THE TESTAMENT OF AL-HARIQA
CHAPTER TWELVE
1
That evening, Adnan received an unexpected call from Reem. Her voice was unusually tense.
“Adnan, can you meet me tomorrow morning? I need to tell you something important. Something has happened, and I don’t know whether I should be frightened or not.”
Adnan agreed at once, but he sensed from her voice that the matter was serious.
The following morning, they met at a quiet café in central Frankfurt. Reem arrived looking exhausted, her face pale.
“What happened?” Adnan asked.
She lowered her voice. “Yesterday, after I left the office, I was driving home when a car began following me. At first I thought it was coincidence, but it stayed behind me for nearly twenty minutes. Then, when I turned onto a side street, it accelerated and tried to force me off the road.”
Adnan’s expression hardened. “Did you get a look at the driver?”
“No. The windows were dark, and the whole thing happened too quickly. I managed to escape, but I was terrified.”
Adnan fell silent for a moment. The thought that someone might be trying to intimidate Reem because of her work on the case filled him with unease.
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Yes. But they said that without a license plate number or clear evidence, there was very little they could do.”
Adnan looked at her seriously. “You need to be careful, Reem. If this is connected to the case, it may not stop here.”
2
Reem hesitated before speaking again. “There is something else. I found a document in the files that may explain why Elias has been so interested in the al-Hourani property.”
She took several photocopied pages from her bag and placed them on the table.
“These are old land records. They show that several properties belonging to the al-Hourani family were transferred through a chain of companies over a period of years. The final beneficiary appears to be a company linked to Elias.”
Adnan studied the papers carefully. “Are you sure these documents are authentic?”
“I had them checked. The records are genuine. What I cannot prove yet is whether the transfers were legal or whether someone manipulated the ownership records.”
“And you think Elias was involved?”
“I think he knew far more about the properties than he admitted. And if these records are connected to the trust Hajj Tawfiq left behind, then the matter is much larger than we thought.”
Adnan felt the familiar pressure return to his chest. “Then we need to know exactly what Hajj Tawfiq knew before he disappeared.”
3
That afternoon, Adnan received another call, this time from Ziad Salloum.
“Mr. al-Rafi’i, I have found something in the old files that I believe you should see immediately.”
Adnan went to the lawyer’s office. Ziad opened a worn folder and placed a handwritten letter on the desk.
“This was found among the papers of a former notary who handled some of Hajj Tawfiq’s legal affairs in the 1970s.”
Adnan recognized the handwriting at once.
“This is Hajj Tawfiq’s.”
Ziad nodded. “The letter was never sent. It was apparently written shortly before his disappearance.”
Adnan began reading, his hands trembling.
*“If this letter reaches Adnan one day, then I will have failed to protect him from the consequences of what I chose to keep hidden. I have always believed that some truths are dangerous not because they are false, but because they are true at the wrong time…”*
Adnan stopped reading. His throat tightened.
“What else does it say?”
Ziad looked at him gravely. “You should read the rest yourself.”
4
The letter continued:
*“There is a woman named Fatima whom I have never spoken to you about. She was connected to the al-Hourani family, and there are reasons to believe that her story is connected to yours. I did not tell you because I feared that the truth would destroy the life you had built for yourself. If you ever return to Damascus, ask about Fatima. But do not trust anyone who tells you that she died without leaving a trace.”*
Adnan stared at the page in disbelief.
“Fatima…” he whispered.
Ziad watched him carefully. “Does that name mean something to you?”
Adnan took a long breath. “My mother was named Fatima.”
Silence filled the office.
“But that cannot be possible,” Adnan continued. “My mother died when I was a child. At least, that is what I was told.”
Ziad leaned forward. “Perhaps Hajj Tawfiq was referring to someone else. But if he deliberately connected this woman to the al-Hourani family and to you, we cannot dismiss it.”
Adnan looked again at the letter, feeling as though the ground beneath his entire life had shifted.
5
That night, Adnan could not sleep. He kept returning to the same questions: Who was Fatima? Why had Hajj Tawfiq hidden her existence? And what connection could she possibly have to the al-Hourani family?
