Chapter 9 · Chapter 9

The Shamal had not let up by the time we came off the highway, and the tower stood in a haze of its own dust, the glass going pale gold at the summit where the morning sun caught it. The driver took the ramp slowly. Nobody spoke. I held my folder flat against my knee, the seal already broken once and re-taped, keeping my hand pressed firmly over the paper as if the wind could somehow reach it through the glass.

Inside, the lobby smelled of cold stone and, faintly, of Oud carried down from the upper floors. A man behind the security desk rose to his feet. I gave my name. He passed me a visitor's badge on a lanyard, which I slid into the pocket of my Abaya rather than slipping it over my head, and he chose not to notice.

The lift carried me to the eleventh floor, where the registry office keeps its quiet antechamber: four low-backed armchairs, a brass table, a tray, and a clerk seated with his screen turned deliberately from the door. He poured before he offered a greeting.