Karim, King of England

by Baz Wade

  They discussed the content of the article that Sheikh planned to publish following Karim’s graduation.

  At their second meeting, Sheikh produced a draft of the proposed article headlined:

  SON OF A PRINCESS – WORLD EXCLUSIVE

  My life so far by Karim Khaled

  The article contained a summary of Karim’s upbringing in Dubai followed by his life as a student in London. It printed a photo of a letter from Hassan’s Solicitors confirming that they held documentary proof as to Karim’s parentage.

  Karim asked for some amendments, all of which Sheikh agreed to, and he also agreed not to mention the Sutherlands by name, although Karim conceded this would probably emerge, via the internet.

  The following summer Karim took his finals at SOAS and was awarded first class honours in his chosen subjects – Politics and Arabic.

  Three weeks later Sheikh’s lawyer posted the original of Caroline’s letter to:

  HRH Prince Richard

  St James’s Palace

  London SW1

  by Special Delivery post, and also posted a copy by first class post to the same address.

  The following day, a Wednesday, the completed article was published in the main edition of The Sun, complete with fanfare on Sheikh’s TV news channel.

  There was the promise of a Press Conference on the Friday morning, to be held at the Hotel Russell, Russell Square, London WC1.

  Meanwhile, at St James’s Palace, on the Wednesday the story broke, Prince Richard, his wife, Sophia, and Smiffy were conferring in the sitting room of Smiffy’s apartment.

  “Mummy’s bodyguard sent you a text saying the baby died at the same time as Mummy didn’t he?” asked Richard.

  “Yes that’s right, but he may have just been protecting the baby – this Karim person has a Birth Certificate and is stating that your mother, Caroline Gibson West, to use her maiden name, is his mother. Also his grandfather and Sheikh seem entirely to believe in him,” said Smiffy.

  “You could ask him to submit to a DNA test,” suggested Sophia.

  “Maybe, but first we need to get someone to go to the Press Conference on Friday.”

  “I should send your secretary, Vanessa, she’s very sensible and a good judge of character,” suggested Smiffy.

  “Okay, we’ll do that, I’ll tell Pa.”

  At a meeting in Sheikh’s office on the Thursday evening before the Press Conference, Hassan, Sheikh, Karim, Kirsty and Gibbs met for supper and to discuss tactics.

  “Is everyone pleased with our choice of the Hotel Russell as the venue for the Press Conference?” asked Sheikh.

  “I must say the Hotel Russell, which I know well, is a really good choice of venue for this Press Conference in my view, it’s just the right mix of traditional and stylish,” ventured Hassan.

  “Good, I’m glad you like it, it was David’s choice. He prides himself on being an expert on London landmarks and Hotels in particular – I think you wanted to entertain us with a couple of anecdotes about the Hotel Russell, didn’t you David?”

  “Yes, thanks Andy – the Hotel was designed by the celebrated Victorian architect, Charles Fitzroy-Doll, in about 1898 – he paid particular attention to the design of the interior and the Hotel was very lavishly fitted out. It was said the dining room was identical to that on the Titanic, which was also designed by Fitzroy-Doll.”

  “I hope it’s not a bad omen,” said Sheikh.

  Gibbs ignored that comment and continued:

  “I’ve got an extract from the current website which talks about guests being able to “marvel at the beautifully crafted statues of all the Prime Ministers to have ‘serviced a Monarch’ since the first modern Prime Minister, that would have been Walpole in the eighteenth century. The only problem is that I think they’ve chosen the wrong word – it should be served, not serviced. The latter, I think, is too awful to contemplate!”

  Kirsty was the first to get the joke and managed to stifle a giggle. Hassan and Karim made no comment and Sheikh would only say: “That is a typical lawyer’s joke – based entirely on a slight discrepancy – talk about pedantic!”

  Despite this mild reprimand from his client, Gibbs was satisfied that he’d managed to amuse at least one member of the party.