Near midnight, he opened the old box of papers he had carried with him from Damascus decades earlier. There were very few things inside: some photographs, a handful of letters, and a faded photograph of his mother.
He studied the photograph for a long time. For the first time, he noticed something he had never paid attention to before: around her neck was a small silver pendant shaped like a key.
Adnan’s heart began to pound.
The pendant looked remarkably similar to the small silver key Hajj Tawfiq had once given him—the key to Safe-Deposit Box No. 47.
6
The next morning, Adnan called Reem and asked her to meet him immediately.
When she arrived, he showed her the photograph.
“Do you see this?”
Reem examined it closely. “It looks like a key.”
“Exactly. And Hajj Tawfiq gave me a key that looked almost identical.”
Reem’s expression changed. “Adnan, if your mother had a connection to the al-Hourani family, and if Hajj Tawfiq knew about it, then this could be the missing link.”
“But how do we prove it?”
Reem thought for a moment. “We need to find out who Fatima really was. We need records: birth records, marriage records, anything that can establish her identity and her connection to the al-Hourani family.”
Adnan nodded. “Then that is where we start.”
7
Meanwhile, Elias was becoming increasingly impatient.
He had learned about the documents Reem had discovered and understood that the investigation was moving closer to the truth. He called one of his associates.
“I want everything they have found about the al-Hourani properties. Every document. Every name.”
The associate hesitated. “What about Reem?”
Elias’s voice hardened. “Keep watching her. I want to know where she goes, who she meets, and what she is looking for.”
“And Adnan?”
“Adnan is the real problem. He has the testament, the lawyer, and now Reem. If he discovers what that woman Fatima has to do with him, everything could collapse.”
8
That same evening, Adnan received a message from an unknown number.
“Stop searching for Fatima. Some truths are better left buried.”
He showed the message to Reem.
“This is not a coincidence,” she said quietly. “They know what we’re looking for.”
Adnan stared at the screen. “Then we’re getting close.”
Reem shook her head. “Or we’re walking into a trap.”
9
Two days later, Reem disappeared.
Adnan called her repeatedly, but her phone was switched off.
He contacted her office. They told him she had left early that afternoon and had not returned.
Adnan’s anxiety grew rapidly.
He called Ziad. “Have you heard from Reem?”
“No. Why?”
“She has disappeared.”
Ziad was silent for several seconds. “Adnan, do not go looking for her alone. Call the police.”
Adnan did so immediately.
10
That night, the police found Reem’s car abandoned on a road outside the city.
The driver’s door was open. Her phone was lying on the seat.
There was no sign of her.
Adnan stood beside the car, staring at it in disbelief.
“This is my fault,” he whispered. “She got involved because of me.”
Ziad placed a hand on his shoulder. “No. Whoever did this chose to do it. Do not give them the satisfaction of making you blame yourself.”
11
Three days later, Reem was found.
She had been held in an empty building outside Frankfurt. She was shaken and exhausted, but alive.
When Adnan saw her, relief nearly overwhelmed him.
“Who did this?” he asked.
Reem shook her head. “I never saw their faces. But before they let me go, one of them told me something.”
“What?”
She looked at Adnan. “He said: ‘Tell Adnan that Fatima was not the woman he thinks she was.’”
Adnan felt the blood drain from his face.
12
That sentence remained with him long after Reem had returned home.
Fatima was not the woman he thinks she was.
For forty-five years, Adnan had believed he knew the basic story of his childhood. His mother had died. Hajj Tawfiq had protected him. He had eventually left Damascus and built a new life in Germany.
Now, every one of those certainties was beginning to crack.
He looked at the old photograph again.
The small silver key around Fatima’s neck seemed to him no longer like an ordinary piece of jewelry, but like a message deliberately left behind for someone who might one day know how to read it.
And for the first time, Adnan allowed himself to consider a possibility that frightened him more than anything else: that Kamal al-Hourani might not merely have been connected to his mother’s story—that he might have been connected to Adnan himself.
Outside the window, Frankfurt was silent beneath the winter night.
Somewhere far away, in Damascus, an old secret was still waiting.
And Adnan knew now that he would not stop until he found it.