Bashir took one last look at the photo and passed it behind the others he held in his hands.

The one she was looking at now depicted a trio of women wrapped in their own long black abayas as they sat at the edge of a pool full of people. All three had pulled back the hem of their robes so that they could bang their legs against the water's surface without running the risk of getting wet. From the beaming smiles on their faces, they looked like they were having a great time.

The next one showed instead a young girl, about 12 years old, immortalized in the moment when she was about to fall into a bathtub after emerging from a water slide. She was wearing a full-length burkini that covered every part of her body except her feet, hands and head. Her long black hair swirled flowing backward, propelled by the air current.

The protagonist of the last image was a young woman sitting on a bench, flanked on either side by the small wall of a giant flower bed. Like almost all of the women who had happened to be caught in the frame, she too wore a black abaya, but unlike the others she had uncovered a small piece of it at the front so that the infant she was clutching could be nursed discreetly. Her pretty little head had practically disappeared inside the folds of her mother's dress, leaving only a few tufts of her fine brown hair visible.

''So what do you think uncle?" asked Malik anxiously, curving slightly in the armchair.

Bashir looked away from the photographs and stared at his nephew sitting across from him. Malik was a young man in his twenties with piercing dark eyes, a perfectly outlined goatee and a pair of thick black eyebrows, so extensive that only a thin patch of tanned skin existed to separate them

Faced with her trepidatious expression, Bashir could not hold back a smile.

''I think your heart is in the right place, Malik,'' he commented in a gentle voice.

Malik's eyes lit up with emotion, which only further exacerbated the king's discomfort, making it even more difficult for him to finish the sentence

''But unfortunately I cannot fulfill your request.''

And without adding anything else she handed the photos back to him, placing them on the small table between them. Malik's face hardened.

"Can't you?" he asked indignantly.

Bashir sustained his grandson's icy stare without blinking.

''There is a big difference between what you can and should do, and what you can just do,'' he explained in a calm tone, ''My position dictates that I maintain consistent behavior. What do you think our detractors would say if I shut that place down after only a year that I myself allowed it to open?''

''Justifications exist in great numbers,'' Malik noted with conviction.

''The justifications you speak of would not solve the problem,'' Bashir retorted quietly, shaking his head, ''if anything, they would aggravate it.''

''Since when did pursuing the cause of our fathers become a problem?" insisted Malik, raising his voice.

''We are already pursuing it,'' Bashir replied without flinching.

Malik's lips curved into a tugged smile.

''Grandpa Zaki would have something to say about that,'' he said mockingly.

''Grandfather Zaki lived more than a century ago and was a man of great intelligence and wisdom,'' Bashir reminded him, interlacing his fingers. ''If he were here today he would tell you that the current situation dictates a different approach.''

''An unethical approach,'' Malik sentenced in a dismissive tone.

Bashir lowered his eyelids and let out a deep sigh. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was imbued with an emotion that was difficult to define. A mix of compassion, sorrow and weariness.

''Malik, please, let's not open this discussion again,'' she asked him in an almost pleading voice. ''It is late, and even if I stayed here all night, my answer would not change.''

Malik's lips became so thin that they seemed to disappear. Judging by the blush on his cheeks and the eagerness with which he clutched the flaps of his own dishdasha, it was clear that he was making an enormous effort to keep calm.

Eventually, however, the hostile expression that distorted his features seemed to soften somewhat. The anger he so badly wanted to vent remained confined within his mind.

''As his majesty wishes,'' he hissed through clenched teeth.

Completely unmoved by his uncle's reaction, Malik hurriedly picked up the photos from the coffee table and put them back in his pocket. At that point he sprinted to his feet. He did not care that he had not even been dismissed; the only thing he wanted at that moment was to get out of the room as quickly as possible

He crossed the study by marching across the carpet-covered marble floor and then reached the door, but no sooner had he placed his hand on the handle than Bashir's voice echoed behind him.

''Malik''

Biting his lip in frustration, the boy turned away, although he did not let go of his grip on the handle. However, unlike what he had expected to see, his uncle did not look angry; on the contrary, a conciliatory smile lit up his face.