  The following morning at the Hotel Russell, the Press Conference started at 10.30 am.

  Admission was by ticket only and no TV cameras were allowed apart from those owned and operated by Sheikh’s company.

  Sheikh, Karim, Gibbs and Hassan sat at the top table hosting the Conference.

  Most of the questions were addressed to Karim – Sheikh had anticipated this and, although he had a lot of confidence in Karim and believed him to be very bright and personable, they had agreed that if any question was too sensitive, then, on a pre-arranged signal, Gibbs would answer it.

  Oscar Byron of The Mail on Sunday was the first to input a question.

  “This question is addressed to Karim – can he please explain why he does not prefer to remain anonymous?”

  “I wish to continue with my mother’s projects, I am also very interested in finding political solutions to international problems. I would like to do things that my parents would have been proud of, even though they’re no longer around to witness such.”

  Someone else asked:

  “We understand you were brought up a Muslim from an early age. To what extent do you have an Islamic agenda?”

  “I think that mainstream Islam is misunderstood in the West and probably there are various Islamic people who misunderstand the West. I would like to provide a bridge between the two. Some would say, having regard to my parentage, that I am the ideal person to do such.”

  The next question was:

  “Would Karim be prepared to submit to blood/DNA testing to prove his parentage?”

  The pre-arranged signal went up at this point and Gibbs replied by saying:

  “That will not be necessary as we have verified Karim’s Birth Certificate. It would be demeaning and unnecessary for Karim to submit himself to medical tests in these circumstances.”

  Before anyone else could comment or stop him, Karim said:

  “Wait a moment – I would only submit to blood/DNA testing if Prince Richard asked me to, personally.”

  Somewhat to Karim’s annoyance, there was the usual journalistic pre-occupation with money/funding.

  “What is happening to any payments you are receiving personally from Mr Sheikh’s companies, Karim?”

  “We are splitting such payments 50 per cent to go into a family Trust Fund and 50 per cent to charity,” (Karim had succeeded in overruling Hassan’s suggestion of an 80:20 split).

  Various other questions were put, mainly concerned with verifying Karim’s identity, and these were fielded diplomatically by Sheikh and Hassan, to whom they were addressed.

  After the Conference, Sheikh, Karim and Hassan had a brief meeting in one of the Hotel’s Board Rooms, by way of post mortem.

  “I reckon that went well,” said Sheikh, “they seem to like you – and why wouldn’t they?!”

  “Fine, but why did you make it a ticket only function?” asked Karim. “And why so expensive, and why exclude other people’s TV cameras?”

  “We had to exclude timewasters and hangers on. Five hundred pounds a ticket is neither here nor there to serious media people. Besides, I have to recover some of my expenses and that’s also why I needed to only have my own company’s cameras present.”

  “I think he’s right,” said Hassan. “Leave the money side to Andy and me.”

  Sheikh was encouraging – “Don’t worry, Karim, with your charisma and my common sense, we should go far…!”

  6

  “So the voters don’t know about this Rainbow Crescent Alliance then?”

  Dinner taken and cleared away early, Kari
m was sitting with his arm around Kirsty’s shoulder as they watched the election TV debate on her sofa. As political theatre, they were enjoying it but the outcome was predictable. Each party set out its agenda for a better Britain as if they had a chance of winning power on their own but everybody knew no party was going to gain an absolute majority.

  “No,” was Karim’s reply. “Andy Sheikh will only promote it if Labour need such an alliance to stop another Tory Government.”

  Kirsty still looked puzzled. “And why would an alliance of a more left-wing Labour party and the Muslim Party appeal to the voters, let alone work in Government?”

  “Because the model already exists, in Bradford. Jeff Jefferson, former Labour MP, won there against the odds in 2012, remember? In secret talks, he’s now pledged his considerable following to join the alliance.”

