Chasing Paper

by Graham Hamer

  “What's the matter, Cheri? Is the nasty lady going to hurt the poor little man?”

  He laughed. “Not if the poor little man can help it.”

  She passed him the bottle, which he uncorked with care. As he filled the glasses, he glanced at her face. “What's going on in that pretty head of yours, Claire Le Petit?”

  She leaned forward and kissed him again. “I was just thinking how lucky I was to have met you.”

  “The feeling's mutual,” he whispered. “I've never felt so at ease and free with anyone like this before.”

  “Me too.”

  Ian passed her one of the glasses, taking the other himself and raising it in a toast. “Let's drink to us.”

  As they relaxed on the bed, naked and content, she watched the tiny bubbles rising from the bottom of the amber liquid. “You're not going to stay in the firm's apartment are you?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the glass.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there's plenty of space in the wardrobe over there, and I've just put some clean towels in the bathroom for you. Why don't you spend the next few weeks here with me?”

  “And what would happen if I said 'no'?”

  She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then smiled. “I'd pour my champagne over you and lick it off until you submitted.”

  “I think I need to think about it then.”

  Claire took his full glass off him and placed it at the side of the bed. A moment later, her empty glass joined his as she kept her promised threat.

  SATURDAY 14 JUNE

  Mohammed Al-Rashid Al-Sabah slid his feet into his worn leather sandals and left the house through the glazed aluminium doors that overlooked a patch of forsaken sandy ground that his ageing mother called 'the family garden'. As he stepped from the shade of the veranda into the full heat of the Kuwait summer, he screwed up his rheumy eyes against the unyielding glare of the late morning sun. His head throbbed from the lingering effects of the previous night's Glenmorangie, and his servant had left his sunglasses in the car - neither of which helped to improve his mood.

  “Ibrahim,” he shouted. “Where the hell are you?”

  A slightly-built figure wearing a short-sleeved white cotton shirt and grey slacks, appeared from the servants' quarters, which were attached to the rear of the diwanir. The dark-skinned man hurried forward with quick, short steps, scuffing the sand with his loose-fitting sandals.

  “Very sorry Mister Mohammed,” he said, looking down at his dusty feet. “I just come back from shopping for Mrs Al-Sabah and stop to use the bathroom.”

  “Well bloody-well use it in your own time in future,” Mohammed snapped. “And I hope you washed your hands afterwards. Now fetch me my sunglasses and let's get to the office.”

  He scrutinized Ibrahim's every move as the Bangladeshi shuffled quickly to the four-wheel drive Cherokee, opened the driver's door, and climbed into its metal oven. Even in the shade, the mid-June temperature was in excess of forty degrees. It was a dry, parched heat that dehydrated and cracked the skin. Starting the engine, the servant turned the air-conditioning control to full. Though it took only seconds to chill, the first blast was, as always, scorching hot from the residue in the system, and he held his hands to his eyes to protect them. He reached into the glove compartment for the Raybans that he'd placed there the previous evening. Opening the leather case, he held the sunglasses in front of the cold stream of air for a moment. He closed the car door, to allow the air-conditioning to take effect, re-crossed the hot, dusty yard and presented the cooled glasses to his master.

  “Bring the car.”

  Ibrahim scurried away. The powerful engine revved and the vehicle moved forwards the few yards to where Mohammed waited. The diminutive driver stepped out, into the midday heat, and walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door for him. With considerable effort, Mohammed stood up. His belly protruded like he'd eaten a cushion. The dishdasha, which was tight around his gut, hung loosely around his legs and feet, like a flapping tent. He adjusted his white, linen head-dress, which hung over his shoulders and, with a practiced motion, tossed the hanging sides of the kufiya over the top of his head, covering all but a couple of inches of the thin woven cord of the iqal. Then, stepping into the cool air of the car, he slumped into the passenger seat as his servant closed the door behind him.