''Say hello to your mother,'' he said in a gentle tone.

Although he fervently wished he could answer differently, Malik forced himself to tilt his head in a slight nod of assent. When the door had closed behind him in the study silence fell

Bashir sighed and scratched his forehead just below the white keffiyeh.

On top of the small table in front of him sat a silver tray on which stood a magnificent golden teapot, plus a geometrically patterned bowl filled to the brim with Medjoul dates. Flanking the large silver plate were two other decidedly smaller ones. The one positioned in front of the king's chair had a glass half-filled with hibiscus tea and two dates, while on the side where the guest had sat the glass was still practically full and there were three dates.

As usual, Malik had confined himself to a simple courtesy sip before going off at the machine with his usual complaints at the beginning of the month. Although he was used to it Bashir was very sorry, even though he was aware that he could do nothing about it. Then again, hoping to mitigate Malik's intransigence had as much chance as succeeding in bending an iron bar. You could try, but rather than bend it would break.

Emptying his own glass and grabbing the two remaining dates, Bashir rose from his chair and then headed for the large window on the other side of the study. He pressed a button on the wall next to the inlaid desk, and the cobalt blue curtains parted on their own, revealing the view of the illuminated gardens for the night

A canal made visible by colorful spotlights placed along its banks, flowed through verdant lawns dotted with date palms, alternating with fountains, perfectly pruned hedges, flower beds with magnificent tropical flowers, and pretty little bridges joining one bank to the other

As he watched the thin sliver of moon shining in the night sky, Bashir put the first date in his mouth and chewed it calmly. It was as soft as a ripe banana, but at least ten times more delicious, and having already been pitted by the kitchen workers he did not even have to bother unwrapping the stone. His reflection peered at him through the glass as he savored it.

Bashir was a man over sixty years old with a thick gray beard, which had been getting lighter and lighter for a few years now. He wore a long white dishdasha with a caramel-colored cloak with golden edges over it, in addition to the ever-present keffiyeh, held in place by a black cord.

His hooked nose and viscous eyes with a resolute gaze almost made him resemble a kind of large eagle. And indeed, despite the inexorable advance of age, he still did not need his glasses to see from a distance. Even though they were practically close to the horizon line, he could still make out the outlines of Riyadh's skyscrapers without trouble.

Having swallowed the date, Bashir lingered for a few more seconds over the city lights silhouetted against the black sky, and then took a bite of the second one. He had just clamped his jaw on the fruit when he felt a terrible twinge in the left side of his mouth. He had chipped a molar.

Immediately pulling the date away from his lips, he stared at it in disbelief with a furrowed brow, while meanwhile massaging his cheek using his other hand. It took him a few moments before he realized what had just happened. The kitchen attendants must have become distracted during the pitting operations.

Vowing to have the person responsible punished in case he needed the dentist, he made to open the date using his fingers, but just then something inexplicable happened. Suddenly doubling in size, the fruit he held in his hands turned into a large black beetle with a shiny shell.

Hunting down a startled scream, Bashir launched the huge insect away, but it did not crash into the wall as initially planned. Spreading its wings with surprising readiness, the beetle interrupted its flight in midair, and then took off for the studio. At first it merely fluttered a bit haphazardly, following a seemingly logic-free trajectory, but slowly the circles it traced in the air became tighter and tighter, until it found itself swirling around the monarch, as if it were trying to trap him inside an invisible noose.

Bashir tried to follow it with his eyes, but by now the beetle was going too fast for him to keep up, and at one point, without warning, the insect pointed straight at his face, even reaching up to touch the tip of his nose.

The king shouted again and immediately began to back away, however, his brief escape came to an end moments later when he tripped over the hem of his own robe. Instinctively, the man rolled his arms backward, preparing to fall to the floor, but fortunately for him, one of the two armchairs placed in front of the desk spared him an embarrassing tumble on the richly decorated carpet

Too frightened to get back up, Bashir therefore stood motionless where he was, merely staring appalled at the beetle buzzing in front of him. A circle, a spin of death, another circle, and then the bizarre insect plunged headlong toward the ground, where it disappeared into thin air.

