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Home of the Said family

Knightsbridge, London

Friday evening

He knew the imam’s mother often used the Flying Spur, with a turbaned young man as her driver, and always carried a brolly even when the sun was high. Unlike her daughter, Adara, she dressed traditionally, wore a silk burka during Ramadan. Her husband, the imam’s father, Mr. Said, owned high-end car dealerships and a travel bureau. His family had long-standing ties to the family of Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria since 2000, but he was known as something of a bon vivant in London, very unlike his son, who’d chosen to be an imam. Khaled imagined it was Mr. Said who’d allowed Ali’s younger sister, Adara, to fly free, adopt Western ways, and attend university. He knew from Eiserly and the imam that she’d flirted with a radical Islamic group while she was at Oxford and enjoyed her share of lovers both at Oxford and here in London. She also drank alcohol, forbidden in the Muslim faith, but not when she was dining with her parents. She’d lived at home since she’d come down from Oxford.

Khaled knocked on the large black front door.

“Do come in, Mr. Aziz. I am Adara Said. You may call me Adara.”

“Thank you. Please, call me Khaled.”

Khaled shook his head.

Khaled walked across the beautiful black-and-white-tiled entrance hall, past paintings and vases of flowers, and into a large rectangular living room with high ceilings and a magnificent Carrara marble fireplace. The furnishings were mostly burgundy leather, oversized, comfortable. He pulled up short. There were three men seated on two sofas facing each other, all of them Arabs in Western dress, studying him.