said softly. “I did not wish to make you believe that. I did not want to disappear like that. It was the only way I could think of to protect Kareem. At first I thought you had decided not to pursue him, but when I heard you giving the order to your security men to track him down, I knew I had to go to him. It was the only way to protect him. I did not think I could reason with you, so my only hope was that if your men found Kareem, I would be there to stop them from killing him.”
The Sheikh cocked his head, his eyes widening as he tried to understand what his niece was saying. “Go to him? You mean you were with this man all these months? With him?!”
Mala squealed and raised her arms up high, waving as if trying to get the Sheikh’s attention or perhaps stop his head from exploding. “By God, no! Not like that! Akhw al’umi, Kareem and I are friends!”
But the Sheikh’s face was red and pale at the same time. “Friends! That is what every predator says, Mala! You think you know the world, but you are still a child. You and Irene think love and compassion is the answer to everything, but you have no idea what evil lurks in the shadows! This man is not your friend, Mala. And if he has even touched you, then—”
But Mala was laughing now, and the Sheikh just stared as she giggled like a child and clapped her hands. “Ya Allah, I thought you knew! Was it not in the CIA files or whatever else you must have had access to?”
“Knew what? Stop laughing and speak, child! Knew what?!”
“That . . . that Kareem is gay, Akhw al’umi! That is the reason he was given priority status as a refugee. He had chosen to come out, which put his life in immediate danger. His brother was granted asylum along with him, but they are two very different people. Kareem had been composing poems and writing plays since he was twelve, and he got a scholarship to the London School of Drama within a year of arriving in Canada. His brother became a stockbroker and made a lot of money very quickly, but had been consumed with avenging their father’s death.”
The Sheikh took a breath as he allowed this to sink in. It did make sense. Refugees from Pakistan were not as high priority as those from Syria or Somalia, unless there was some factor that put them in immediate danger. And although Pakistan was not as strict as some of the Middle Eastern Islamic kingdoms, being openly gay was still dangerous unless you were protected by wealth or status. Was it in the report? Perhaps in the CIA reports, but the Sheikh had never seen the CIA reports on Kareem and Blackbeard because he did not want to involve Benson at the time. He had gone directly to his contact in Pakistani Intelligence, and even then had simply asked for names and locations of all young men in the villages and surrounding areas. If he had known, would it have changed anything? Perhaps. Probably not. A gay playwright is no less likely to murder someone than a non-gay playwright, yes?
As the Sheikh tried to gather his thoughts, he heard the shuffling of feet at the inside door and turned to see his pregnant queen standing there, Sage by her side, River in her arms, three petrified-looking attendants chasing the royal family, clearly trying to get the about-to-pop queen back to the Royal Infirmary.
“What are you doing?” he roared at Irene, his mind pushed to the limit, every muscle in his body clenched. “Get back to bed!”
“Not without you!” said Irene through clenched teeth. “This happens as a family.”
“Ya Allah, you women and children are driving me to madness!” Bilaal shouted, looking back and forth between his niece and his wife, glancing at his wide-eyed son, his infant daughter, the Hungry Princess of the West, who was already clawing at mommy’s breast. He closed his eyes and took a breath, reminding himself that he was the husband, father, uncle, and goddamn king here. “Enough!” he roared finally. “Back to the Royal Infirmary. All of you! Mala, you will convince me on the way why I should let your gay drama teacher live. Irene, you will do as the doctors say so you and my twin babies do not all die in childbirth.”
“What?” said Mala, her eyes going wide as she stared at Irene and then at the Sheikh. “You want me in there?”
“We are all one family,” growled the Sheikh, and he strode over to Irene and lifted her into his arms like she was light as a feather even though she was swollen with two children and enough milk to feed the kingdom. “And we end this together, once and for all.”