The disbelief dictated by that sudden disappearance lasted barely a split second, just long enough to blink. Now, in front of the chair where the monarch sat stood a figure at least two meters tall, wrapped in a long cloak as black as night.

At the sight of him Bashir felt an icy chill run through him. For although they were robes fit for a normal human being, albeit one of decidedly impressive size, the stranger's face was completely absent. The hood that framed his face looked like some kind of dark cesspool, within which nothing but impenetrable darkness could be discerned.

With his heart beating wildly, Bashir opened his mouth to call for help, but this time he was not allowed to make a sound. There was a flicker of frightening rapidity, and without him even being able to realize what had just happened, he found his mouth sealed.

When he was finally able to bring the situation into focus, he discovered that a long raven tentacle had sprouted from the hooded figure's back, which, wrapping the lower part of his head in a deadly grip, had ended up rendering him completely speechless

At that point, as terror and bewilderment took hold of him, the hooded figure broke the silence.

''Let's not make noise, or we risk being disturbed,'' he said in perfect English, as he brought a gloved index finger closer to the hood. ''And I hate to be disturbed.''

Listening to him speak gave Bashir goose bumps. His voice was as bleak and deep as any he had ever heard before. More than a man, it sounded as if a caveman had spoken those words.

''Do you understand what I'm saying?

Bashir nodded just enough for the tight tentacle around his head.

''Good,'' commented the stranger persuasively. ''Tell me, if I released you now, would you scream?''

Bashir shook his head.

''Are you sure?

The monarch nodded.

''I am asking because, in case you are lying to me, it is my intention to give you the same treatment you have already inflicted on yours truly,'' he threatened in a hushed tone. ''With the subtle difference, that in this case the one biting will be me.'' A hoarse chuckle rose from the darkness in the center of the hood. ''Even if it doesn't show, know that I have very good teeth.''

Too frightened even to move a muscle, Bashir remained paralyzed in the chair, his eyes exuding terror fixed on the nothingness that seemed to lie concealed beneath that long black cloak.

"So, can I release you?" asked the stranger.

Although it cost him a huge sacrifice, Bashir forced himself to nod his head

The movement was so fast that he did not even see it, the fact is that the tentacle literally disappeared into thin air, and at the same instant that this happened the pressure on his mouth dissolved as if by magic

As soon as he was free, Bashir rubbed his chin covered by his thick gray beard, although his gaze always remained focused on the hooded figure standing in front of him.

"Who are you?" he ventured to ask in a trembling voice.

For a few interminable seconds the stranger stared at him in silence (or at least, that's how it seemed to him), and then he started walking behind the desk.

''Just a passing traveler,'' she replied simply without even looking at him.

And as he finished saying the sentence he disappeared behind a large painting of King Zaki, hanging from a tripod to the right of the cabinet. Bashir waited for him to pop up on the other side, but the stranger did not.

In an attempt to figure out where he had ended up, he cautiously leaned out of the chair propping himself up on the armrests, but the noise he suddenly heard behind him made him wince so loudly that he fell back crashing back into the chair. When he turned to check to see what had happened, he saw the stranger standing in front of a marble pillar. The large pure gold clock that had been resting on it until a few moments before was now in his hands.

''As a matter of fact, I have just returned from a delightful visit to a place I'm sure you know very well,'' he explained in a light tone, meanwhile admiring the jewel by twirling it around with a knowing air. ''Or at least you should, given the animosity you seem to have toward it.''

Bashir swallowed, clearly terrified, but he tried hard not to convey that emotion in his own voice as he spoke.

''What place are you referring to?

''Does the name Dubai mean anything to you?" said the stranger, putting the gold watch back in its place.

''Everyone knows Dubai,'' Bashir replied, hinting at a nervous smirk.

''And since you cheerfully started bombing her, they know her even more,'' mockingly commented the stranger.

