The Devil’s Kingdom. Scott Mariani

       Prologue

       Oman

       The man stood at the high, broad window and spent a few moments gazing pensively at the view. From the house, the landscaped gardens of the Al Bu Said residence sloped gently down towards the sea. Palm trees swayed in the Indian Ocean breeze. He could see the light dappling the water like liquid gold around the gleaming white hull of the family’s superyacht, moored in its private marina in the distance. It was a late afternoon in November, but the sun was warm through the bulletproof glass of the window.

       What a way to live, the man thought. He drank in the spectacular view for a few moments longer before dragging himself away. Dreams were all very well. But it wasn’t his view, and such opulence would remain infinitely beyond his reach if he lived to be a thousand years old. Not everyone could be born into such unimaginable wealth. Maybe that was just as well.

       Turning to look back at the rest of the big room, he faced the darker reality of the situation.

       And what a way to die, he thought, shaking his head sadly. Their money had done them no good in the end.

       Most physical signs of the brutal quadruple murder were long gone, erased since the forensic team had finished their work. The bodies of Hussein Al Bu Said, his wife Najila, and their two children – Chakir, twelve, and seven-year-old Salma – had been housed in a mortuary at the family’s privately owned hospital in Salalah until they had finally been laid to rest yesterday, amid scenes of unbelievable public mourning.

       It had been the most shocking incident. Two weeks after the murders, all of Oman was still stunned. Not because the super-wealthy businessman had necessarily been an adored figure – but because if highly protected members of one of the oldest noble family dynasties in all of the Persian Gulf could be targeted by criminals and butchered in their own home like cattle, then who was safe?

       Now all that remained was to catch the perpetrators of this terrible crime. That job belonged to the man standing in the window. His name was Zayd Qureshi, and he was one of the most senior detectives of the Royal Oman Police’s Special Task Force. The ROP had pledged that they would not rest until the perpetrators were brought to justice.

       The Al Bu Said residence was empty except for Qureshi and his number two, Detective Faheem Bashir, who had served in some slightly mysterious capacity in the Sultan’s Armed Forces before transferring to the police. Qureshi had long ago given up quizzing Bashir about his secretive background. And at this moment, it was the last thing on his mind. He liked to revisit the scene of the crime when all had gone quiet. It helped him to still his thoughts, and get into the head of the criminal. To catch a crook, sometimes you had to think like a crook, see the world through their eyes.

       Qureshi’s investigation team had managed to trace certain leads. A car seen racing away from the scene of the murder had been traced to its owner, who told the police it had been stolen; his story was confirmed by CCTV footage of the theft, although the thief’s identity was still unknown. So far, the police had produced no solid results. The only thing they knew for sure was that this was a highly professional robbery to order, evidenced by the fact that the thieves forced Hussein Al Bu Said to open the safe but left a fortune in cash and jewellery unmolested.

       ‘There’s only one reason why anyone would do that,’ Qureshi said out loud, to nobody in particular. ‘But what did they take?’

       Faheem Bashir, who had no better idea of the answer than his superior, said nothing and went on looking around the desolate crime scene as though it might cough up more clues for them.

       Neither Qureshi nor Bashir noticed the presence of the third man who had stepped silently into the room behind them.

       ‘They took the Star of Africa,’ the man said. ‘Hussein’s diamond.’

       The detectives turned, startled. It was highly unusual for anyone to be able to sneak up on Bashir like that.

       ‘Who are you?’ Qureshi demanded. ‘How did you get in here?’

       The stranger made no reply. He was about ten years younger than Bashir and twenty years younger than Qureshi; somewhere in his early thirties, lean and compact in build. His black hair was swept back from a high brow and a chiselled face that radiated a brooding, simmering energy. His dark eyes were mournful, and yet filled with a contained fire of rage that Qureshi found unsettling.

       The stranger gazed around him, apparently uninterested in the detectives, as though all he’d come for was a last look at the place. Then he turned and left the room without another word.

       Qureshi went to go after him, but Bashir stepped into his path, gently pressed a hand to his boss’s chest to block him, and shook his head.

       ‘What are you doing? Get out of my way, I want to talk to that guy, find out who he is and what he’s talking about. What diamond?’