  The car accelerated away, sending a sharp cloud of sand particles through the air as the wheels searched for grip. Mohammed sat back dispassionately for the ten minute drive to his family's depot and salesrooms in Shuwaikh, the kingdom's industrial area.

  No word passed between the two men until the car came to a halt on the barren forecourt of Rashid Al-Sabah and Sons, when Mohammed said, “Coffee.” Ibrahim nodded and scuttled away to brew the thick Turkish blend that his master favoured after an evening of alcohol. Mohammed called after him. “The bloody door, you clown. What about the bloody door?”

  The servant rushed back to open the car door.

  “I don't know what's the matter with you today. If you carry on like this, you'll find yourself out of a job and walking back to Bangladesh.”

  “Very sorry Mister Mohammed.”

  “So bugger off and make some coffee then.” He entered the air-conditioned showrooms through the glazed doors at the front of the building. After passing between forklift trucks, mini hoists and conveyors, all bearing a red and gold three-legged logo, embossed over the letters TLM, Mohammed opened the door of the office marked 'Khalid Al-Sabah - Chairman' and squeezed into a large chair at one end of a long mahogany table. “What's the news?” he asked.

  Khalid, his equally obese brother, sat with his back to the room in an even larger chair at the other end of the table, staring across the depot yard. “He's definitely coming tomorrow,” he said, without moving.

  “Damn!”

  “Abu Jassim's got contacts in the factory so I got him to call this morning and see if he could get any information on this Gidman bloke that we could use against him.”

  “And?”

  “He's about as clean as you can get. Once married - once divorced - new girlfriend in Paris.”

  “Bugger. It's not going to take him long to spot the stock shortages, and that'll be the end of the Three Legg's agency.”

  “I know,” Khalid said. “They'll wipe the floor with us.” He paused as he levered one side of his bulk an inch or two off the chair. “There's just one chance,” he added, squeezing out a long, rumbling fart like a distant roll of thunder.

  “What's that?” Mohammed asked.

  “Bujassim's contact at the factory is a bloke called Nick Ferris. He's an accountant or something. 'Bujassim got him at home this morning. This Nick guy said that someone called Ron Scott is trying to buy Three Leggs. We've got Scott's phone number but I've not been able to get hold of him yet.”

  Ibrahim knocked on the door and entered the room, carrying a garish mirrored tray, on which was a cup of hot Turkish coffee. “Get another,” Khalid said, as the servant placed the cup in front of Mohammed. Ibrahim nodded and backed out of the room.

  “So what if this guy buys the company?” Mohammed asked, disposing of the coffee in one swallow. “We've sold the stock and pocketed the money so we're a hundred thousand dinar, about quarter of a million pounds, short. It won't take them long to spot that.”

  Khalid steepled his fingers under his several chins. “Well it seems that this accountant —”

  “Nick.”

  “Yeah, Nick. It seems he told 'Bujassim that this other bloke —”

  “Ron Scott.”

  “That this other bloke was very different to Legg. He said that we shouldn't have too much trouble doing a deal with him.”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “I don't know. Maybe we can trade off the stock shortages against the agency in Saudi.”

  “But we don't have an agency in Saudi.”

  Khalid tutted and scratched his moustache. “Bloody hell, do I have to do the thinking for bo
th of us?”

  Mohammed frowned. He was distinguished for his ignorance. He'd only ever had one idea, and he'd been told that was wrong.

  “Course we don't have a bloody agency in Saudi,” Khalid said. “But our agreement is for the whole Gulf and Legg's lot would be delighted if we gave up our rights to Saudi. They could appoint an agent there tomorrow.”

  Now he understood. Why didn't Khalid say so earlier? “So why don't we find a Saudi who wants to buy the agency rights, and pay off the stock shortages?”

  “Because the agreement stipulates we're not allowed to appoint sub-agents.”

  Mohammed didn't know that either. He paused long enough to assimilate the facts. It was a long pause and he still wasn't sure that he had grasped the situation. “What happens then if this Ron Scott doesn't want to deal?”

