vault, leaving a clerk to close and turn the locks of the vault door.
He led them down the narrow passage, on a sudden impulse bypassing the doorways leading to the closets where more ordinary clients of the bank examined their safety deposit boxes, instead going up the staircase to the main floor of the bustling institution.
He headed for a door labelled Meeting Room, and with a nod instructed the young clerk to open it. “You will not be disturbed here,” he told them with a certain gravity, leading the way inside.
He placed the box on the polished wood table, then straightened and glanced at the men. Still no one had spoken. Although on the surface the three were completely calm, there was a tension in the air that was of a different order from the usual simple, excited hope that some family treasure would be found to have been saved from the devastation. He wondered what might be in the box.
The bank manager nodded as if to himself. “You will not be disturbed,” he said again.
“Thank you,” said one of the men, holding the door with polite implacability. Reluctantly, unconsciously wishing to be part of the drama he felt hovering, the bank manager bowed again and left.
Najib al Makhtoum closed the door, shutting him out, then turned to his companions. The three men stood for a moment looking at each other in silence. Strong sunlight slanted through narrow windows high along one wall, casting sharp shadows, and making visible a family resemblance between the three men that was not always so obvious. They all shared some ancestor’s broad forehead, strong cheekbones, and full mouth, but each had put his own individual stamp on his genes.
“Well, let’s hope this is it,” Ashraf said, and as if this were a signal they all three moved to pull out chairs around the table where the box lay, and settled themselves.
A hand reached out and lifted the lid to expose the long, shallow, oblong compartment. There was a collective sigh.
“Empty,” said Ashraf. “Well, it was too much to expect that—”
“But he must have—” Haroun began, and broke off as Najib interrupted, “Not empty, Ash.”
The other two drew in one simultaneous breath: two envelopes lay flat in the bottom, almost invisible in the sharp shadows.
For a moment they stared in silence.
Najib and Haroun looked from the envelopes to Ashraf, and it was he who reached in at last and reluctantly drew out the two rectangular shapes, one a large brown business envelope, the other a narrow white oblong.
“It’s a will,” said Ashraf, surprise in his voice. He looked at the brown envelope. “And a letter addressed to Grandfather.” He dropped that on the table and turned to the will, starting to unwind the red string that held the flap in place.
“What firm?” asked Najib. “Not old Ibrahim?”
Ashraf turned it over to show the looping logo of a legal firm and shook his head. “Jamal al Wakil,” he read, and glanced up. “Ever heard of him?”
The other two shook their heads, and a frown was settling on his brow as Ashraf lifted the flap and drew out the formal legal document. “Why does a man go to a stranger to draw up his will on the eve of war?” he murmured, then bent to run his eyes over the legal phrases.
“Grandfather, his mother…” he murmured, flipping to a new page, and then stopped, his eyes fixed to the page.
“What is it?” demanded the other two simultaneously.
“‘To my wi…’” Ashraf read, then looked up to meet the startled eyes of his brother and cousin. “‘To my wife.’ He was married. He must have—” He broke off and resumed reading as the other two exclaimed in amazement.
“Married! To whom?”
Ashraf read, “‘My wife, Rosalind Olivia Lewis.’ An Englishwoman. While he was in London. Has to be.” His eyes roamed further and he stiffened and raised his gaze over the edge of the paper to fix them with a warning look. “She was pregnant. They thought, a son.”
“Allah!” one whispered, for them all. The three men stared at each other. “She would have contacted the family if there was a child,” said Haroun weakly. “Especially if it was a boy.”
“Maybe not. Do you think he told her the truth before marrying her?”
“Let’s hope not.”
Ashraf was still reading. He shook his head in contradiction. “He must have told her. Listen. ‘…and to my son, I leave the al Jawadi Rose.’”
There was another silence as they took it in. “Do you think she’s got it?” Haroun whispered. “Could he have been so besotted as to leave it with her?”
“Not so crazy, maybe,” Ash pointed out. “Maybe he thought it would be wiser than bringing it back to Parvan on the eve of war.”
Najib picked up the other envelope his cousin had drawn from the box. He lifted the flap and drew out the first thing that his fingers found—a small stiff white rectangle. He flipped it over and found himself looking into the softly smiling eyes of a woman.
“It’s her,” he said.
For an unconscious moment he sat gazing at the girl’s face. She was young and very pretty, her face rounded and soft. Looking at the face, he was mostly aware of regret—that five years had passed since the photo had been taken, and that he had not known her like this, with the bloom of sweetness on her soft cheeks…
It was obvious that the man behind the camera had been Jamshid, and that she had loved him. He wondered who she loved now.
“The child will be four years old,” Haroun said, voicing the thought all shared. “My God.”
“We have to find her. And the boy.” Ashraf took a breath. “Before anyone else does. And Haroun’s right, he might have left the Rose with her. Allah, a son of Kamil and the Rose together—what a prize. Who can we trust with this?”
Najib was still looking down at the photograph on the table, his hand resting on its edge, as though protecting the face from a draft. Abruptly he flattened his hand, drew the little piece of card to the edge of the table, scooped it up, and slipped it into his inner breast pocket.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
One
“Mrs. Bahrami?”
Rosalind stared at the man at her door. It was a long time since anyone had called her by that name. Yet she was sure she had never met him before. He wasn’t the kind of man you forgot.
“That is not my name,” she said, in level tones. “Why didn’t the doorman ring me?”
“Perhaps I mistake,” the stranger murmured, with the air of a man who never did. His hair was raven-black above dark eyes and strongly marked eyebrows. Although he wore a tweed jacket and expensive Italian loafers, his foreignness was betrayed by the set of his mouth, the expression around his eyes, the slight accent. “I am looking for Mrs. Rosalind Bahrami.”
Rosie’s