  Three weeks later, the predictability of the election result was borne out. No party had won an overall majority so after swift negotiations, Rainbow Crescent was announced to the nation with Labour’s Dave Berriman as prospective Prime Minister, being leader of the largest party. Together again on the same sofa, Karim and Kirsty watched the news with growing unease as events unfolded. Based on intelligence provided by MI5, even though not open to scrutiny because of anti-terrorism legislation, the Muslim Party had yesterday been proscribed as a legitimate democratic force because it was deemed a front for a banned terrorist group and its leadership arrested. Without all its MPs, the Rainbow Crescent alliance could not govern, despite winning more seats than the Tories.

  “You know what, Karim?” frowned Kirsty, shaking her red locks. “This country looks like it is becoming ungovernable, like Italy in the 80’s.”

  From the kitchen, Karim’s phone was ringing. Kirsty listened as he went out to take the call. “When?”, “Where?” and “Fine” was all she heard him say. As he reappeared, her blue eyes widened as she looked at him for an explanation.

  “That was Andy, Kirsty. I’ve got to see him tomorrow. There’s only one person who can help us get out of this and Andy wants me to combine what influence I have with his.”

  “So who’s that?”

  “Ibrahim Irani.”

  The broadcasters were right about the security alert except Karim hadn’t thought it would extend to an armed police presence outside Andy Sheikh’s dockland offices. Surprised at being asked what his business was, it took a phone call to the proprietor to verify he was attending a meeting with him. “I’m assured it’s for our protection,” Andy told him as he met him coming out of the lift on 25th floor. He took him along the corridor to his boardroom where Karim stopped to take in the stunning view of the tranquil-looking Thames before settling his focus on the man he was being introduced to. Sporting a well cut grey suit and an open collar mauve shirt, Ibrahim Irani smiled benevolently as he greeted the well born young man.

  “You so remind me of your mother,” he said. “Her desire to do the right thing in the world beyond the call of duty, made such an impression on me. I only met her once in person, but I will never forget her.”

  “It’s our hope that Karim here will follow in her footsteps,” said Andy. “He already seems to have captured people’s hearts.”

  Karim let his momentary embarrassment subside before replying. “And I’m delighted to meet you too, Mr Irani. You did so much to lift the nation when you led us to win the World Cup a second time.”

  A youth international footballer who played for his native Iran, Ibrahim had become a naturalised Briton when he was brought to England as a teenager. Within a year, Aston Villa had recruited him and he was soon back on the international stage as the first player of Muslim extraction to captain the national team. Hugely popular as a TV pundit following his playing career, he was liked also for his progressive views on religion and society which he put into effect in his role with the Football Association channelling TV revenue into the grass roots of the game in England. He was almost alone as a political operator who people trusted as honourable and Andy Sheikh’s best hope to unify the anti-Tory vote as well a personal hero of Karim’s.

  “Now he has come out of retirement to help us face an even greater challenge,” beamed Andy Sheikh. “This time, Ibrahim is going to be slipping tackles and striking goals against the Government which is cooking up allegations against the Muslim Party. We are going to court to demand evidence. If it’s not forthcoming we will take legal action against an unconstitutional Government.”

  Karim looked at Andy Sheikh across the big table. “So why am I here?” he asked.

  “People need someone to revere who sits above politics, as Queen Elizabeth did in happier times,” said the media tycoon. “When the going gets rough with the political and legal processes, you will be the figurehead to keep the public on side. People see your mother’s compassion in you.”

  Karim felt some discomfort and looked from one to the other.

  “But Prince Richard is perceived similarly, isn’t he?”

  “Yes indeed. But he has the handicap of being the figurehead of institutions that are past their sell by date.”

  “Like the House of Lords you mean?”

  “And the Church of England,” said Andy Sheikh, “riven by internal conflict about gays and women, and whose numbers of worshippers is in terminal decline.”

  Karim raised his dark eyebrows. “The Windsors have always adapted to changes in society.”