  “We're in deep shit,” Khalid said. “We might just as well shut up shop and stay at home. Legg will make mincemeat of us. We’ll lose the agency for sure.”

  Mohammed banged his coffee cup into the saucer. “Damn! And just when things were running smoothly.”

  Ibrahim entered with the second coffee, and placed it in front of Khalid.

  “Get the air-conditioning going in the car,” Mohammed said. “I'll be going home for lunch in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  They lay naked together on the big double bed of their home in Boulevard Raspail. The window was open to allow air into the room, though the ventilated shutters were pulled loosely together, giving privacy to their intimate touches. Ian lifted his head to look at her. Though smiling, she was crying gently and, when he tried to speak, she pulled his head back down to her face and kissed his cheek where her tear had moistened it.

  “I'm going to miss you, Cheri,” she whispered. “This last month has been amazing. It's hard to imagine what life was like without you.”

  He raised his head again, this time meeting no resistance. “I'll miss you too, Claire. Everything has changed in the last few weeks. When I came here I was so looking forward to seeing you again, but I never imagined how things would end up. I feel that I've known you and loved you all my life.”

  “What are we going to do, Ian? I mean, once you've finished your business in Kuwait, what do you think will happen?”

  The answer was immediate. “I'll ask Sean if I can be based here. The manager here speaks good English, but I guess I'd have to study the language a lot more if I was going to live here.”

  Claire looked up at him. “Do you feel strongly enough about our relationship to do that, Cheri? To start again in a strange country?”

  “Of course. I've never felt so close to anyone, or so comfortable with anyone as I do with you.”

  She hugged him tight and wiggled her toes, their passion replaced by tenderness. Their time together had been like passing through a dream into an adventure that took her breath away. Claire looked into his face, not needing to speak. Words were redundant as she floated on the river of his thoughts - touching, and stroking, and exploring his mind.

  * * *

  Richard searched Ron Scott’s bland expression. “So, what do you think, Ronald, old chap?”

  Scott picked his nose and examined something on his finger. “It's difficult agreeing a final figure with Sean Legg. He's keen to retain the majority shares himself and has placed a high premium on the extra two percent that we need. He's asking seventy five K more than we've offered so far, and that was after a heavy bargaining session.” He flicked his finger in the general direction of the fireplace.

  “Damn it,” chuntered Richard. “So go back to him and tell him that you've been authorized by the company to offer an additional fifty thousand, but that there'll be no further offers - he must take it or leave it.”

  “I'm still not sure if it'll work. He seems determined to stick out for the whole amount.”

  “Try him, Ronald. I've had the valuation back on that land next to Headland View and it seems to be worth quite a lot more than we thought. I think we can afford to stretch the hand of compromise to our Mister Legg. It would be a shame to lose such a worthwhile proposition for the sake of a few grand. If an extra fifty thousand doesn't do the trick we'll have to rethink the whole deal, but at least give it a try, old boy.”

  Scott nodded. “Okay, I'll go and see him again Monday. What news of your own house?”

  Richard stubbed his cigarette out. “Good news. The agents think that this old place has a considerable amount of hope value because of the large gardens. They think someone might buy it with a view to future development. As you know, the tenants in the flats up above have no contracts so I've already got rid of them. Last one moves out tomorrow. If I can get the place sold in the next three months, it'll still leave me plenty of time to exchange contracts and complete the sale before our departure in early December.” He paused long enough to light another cigarette. “Which brings me to the subject of leaving. What are the plans for moving funds and for covering our tracks when we go?”

  Scott reached into his jacket pocket. “I've arranged to open an account for you at the Cayman Independent Banking Corporation,” he said, producing a business card. “Tom Blaydon, the Senior Vice President of Overseas Affairs is in charge of what they like to call Private Banking.”

  “What's that?”

