Chapter 5 - THE BILLIONAIRE WHO OFFERED ME A MILLION DOLLARS
Khalid Al-Masri arrived at my apartment the following afternoon without his usual entourage.
He wore a charcoal sweater and dark trousers.
For a moment, he looked less like a billionaire and more like an exhausted man who hadn't slept.
I stood in the doorway.
“No security guards?”
“Two downstairs. They won't come up unless necessary.”
I nodded.
“Before you enter, there are rules.”
He looked surprised.
“Rules?”
“No touching the manuscripts without permission. No photographing them. No offering to buy them. And if I ask you to leave, you leave.”
His mouth twitched.
“You negotiate like your grandfather.”
“Good.”
I stepped aside.
When Khalid saw the photograph, he stopped breathing.
He picked it up only after asking.
Then sat on the edge of my sofa.
“Maryam.”
His thumb hovered above her face.
“She was twenty-six here.”
I watched him.
He looked at the young man beside her.
Himself.
“I remember this day.”
He swallowed.
“We'd spent the morning arguing.”
“About what?”
“She wanted me to support an independent audit of the foundation.”
“And you didn't?”
Khalid shook his head.
“I thought she was embarrassing our father.”
His voice became rough.
“She told me I was confusing loyalty with obedience.”
I sat opposite him.
“Sounds like she was right.”
He looked up.
For a moment, I thought I'd offended him.
Then he nodded.
“She was.”
I showed him the first few pages of the Register.
He read the Arabic inscription.
Then studied the Keeper script.
“I've seen these signs in family archives,” he said. “But nobody could agree what they meant.”
“They're not a simple substitution cipher.”
He looked at me.
“Explain.”
“My grandfather taught me that pronunciation, word order, and context changed between manuscript periods. Some of the marks represent editorial traditions, not separate sounds.”
Khalid listened.
Really listened.
For the first time, he wasn't trying to demonstrate how much he knew.
He was asking me to explain what I knew.
Then he said something extraordinary.
“I'll pay you a million dollars to translate the Register.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
He blinked.
“No?”
“Not under those terms.”
“Is it the amount?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I closed the manuscript.
“You haven't asked whether I want to sell my grandfather's work. You haven't asked who should have access to the documents. You haven't even asked whether the manuscript is authentic.”
Khalid lowered his eyes.
I continued.
“You're trying to solve uncertainty with money.”
He looked toward the photograph.
Then smiled sadly.
“That's a habit.”
“I noticed.”
He laughed.
It surprised both of us.
Then he grew serious.
“What would you propose?”
I considered.
“An independent scholarly assessment. Legal advice on ownership. Proper conservation. And if the text is translated, I retain credit for my work.”
Khalid nodded slowly.
“Agreed.”
“And you don't get to control the conclusions.”
His gaze met mine.
“Agreed.”
I studied him.
“Do you mean that?”
He looked at Maryam's photograph.
“I think my sister would want me to.”
That evening, I received a call from a number I didn't recognize.
A man's voice spoke before I could say hello.
“Miss Bennett, I understand you've met Khalid.”
“Who is this?”
“Dr. Nabil Farouk.”
I recognized the name.
He was an internationally known collector and chairman of the Al-Masri Foundation's advisory board.
“I believe you have documents that belong to our institution,” he continued.
“That hasn't been established.”
A pause.
Then he laughed softly.
“Your grandfather had a habit of confusing possession with ownership.”
My jaw tightened.
“What do you want?”
“To prevent you from making a very expensive mistake.”
I looked at the trunk.
“Is that a threat?”
“Consider it professional advice.”
He hung up.
I stood motionless.
Then another message arrived.
A photograph.
My grandfather, much older, standing outside a building I recognized.
The Meridian Room.
The timestamp was from six months earlier.
Two months before he died.
Beneath the photograph were the words:
YOUR GRANDFATHER TRIED TO SELL US THE REGISTER. HE FAILED.
My heart began pounding.
Because Grandpa had told me he'd spent his final months resting at home.
May you like
But according to that photograph, he'd returned to the very restaurant where I worked.
And never mentioned it.
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