Bashir's smile faded.

''But apparently you are not the only one who has certain nice toys,'' remarked the hooded figure carelessly, meanwhile pointing his gaze out the studio window. ''Toh, look, a drone.''

"What?

Bashir immediately turned to check, but beyond the glass the landscape seemed perfectly unchanged. The night sky above the palace gardens appeared perfectly clear.

When he turned back in the armchair, however, the stranger had disappeared again. Believing he was on the verge of going mad, the monarch resumed looking in the direction of the stained-glass window, and what he saw at that point managed to snatch a stifled cry from him. Now the hooded figure sat at his own desk, his heavy black boots resting on the polished surface of the cabinet.

''Sorry, I couldn't resist,'' the stranger said amused, entwining his gloved hands in his lap.

While he was trying to recover from that latest shock, Bashir took the opportunity to reflect on the absurdity of the situation he was in.

The strange being was clearly endowed with some paranormal power and also seemed to dislike the destruction of Dubai.

What did he really want, however? For him to stop the bombing? And for what purpose?

Dark forces had been plotting against the House of Jaziri for as long as it existed, but he never imagined he would see them intervene directly. Then again, it was certainly not the first time they had made choices that were invisible to the enemies of the true faith, yet neither King Zaki, or his grandfather, or his father had ever written in their memoirs about an event like the one he was witnessing at that moment.

Could it be that he was the first of his dynasty to face an otherworldly threat in the flesh?

Whether this was the case or not, it was a decidedly unpleasant affair, to say the least. The only thing he could do was to show himself resolute in his convictions, yet not overdo it with cockiness. Even if he was not an envoy of Allah, that being had amply demonstrated that he could harm him if only he wanted to.

''I was forced to do it,'' he said in a calm but firm tone.

The stranger tilted his head to the side questioningly.

''Compelled? Really?" he asked mockingly. ''And who did it? Your nephew? Did he come in here with a gun in his fist threatening to shoot you in the head if you didn't?''

''This is a very complicated matter,'' Bashir replied, ignoring the provocation, ''we could not allow the Emirates to ally with Tehran.''

''Ah, dear old geopolitics,'' commented the stranger amusedly. ''Always charming and always in the way.'' His voice suddenly became harsh and threatening. Rather than uttering the words, he almost seemed to be snarling at them. ''Like an annoying wart.''

Bashir swallowed, but forced himself to remain calm.

''As I said, it was necessary,'' he reiterated, trying to appear conciliatory. ''We had to intervene.''

Still keeping his legs on the table, the stranger intertwined his feet, resting the left one on top of the other.

''And because picking up a telephone and holding negotiations seemed too obvious, you thought it best to invade, bomb and kill left and right,'' he sarcastically sentenced.

Unable to restrain himself any longer Bashir sprang to his feet, and overcoming fear pointed a bony index finger at the black hole in the center of the hood.

''Listen to me well Iblīs...''

"Who?" the stranger interrupted him, looking as if he had no idea what he was talking about.

Caught off guard, Bashir lowered his hand.

''It's not you?" he said confused. ''Then who sent you?

''No one,'' replied the stranger nonchalantly, entwining his fingers behind the hood. ''I am sending myself.''

''What is your master?" the monarch pressed him firmly.

It took only a moment for Bashir to realize that he had made a terrible mistake.

Putting his boots back on the ground and resting his gloved hands on the table, the stranger slowly rose to his feet and then curved toward him. The height gap between them was so striking that it made him feel like a junior high school boy in front of his father, although the fear he felt was decidedly more like the fear he would have felt being inches from the fangs of a lion

"I beg your pardon?" he asked in a terribly threatening tone.

The disquiet she managed to convey to him with that simple sentence could not be described in words. The pit of darkness in the center of the hood stared at him as if it were about to swallow him at any moment.

''I meant the...c-who...'' he stammered nervously.

''I know perfectly well what you meant,'' cut the stranger short. ''But tell me, in your opinion, if I were really a hell demon, would I be standing here taking part in such a calm conversation?''