  “It's a euphemism for numbered accounts. Blaydon is sending you a bank mandate to sign and return, so that he's got your specimen signature. They don't give a damn about your name, age, sex, address or anything else. Everything revolves round the account number, which he's written on the back of the card, and a signature. You should memorize it, Richard, in case you lose the card. When everything's over, all you've got to do is appear at their offices on Grand Cayman, sign your name and quote that account number. Nothing else.”

  Richard turned the card over and concentrated on the number written on the back. Ron was good with details.

  “Also,” Scott said, “I've set up a series of accounts in other countries - all in assumed names of course - so that the transferred funds will be virtually impossible to trace. It'll take a few days for money to reach the Caymans but it's much safer that way.”

  “Well done, Ronald. Just so long as you don't forget whose money it is we're transferring.”

  “If we do what we agreed, and keep everything over here till we're ready to go, it'll be you who'll authorize the final transfer, just before we leave.”

  “Excellent,” Richard said, screwing up his eyes against the smoke. “Don't forget then, old boy, put another fifty thousand on top of the present offer and twist Legg's arm hard. He might be attached to his company, but everyone's got a price.”

  As he watched Ron's car disappear down the drive, he rubbed his hands together at the thought of the months ahead. Leaving the island wouldn't be so bad. After all he had no family here now and he'd be leaving with more money than his father had ever accumulated. Closing the door, he began to retrace his steps to the living room but stopped as he spotted Kate Qualtrough dusting at the head of the stairs. “Mrs. Qualtrough, I've been thinking about our arrangement, and believe that I can manage if you come just once a week to clean the house, rather than twice. Finances are a bit stretched, you know, and the place keeps itself tidy now that Frank doesn't call round any more.”

  She peered down at him between the banister rails. “Just as you say, Mr Tweedle. I'm sure Mr Frank would be pleased to know that his death has saved you some money.”

  He glowered at her, grunted and strode into the living room. “Stupid cow,” he muttered, under his breath. “She'll have a bloody shock when I disappear completely.”

  MONDAY 16 JUNE

  Shabby was the word that sprung to Ian's mind when the Cherokee Jeep drew onto the dusty forecourt in front of the functional building that proclaimed itself to be the headquarters of Rashid Al-Sabah and Sons. On the other side of the rough, concrete road that separated the buildings, a row of dilapidated workshops appeared to be melting in the arid heat, their tin roofs
twisted and buckled and their clay walls crumbling to dust. Nevertheless, the dingy cubes bustled with activity, mostly of a vehicular nature. A panel-beater thumped on the side of a bent Toyota whilst, next door, the blue paint from a spray gun hung in the still air like a mist, covering the newly-filled front wing of a Detroit dinosaur.

  Ian stepped from the air-conditioned car, feeling for the first time the ferocity of the furnace-dry heat on his face. Before arriving in Kuwait, he had imagined that the air would be heavy with the scent of coriander and cardamom and cumin. Instead, here in the industrial area, he found himself gagging on the stench of overflowing drains, which left a vapour trail that quivered and shook like the space above a crematorium chimney. He looked up, uncertain what Sean would think of the purple and red neon sign, which said 'T ree Le gs Man fact ring'

  “What do you want to do first?” Mohammed Al-Sabah asked him, as Ibrahim the driver opened the car door. “Look round the showroom or have a walk round the yard?”

  “I'll have a little walk round to get my bearings if I can,” Ian said. “It'll give me the feel of the place and blow the cobwebs out of my lungs.”

  Mohammed snapped an order to Ibrahim. “Go with Mister Gidman. Make tea when you get back.”

  The small man nodded and beckoned for Ian to follow him.

  Mohammed watched them disappear around the corner of the building before walking through the dust towards the showroom. It was cool and fresh inside, and he grinned to himself as he thought how his English visitor, unused to the fierce temperatures, would suffer under the late morning sun. He entered his brother's office and squeezed himself into the leather chair. Khalid sat on his own throne, like an enigmatic Buddha. “How did it go?” he asked. “Any weak points?”