16
The Sheikh clapped along with the rest of the crowd as he watched Mala and her classmates come back out on stage to take a bow. Her class had just put on a production of an entertaining play written by one of the school’s many accomplished teachers, and Mala had played a supporting role that had proved to be a crowd favorite. Bilaal was proud of his niece—indeed, at seventeen years old she was a playful and poised young lady, and he had no doubt she would be a great Sheikha when the time came for her to ascend to the throne of Khiyani.
The Sheikh felt a peace he had not felt in years as he filed out of the auditorium with the audience, mingling with the parents of Mala’s classmates, men and women he’d gotten to know reasonably well over the past couple of years. Bilaal had been spending more time in Switzerland, paying more attention to his niece, and he could see that she was better for it.
I am better for it too, he’d realized just a few months earlier, and along with that thought had come a sharp twinge of emotion, a wrenching feeling that came to him now and again, the sense that perhaps there was something to this whole parenting thing, that there was something he might be able to add to the job Irene was doing raising their son.
Indeed, Bilaal had kept an eye on Irene through proxy over the past two years. He did not use his bodyguards or any hired spies to do it. He didn’t need to, thanks to the very useful over-reach of the CIA’s authority. Yes, John Benson had authorized continued monitoring of Dan Inman’s widow, and every few months the electronic file would be updated with photographs and a brief report. It wasn’t 24-7 surveillance or anything—just a periodic check in. Benson had casually told him about it the last time they'd spoken, when the Sheikh had left the country three years ago and called Benson to ask him to clean up the mess he’d created in Wyoming before his photograph hit the newspapers.
“I don’t know why I went there,” he’d told Benson over the phone. “I just felt an obligation to pay my respects to Dan’s widow. It seemed like the honorable thing to do.”
Of course, he didn’t tell Benson that he’d done a bit more than pay his respects, that “honorable” was perhaps not the best word for his motives or his deeds. So the day Bilaal checked Irene’s file and saw the first sign that she was expecting, he waited for the call from Benson, who would certainly have put it together in about two seconds, especially since there had been no men in Irene’s life over the past year.
But the call never came. Benson knew better. He didn’t judge people, and even though his expertise was other people’s business, he was also a man who knew the value of secrets.
The tension of being found out had stayed with him for almost two years, but eventually the Sheikh accepted that things had settled, that no one would ever know, that Irene was happy and he was happy, that promises had been kept and things had worked out right, that life was good, life was fine, life was . . . for the living.
Still, as he watched his son Sage grow up in time-lapse photographs, the Sheikh felt a yearning building up within him. There were times he sat alone in his sprawling palace, wondering why he was staying away. Yes, Irene had told him to leave, but he was a goddamn king, was he not? If he wanted to see his son, he could simply do it, could he not?
Yes, he could. And finally he decided that yes he would. It had been three years, and by now she might have even figured out who he was. They might be able to have a conversation about their meeting, about their son. But just three days after making the decision to fly back to the United States, his first trip there since the tryst with Irene, the call came from Benson.
Irene and Sage had been taken. By someone unknown. To someplace unknown.
“What do you mean you do not have a location on them?” Bilaal snapped into the phone.
“We don’t watch everyone on Earth around the clock,” Benson said defensively. “The next check-in wasn’t scheduled to happen for at least another month. We had no eyes on the ranch, Bilaal. And—”
“Blood?” the Sheikh asked, interrupting.
“No blood on the scene. The horse was shot with a tranquilizer and is in recovery. This was not a hit.”
“They were taken unharmed,” said the Sheikh.
“Possibly. Probably.”
“Who?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” said Benson.
The Sheikh swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He thought through his long list of enemies. No. There was no way. They were all dead. He’d made sure of that.
“Bilaal?”
“I am here.”
Benson spoke softly. “Bilaal, anyone who knew that you visited Irene three years ago could have figured out that Sage is your son. The woman hasn’t even been in the same room alone with a man in all this time. Anyone watching would have—”
“You were supposed to be watching!” the Sheikh roared into the phone, almost crushing the receiver in his powerful hands, his rage burning him up because he damn well knew that it was his own responsibility to protect his son, whether or not the mother wanted him around! Ya Allah, what kind of a man was he?! “I am sorry,” he said quickly. “It is not your responsibility.”
Benson took a heavy breath and exhaled into the phone. “Listen, Bilaal, I don’t wanna know the details of what happened between you and Irene. I have no idea what you two talked about, if there was an agreement, whatever. I don’t look at her finances, and in fact I even stay away from the reports and updates. Now it’s a missing persons case, and the FBI is involved. I can’t take over the investigation, and—”
“Keep me updated in real-time on what the FBI finds,” growled the Sheikh as his mind raced. “But they will not find anything.”
Benson spoke sharply. “You know who took them? Bilaal, you need to tell me. We can help. If there is a ransom demand, you need to bring the FBI in.”
“This is not about money, and there will be no ransom demand. So if you want to help, here’s what I need. Station a goddamn army at my niece’s school in Switzerland. I have ten bodyguards there, and I have already dispatched more. But I want another layer of protection for her: Agents, Interpol, Swiss police—whatever you can do. But keep it low profile. I don’t want her life interrupted. She has one year left, and the school itself is a virtual fortress.”
Benson didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Bilaal, what is going on? Why do you think your niece is in danger?” He paused. “This is related to what happened after your wife died?” The Sheikh did not answer, and Benson went on. “I thought that business was over and done with.”
“I thought so too,” said the Sheikh. “But perhaps there is a loose end.”
“Now that surprises me,” drawled Benson, and the Sheikh caught a hint of sarcasm in the veteran CIA-man’s tone. But Bilaal let it go. He knew he deserved it. Perhaps his own chickens had come home to roost. There was only so long he could run from who he was.