Bashir opened and closed his mouth without making a sound, but in any case it was the hooded figure who answered himself, without waiting for him to do so.

''Of course not!" he announced in a light tone, spreading his arms wide, as if to say that this was a blatantly obvious fact. ''For example...''

In an almost instantaneous movement two long black tentacles sprouted from the stranger's back, and then sprang forward. The first wrapped itself around the king's mouth again, while the second enclosed him inside a vice that made his arms cling to his torso.

At that point the man was lifted in midair and flipped upside down. The lower flaps of his dishdasha and cloak immediately slid downward, falling floppy around his underpants, while the keffiyeh he wore on his head surprisingly remained where it was, although it seemed about to fall to the ground at any moment.

Bashir screamed in terror, but his cries were reduced to little more than a faint whisper because of the tentacle plugging his mouth. Meanwhile, the stranger bypassed the desk and stood in front of him.

''For example, I would immobilize you in some ridiculous and humiliating position like this,'' he said sardonically, concluding the sentence left unfinished, ''at which point I would start getting busy.''

He extended his arm to the right and in his hand appeared out of nowhere the hilt of a long silver scimitar. When he lowered his arm the curved end of the sword penetrated the sumptuous carpet at his feet, opening a gash several inches long. A trickle of sweat furrowed the king's brow before falling onto the fabric.

''Here, now I'm going to cut you into little pieces,'' announced the stranger calmly. ''Where do you think it's best to start?''

Giving in to panic Bashir let out a desperate scream, but the only result he achieved was to slip off his keffiyeh, revealing an almost completely bald head

''You're right,'' said the stranger in a sly tone, totally ignoring his protests. ''Let's keep it traditional.

He raised the sword high, and holding it a few inches from the king's body, he began to lower it slowly, as if he were drawing a line on the air.

''First we'll start with a good slash from the top down. Or as I like to say it, from the perineum to the tip of the...I mean, you get the idea''

In response, Bashir doubled the power of his screams, and once again his cries were reduced to a barely audible mumbling. Because of the inverted position, his face was turning red

''By the way...'' resumed the hooded figure serenely, pretending that she had not even heard him, ''do you prefer one sharp blow, or three or four in succession?'' He raised the sword high and gave a couple of taps with his gloved finger against the flat of the shiny blade. ''You know, like blunt axe?''

Now consumed by insane terror, Bashir took a deep breath through his nose and screamed with all the force his lungs would allow. If he failed to alert the guards, he was certain beyond a reasonable doubt that he would die there.

However, in spite of his efforts, his efforts proved completely futile. The tentacle's grip around his mouth was as firm as ever. Meanwhile, the stranger bent down slightly and tilted his head to the side with a puzzled air, as if he did not quite understand what he was trying to scream.

''How?" he asked in amazement. "Five? He shrugged his shoulders and returned to his feet. ''Well, if you say so.''

He grasped the hilt of the sword with both hands and after retracting it all the way behind his back, prepared to deliver the first slash. Bashir was already praying in his mind with his eyes closed, when a sound of footsteps and tapping from the entrance to the study made him open them again. Someone was knocking on the door, and soon afterwards he also uttered a few words in Arabic.

At just hearing that voice, the king felt a rush of euphoria go through him that was simply indescribable. He was saved.

He did not even have time to scream again, however, that the world turned upside down. Now he was back on his feet, and his eyes were staring at the door at the end of the room. He still had his arms forcibly glued to his body, and the second tentacle was still keeping his mouth shut, but at least he was no longer in that humiliating position with his underwear in plain sight.

He had just begun to take notice of that abrupt change when he felt something sharp brush against the skin of his neck. With sweat beading on his forehead Bashir rolled his eyes downward, discovering that another tentacle had joined the other two, and its silver tip, with the features of a deadly serrated blade, was pressing against his jugular, scratching his epidermis.

''Tell him it's all right,'' whispered the stranger's voice behind him. ''Try to fool me and you will brag about it in the afterlife.''

And as he finished uttering that warning, the tentacle plugging his mouth withdrew, leaving him free to speak.

