“You may leave us,” said the old man, without looking up.
The driver who’d picked Mark up gave a slight bow of his head and walked away.
The old man glanced briefly at Mark. “Please, have a seat.” He spoke English with a British accent. “You may call me Abdullah. I am a cousin to the king and an uncle to the boy of whom we will speak. And you are?”
“Stephen McDougall,” said Mark, giving the name that was on his British passport.
Abdullah’s expression didn’t change. He took a sip of his water.
Mark added, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“From what I have been told, I am the one who should be thanking you.”
He looked more weary than thankful, thought Mark. And although his words suggested gratitude, his tone didn’t. “And what is it you have been told?”
“That you have in your custody a relation of mine. A boy named Muhammad. And that you wish to right a grievous wrong that has been done to the boy and to my family. I am Muhammad’s uncle. You may release him to me.”
“What happened to Muhammad’s parents?”
“They died in a car accident two months ago — an accident precipitated by a mob of Shia beasts throwing firebombs. Muhammad was in the car at the time.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He has been raised here, by my family, ever since.”
Mark looked around. The grounds were impeccable. Armed guards stood at different points along the perimeter fence. There was no sign of children’s toys, or jungle gyms, or anything that might suggest a child lived here.
“And you wish to care for Muhammad now?”
Abdullah’s gaze intensified but he didn’t answer immediately. Mark got the impression that he was angry, and trying to hold himself back.
“What I wish to do, or not wish to do, is irrelevant.” Abdullah raised his voice ever so slightly. “What is relevant is that you are in possession of a child who doesn’t belong to you.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Bah.” Abdullah dismissed Mark’s claim with a wave of his hand.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, Mr. McDougall, that for as long as I have been alive my family has been friends with the Americans. And in our hour of need, this is how we are repaid?” Abdullah spoke with derision. “Yes, I know your American CIA friends tried to make an agreement with the Shias and it didn’t work. And that now they lie. After Mubarak in Egypt I should not be surprised, but still, the depth of the betrayal is hard to fathom.”
Choosing his words carefully, Mark said, “My government does not always send as clear a signal as perhaps it should. I understand your frustration.”
“Do you? Do you know that the vast majority of Bahrainis, even the Shias, still support the king? Because he brings stability to the island?”
Abdullah’s hands were trembling. Mark had the strange sense that the old man was now on the verge of tears.
“I’m sure he does,” said Mark diplomatically.
“The people who protest like hooligans in the street, they are a small minority. Yet you Americans would hand Bahrain over to these ruffians?”
The passion with which Abdullah spoke unsettled Mark.
“I don’t know anything about that. The only reason I’m here is to help reunite a boy with his family.”
“Then I encourage you to do so. Now.”
“I was told you would provide some documentation?”
Abdullah looked as though Mark had just insulted him, but then he glanced over his shoulder and nodded — at whom, Mark couldn’t see. Moments later, a younger man with short-cropped black hair and eyes so dark they looked black appeared. He was dressed in a thawb robe and carried a leather-bound folder.
Abdullah spoke quickly in Arabic, prompting the younger man to produce a number of documents marked with official-looking stamps and flowing signatures.
“Muhammad’s birth certificate.” Abdullah slapped the piece of paper in front of Mark, followed by two more. “His mother’s death certificate, and his father’s death certificate. You will note that the names of the parents on the birth certificate are clear, as are the names on the death certificates. And that his surname clearly marks him as a member of the royal family.”
Mark examined the documents. Though they were written in both Arabic and English and the information on the certificates corresponded to what Abdullah was telling him, Mark had no idea whether the documents were legit or not.
“What about photos of Muhammad with your family?”
Abdullah said something in Arabic to his helper, who promptly walked away. A minute later, a woman with long dark uncovered hair emerged from the house. She wore a stylish white ankle-length skirt, a matching long-sleeved blouse, and tasteful makeup. But she looked haggard, as though she’d been up all night on a bender and was now trying to pretend she wasn’t painfully hungover. In her hand she held a small point-and-shoot digital camera.
Mark pegged her to be at least thirty years younger than Abdullah.
“This is my wife. She has been helping to care for Muhammad.”
Abdullah’s wife turned on her camera, clicked through a few photos, and then handed the camera to Abdullah. Abdullah, in turn, handed the camera to Mark.
“Here is my wife with Muhammad. This photo was taken just five days ago.”
Mark examined the image. The boy in the photo did appear to be Muhammad. And the woman standing next to Muhammad in the photo was the same woman standing before Mark now. It was just the two of them in the photo, sitting next to each other on a couch. Mark took the liberty of clicking through a few more of the photos. Though he didn’t recognize any of the people in them, they all appeared to have been taken at a recent party. Time stamps indicated the photos had indeed been taken just five days earlier.
It wasn’t definitive evidence, Mark thought — images could be doctored. And it bothered him a bit that the photo of Muhammad and Abdullah’s wife had been taken at a group event, when people who didn’t know each other all that well might encounter each other, rather than just around the house. But big events tended to be when people took pictures.
Mark, thinking it was time to end this, handed back the camera and said, “OK, thank you for sharing that. Last thing — Muhammad keeps talking about a woman I believe is named Anna. Do you know who she is? Does Muhammad have a nanny?”
Abdullah’s smile tightened and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Speaking slowly, he said, “I think you misunderstand your role. You are not here to question. You are here to tell me how and when the boy will be delivered to his family. I have given you clear evidence that he belongs here.” Abdullah stared Mark down. But after a long silence, he sighed, then said, “Yes, Muhammad has a nanny. But her name is not Anna.”
Mark studied Abdullah. He noted how tightly the old man was clasping the glass of water, and observed the hint of tension in his jaw. The strain in Abdullah’s voice had also been unmistakable. Mark sensed that he was a man under enormous pressure.
“What is her name?”
“Hasini Ahmed. She is his cousin. Recently she had a case of appendicitis, so for the past week she has been in a hospital in Manama recovering from her operation.”