Chapter 16

Al-Kuwari Towers, Doha, Qatar.

Karim Al-Farouqi sat back in the deep leather armchair, the porcelain cup trembling faintly between his fingers. The scent of cardamom tea mingled with the faint hum of the city far below. Through the panoramic glass walls of the 80th-floor office, Doha glittered in the late afternoon haze — towers of glass and steel shimmering like heat mirages.

Across the expanse of the office, Jassim Al-Kuwari, patriarch of the Al-Kuwari Corporation, stood by the window, his reflection merging with the skyline. His tailored thobe caught the light, immaculate as always, though his shoulders carried the quiet weight of age and loss.

Karim cleared his throat. He had faced oil ministers, judges, and corporate boards with the calm of a seasoned advocate — yet now, sitting before his oldest friend, his practised composure faltered.

He was a man of stature: Managing Partner of Farouqi Global Legal Advisors, the Doha-based international firm he had built from a modest partnership into a respected name with offices in London, Singapore, and New York. For over eighteen years, he had guided Gulf enterprises through billion-dollar mergers and labyrinthine energy contracts, his measured tone and steady mind earning him a reputation for quiet mastery.

But today, no legal acumen could soften what he had to say.

“Jassim, my friend,” Karim began, placing his teacup gently on the marble side table, “I have news. And I fear you are not going to like it.”

Jassim turned, his expression unreadable. “Today was already a terrible day, Karim. More bad news will not upset the apple cart.”

Karim exhaled. “You entrusted me — and my firm — with the administration of Nisreen’s estate. My team has gone through all her records, her accounts, her lease agreements. That apartment in London ... she didn’t own it. It was rented.”

Jassim’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then the owners must be informed of her passing. We’ll arrange to have her personal effects collected.”

“There was little,” Karim said quietly. “Clothes, a few personal items. It was a furnished apartment — the furniture remains.”

“Have her things shipped here. I’ll deal with them ... later.”

Karim hesitated, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “There’s more. And this part ... I hardly know how to say.”

Jassim’s voice sharpened. “Speak plainly, Karim.”

“There’s almost nothing left in her personal bank account. Barely eight hundred pounds sterling.”

Silence settled between them like a physical weight. The hum of the air conditioning filled the room.

“And her investments?” Jassim finally asked.

“There are none.”

“What?” His voice cracked — part disbelief, part anger. “That’s impossible. She had over a hundred million dollars — in accounts, in shares. She owned five percent of this corporation and that is 150 million US dollars’ worth! Her last dividend payout after taxes and company minus 40% retaining, was seven point five million! What happened to that?”

Karim nodded solemnly. “We traced the funds. Over the past two years, she liquidated everything. The shares you speak of — I found only a few of the certificates in her London safety deposit box, but beyond that ... nothing. Large sums were transferred into her bank account and withdrawn as cash soon after. About two point four million of your company shares and nothing else of the rest.”

Jiseem’s hand went to his forehead. “Ya Allah ... How does one burn through one hundred and sixty million dollars in two years?”

“She didn’t buy property. No new vehicles, no transfers abroad. It’s as if the money vanished.”

“On WHAT did she spend it?”

Karim’s tone softened. “I’m sorry, my friend. She owed nothing, and she owned nothing. Her apartment is paid up for another six months. Where the funds went — that remains a mystery. She spent it. She gave it to her friends or charities around the world...”

Jassim stared past him, out at the skyline, his voice low. “And all this in the last two years?”

“Yes.”

A long pause. “Then wrap up her estate. Transfer what is left of her five percent share certificates to me and let us be done.”

Karim hesitated once more. “There is ... one last thing.”

Jassim turned sharply. “What now?”

“She left a last Will and Testament as in line with her employment requirements from Qatar Airways.”

“And?”

Karim took a slow breath. “She bequeathed all her remaining assets to two charities in London, The Animal Trust, and The Children’s Trust, in equal parts.”

For a moment, there was no reaction — only silence, cold and immense. Then Jiseem’s lips pressed into a thin line as Karim delivered the last line:

“That was only three million of the shares she holds in your company, the other shares she traded on the New York Stock Exchange and she made a killing. She also moved those funds to God knows where ... After the sale, she deposited the proceeds in her private bank account and three days later wire transferred it to Switzerland. There it disappeared into thin air. One hundred and sixty-three million US dollars worth.”

“Who bought the shares form her?”

“An Alaska based oil company...”

The powerful man who had controlled boardrooms, projects, and fortunes simply stared into space, as though seeing his daughter for the first time in years — and realising she might have had the last word after all.

He realised that the trading and liquidising of her shares and assets began just after he told her to marry Faisal. Was she planning it as providing for herself and to not let Faisal get his hands on her assets and control them? Then fate stepped in and she died. Now nobody knows where her assets are. Clever – but stupid. Her assets are lost! Lost to the company. Lost to the family...

And the London children, animals, plus an American oil company now owns part of his corporation!

Back at Little Eden.

It was a bright, sunny morning at Little Eden. The first warmth of the day spilled over the fields, turning the dew on the grass into tiny sparks of light. The air was soft and alive with scent — freshly turned earth from the vegetable patch, wild herbs crushed underfoot, and the faint sweetness of acacia blossoms drifting in from the far end of the farm. From the kitchen, muted chatter mingled with the aroma of coffee and baked bread, promising the start of another easy day.

Down by the yard, the chickens were already busy — overseen by Leghorn, the rooster — scratching and clucking among the dust, their feathers catching the sun in flashes of gold and russet. The ducks waddled noisily toward the dam, where the water gleamed like glass. Beyond the windmill, the cattle moved slowly through the knee-high grass, their lowing deep and contented. The smell of them — warm hide and hay — carried faintly on the breeze.

Out on the edge of the veldt, a small herd of rooibok grazed among the thorn trees, their reddish coats blending with the earth. Every so often one lifted its head, ears twitching, before dipping again to feed. The land stretched far and open, a soft hum of insects rising from the veldt, the kind of morning that made everything feel unhurried and just right.

Ever since Rose had come into my life, and now being here on the farm with me, the mornings felt different — lighter somehow. Even the air seemed to have a quiet joy to it. That morning, we were having breakfast out on the veranda. The sun had just cleared the trees, throwing soft gold across the fields, and the smell of fried bacon still hung in the air.

“Since you’ve been here, the kitchen staff goes out to make me fat,” I said, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my stomach.

She laughed, that easy, musical laugh of hers. “I just gave them the ingredients to excel at what they’re doing,” she said, eyes glinting. “You’ve got some good people here on the farm.”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Anton and I treasure every one of them. To get good hands these days is a scarce commodity.” I sighed, thinking of how rare loyalty had become. “And Kensi spoils them rotten with gifts and stuff.”

“It makes them want to stay and do good,” she said. “I saw them enjoying the braai the other night. Do you do that often?”

“Every now and then,” I replied. “Come Christmas, there’ll be a big party.”

“Oh, you do celebrate Christmas, do you?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “More of a tradition than religious, but we get the Reverend out to do them a sermon before the party starts. They also put on a show every year to tie in with his message.”

“What show?” she asked, leaning forward, curious.

“They do this thing — Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in the crib. A lot of singing hymns and speaking Bible verses that bring out the story. You should see the little ones play the part of the animals and angels, all dressed up. It’s something special.”