Bashir opened his lips, not even knowing what he would do. He could have screamed, but he would have died for sure. Or he could humor the mysterious being...and he would probably die anyway. However, between a certain death, and a very likely one, the choice was practically forced.

Taking a deep breath for courage, Bashir spoke in Arabic to the guard waiting behind the door, informing him that he was perfectly fine and did not want to be disturbed anymore. The man replied deferentially and then left. The sound of his footsteps on the floor gradually became less audible, until it died away in the distance.

Silence had just returned to reign in the study when the king felt the grip around his arms dissolve as the blade pressing against his jugular also disappeared.

Heaving a sigh of relief Bashir massaged his neck, brushing his thick gray beard. Fearing even to move he preferred to wait by staying where he was, but since after half a minute the hooded figure had still not reappeared, he decided to overcome his own fear and turned around.

No one. The stranger had disappeared one more time.

Suspecting that she was playing the same trick on him as she had done at the beginning of their conversation, Bashir turned away, but the result he got was the same, and it did not change even when he repeated the gesture three more times in a row. Apart from him, it really seemed that the studio was deserted.

In an attempt to calm himself he closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply. He could not, and the questions that kept swirling in his head threatened to drive him mad.

What had happened? Where had he gone? Was it possible that he had imagined everything? And if so, what could it possibly mean? Was he asleep or had he simply succumbed to madness?

With his mind still in turmoil he reopened his eyes and looked around. He was alone

A cold draft from the air conditioning made the sparse hairs on the sides of his bald head stand up. It was then that he realized he no longer had his keffiyeh. Finding it a few steps away from the desk, he bent down to pick it up, but as soon as he was back on his feet, two very heavy hands with a formidable grip grabbed his shoulders.

Bashir let out a terrified squeak and let go of the headgear, which fell lightly to the ground.

''Don't worry, I'll do it,'' said the deep voice behind him.

The grip on his shoulders was suddenly lost, and a moment later he heard the sound of footsteps on the carpet. Having his eyes still pointed downward, the king saw nothing but the lower part of the stranger's body intent on going around him, but what he saw was more than enough to plunge him into utter panic.

The huge feet that now stood in front of him were actually terrifying paws covered in dense raven fur and equipped with long claws.

With his limbs shaken by an uncontrollable tremor Bashir slowly raised his head again until he found himself staring into the face of the stranger. Or rather, of the muzzle, for the creature with whom he was crossing his gaze was a giant anthropomorphic wolf at least ten feet tall. Its large yellow eyes stared at him magnetically as it stretched its upper paws forward and gently rested its keffiyeh on its head.

Bashir did not object, nor did he dare to open his mouth. Besides, he could not have done otherwise. Fear had rendered him incapable of anything but trembling.

''There, where it belongs,'' commented the wolf smugly, adjusting the black cord around his headgear. ''If you think about it, it's kind of like the head. She has to stay in place, too.'' He hinted a smirk, revealing the white fangs underneath. ''Don't you agree?

''Yes,'' whispered Bashir in an almost inaudible whisper.

''So you will agree with me about the intrinsic beauty of being alive.'' The wolf bent over him until their noses were a span apart. ''With all limbs still attached.''

''Yes,'' Bashir repeated. His voice had become so weak that even the faint rustle of the air conditioning could overpower it.

''So why are you working so hard to prevent people from continuing to enjoy this indisputable advantage?" the wolf asked sarcastically, sporting an expression of good-natured disappointment.

''I don't...'' farfuglio Bashir.

The wolf silenced him by hissing a shh and resting a clawed finger on his lips.

''This is not the time for apologies, this is the time for concrete gestures,'' he whispered, shaking his head. ''Therefore, be concrete.''

And pushing his finger away, he hid his paws behind his fur-covered body, standing by. Although his throat was completely dry, Bashir swallowed.

''What would you like me to do?''

The wolf's lips curved into a creepy grin, which exposed the coil of deadly fangs.

''Well, now we understand each other,'' he commented with satisfaction.