  “Not so as to embrace the demographic ones happening now. The Muslim population will be looking for a new politics to reflect their cultural influence; which is why we must act at once, to give confidence to the population as a whole that a Government with strong Muslim representation can be democratic in principle and practice.”

  “We need to arrange a meeting with the Quilmod Foundation,” said Ibrahim.

  “I’ve heard of them, but what do they do?” asked Karim.

  “They’re an association of academics, clerics and activists who see the salvation of Islam being in a reinterpretation of scriptural authority.”

  “What’s that got to do with Rainbow Crescent?”

  Andy Sheikh reached for the telephone on the mahogany table as Ibrahim explained further.

  “It’s our meal-ticket to Government, Karim. If the Koran can no longer be used to excuse the actions of terrorists or those in sympathy with their methods, then we have a much better prospect of securing power in this country.”

  Karim sat fascinated as he digested this information and watched Andy Sheikh on the telephone as he began to discuss arrangements with the only agency that was apparently capable of acting as midwife to assist the creation of his new alliance. The political life of the country of his mother’s birth had frozen. Only Quilmod could thaw it, break the logjam and restore its onward flow.

  Before joining Ibrahim at the Royal Kensington Hotel for his meeting with the Quilmod Foundation, Karim needed air and space so he could digest what was happening. He had often spent an hour or two in Kensington Gardens where he liked to go when he needed to ponder his fate and purpose in life. The palace had been where his mother lived her royal life and the home of his half-brother Richard, already blessed with popular appeal that seemed also to be accruing to him. If he envied Richard at all, it wasn’t for his wealth or status; it was that he never knew the Princess of Wales, a devoted, imaginative and demonstrative mother as even her harshest critics agreed. But he would not be complaining as he had been raised by loving adoptive parents in Dubai in what was surely a more relaxed household than the royal House of Windsor.

  After the publicity had subsided, he was now part of the celebrity circuit, subject to nods and greetings in the street regardless of the slant on his political views pushed by the right wing press. Despite the political tension arising from the election result, he had never thought his life would be in danger. The same car that had parked in Bayswater Road the week before was again outside Kensin
gton Gardens at the High Street end. Today it was a different minder who walked around the orangery while he read the newspaper on the bench in front of the big golden gates. Flattering to think the British state thinks the bastard offspring of a maverick Princess is worth ‘looking after’ too.

  He got up from the bench and headed across the park in the direction of the V&A. Keeping to the side streets behind the Albert Hall, he was crossing over the road when a car suddenly accelerated as it approached from the left of him. He paused momentarily to catch the eye of the driver before throwing himself forward onto the pavement; had he not lunged, history might have recorded him in a footnote rather than as a rival contender for the throne. As the car carried on at speed, he recognised the number plate.

  Unhurt but frightened of staying so exposed in a public place, he hailed a taxi. Before he arrived at Kirsty’s flat, his phone rang. It was Andy Sheikh. Ibrahim Irani had been arrested outside the Royal Kensington Hotel.

  “Don’t even think of going to the police,” he warned Karim when he heard of the attempt on his life. “And don’t use this phone again as it is most likely bugged. I will reach you on email.”

  By the time he arrived at Kirsty’s, the news about Ibrahim had already broken across the media. To calm their fears, they took refuge in her bedroom for the afternoon before getting up several hours later when hunger got in the way of their efforts at intimacy and consolation. As Kirsty clattered around the kitchen, Karim switched on his laptop to see if he had any messages from Andy. He didn’t get so far as opening his mailbox before the horror of the latest news bulletin made him shout in anguish.

  Kirsty was straightaway at the door from the kitchen to enquire. “What is it?” she whispered.

  Karim said nothing as they watched the chaotic scenes playing out on the screen in front of them. Smoke still not cleared, what had been recognisable as the imposing facade of the Bank of England was now charred and deformed, with ambulances crews and police performing their grim tasks of securing the building and carrying out the bodies of the bombers’ victims. Karim finally opened his mailbox. The message from Andy Sheikh was short. Don’t move or open the door, it read.