Salalah, Oman
Hussein Al Bu Said stood at one of the tall, broad living room windows of his palatial residence and gazed out towards the sea front. The sunset was a mosaic of reds and purples and golds, cloaking its rich colours over the extended lawns and terraces of his property, reflecting gently off the surface of the pool behind the house, silhouetting the palm trees against the horizon. Beyond the landscaped gardens he could see the private marina where his yacht was moored, its sleek whiteness touched by the crimson of the setting sun.
Ice clinked in his crystal glass as he sipped from it. Pineapple juice, freshly pressed that day. Hussein was a loyal and devout Muslim who had never touched alcohol in his forty-four years. In other ways, he knew, he had not always proved himself to be such a virtuous man. But he tried. God knew he tried. Insha’Allah, he would always do the best thing for his family.
He smiled to himself as he listened to the sounds of his children playing in another room. Chakir had just turned twelve, his little sister Salma excitedly looking forward to her eighth birthday. He loved nothing more than to hear their happy voices echoing through the big house. They were his life, and he gave them everything that he had been blessed with.
‘You look as if you’re very deep in thought,’ said another voice behind him. Hussein turned to see his wife Najila’s smiling face.
‘And you look very beautiful, my love,’ Hussein said as she came to join him at the window. Najila was wearing a long white dress and her black hair was loose around her shoulders. She put her arms around his neck, and they spent a few moments watching the darkening colours wash over the ocean.
Nobody had to tell Najila she was beautiful. She was his treasure, soulmate, best friend. Hussein was a dozen years older, but he kept in good shape for her and was still as lean and fit as the day he’d spotted her and decided she was the one to share his life with. They’d been married just weeks later. Hussein was also about twice as wealthy as he’d been then, even though he’d already been high up in Oman’s top twenty. Their home was filled with the exquisite things he loved to collect, but Najila was by far the most wonderful and precious.
Hussein set down his glass and held her tight. He kissed her. She laughed and squirmed gently out of his arms. ‘Not in the window,’ she said, glancing through the ten-foot pane in the direction of the cluster of buildings that were the staff residence where the security team lived. ‘The men will be watching us.’
‘I gave them the night off, remember?’ Hussein said. ‘It’s Jermar’s birthday. The three of them went into town to celebrate.’
‘You’re too nice to them. What’s the point of having security men if you let them go off partying all the time?’
Hussein smiled. ‘All the more privacy for us.’ He drew her in and kissed her again.
With typical timing, their embrace was interrupted by the twelve-year-old whirlwind that was Chakir blowing into the room, his sister tagging along in his wake. Chakir was clutching the handset for the remote controlled Ferrari, his favourite of the many toys he’d had as recent birthday presents. ‘When can I get a real one, like yours?’ he was always asking, to which his father always patiently replied, ‘One day, Chakir, one day.’
‘Please may we watch TV?’ Chakir said.
Hussein knew Chakir was angling to see the latest Batman film on the Movie Channel. ‘It’s nearly time for dinner,’ he replied. ‘You can maybe watch it later, after your sister has gone to bed.’
Chakir looked disappointed. Salma pulled a face, too, and it was obvious that her brother had got her all worked up about seeing the movie.
Najila bent down and clasped both her daughter’s hands. ‘Why don’t you go and look at that nice picture book your father bought you?’
‘I can’t find it,’ Salma said. She had the same beautiful big dark eyes as her mother, and the same irresistible smile – when she wasn’t pouting about not being allowed to watch TV.
Najila stroked her little heart-shaped face and was about to reply when a loud noise startled them all. It had come from inside the house.
Najila turned to Hussein with a frown. ‘What was that?’
Hussein shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did something fall over?’
Hussein thought that maybe a picture or a mirror had dropped off the wall in one of the house’s many other rooms. He didn’t understand how that could happen. He started towards the living room door that opened through to the long passage leading the whole length of the house to the grand marble-floored entrance hall.
Then he stopped. And froze.
The door burst open. Three men he’d never seen before walked into the room. Europeans, from the look of them, or Americans. What was happening?
Najila let out a gasp. Her children ran to her, wide-eyed with sudden fear. She wrapped her arms protectively around them. Little Salma buried her face in her mother’s side.
Without a word, the three intruders walked deeper into the living room. Hussein stepped forward to place himself squarely between them and his family. ‘Who are you?’ he challenged them furiously, in English. ‘What are you doing in our home? Get out, before I call the police. You hear me?’
The oldest of the three men was the one in the middle, solid, muscular, not tall, in crisp jeans and a US-Air-Force-style jacket over a dark T-shirt. His hair was cut very short, and greying. Probably prematurely. He probably wasn’t much older than Hussein, but he had a lot of mileage on him. His features were rough and pockmarked and his nose had been broken more than once in the past. A very tough, very collected individual. He was giving Hussein a dead-eyed stare, unimpressed by all the angry bluster.