Chapter 24 · Chapter 24

The morning sun over the northern district of Riyadh did nothing to warm the cool glass and polished travertine of my office. From the thirty-fourth floor, the spine of King Fahd Road stretched like a silver ribbon into the pale haze, indifferent to the quiet assassinations executed on bond paper inside closed rooms.

My assistant did not knock twice. She opened the heavy oak door just wide enough to announce the visitor with lowered eyes. "Ya ustadhah, Abu Fahad is outside. He says he carries the audit schedule from the senior trustees."

I adjusted the dark hem of my crepe Tarha, ensuring every pin sat flush against the silk. "Send him in, Noura. And bring the cardamom Gahwa. The small silver service."

"Abshiri."

Sulaiman Al-Dawsari—Abu Fahad—did not look like a man who tore empires apart with his bare hands. He looked like an archivist who measured a man’s pulse by the margin between debit and credit. He wore a crisp, stiff-collared white Thobe, his shemagh folded with mathematical precision, carrying an embossed leather portfolio bearing the crest of the Al-Zahrani estate trust.