Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 21: Folly Bridge, Oxford. October 22, 7:00 p.m.

  So far it had been a dreadful day, and Douglas Easterby had an intuitive feeling that the dinner party at the Ramli Special Envoy’s Oxford mansion was not going to bring it to a happier conclusion. The front walls of the house were bathed in crisscrossing yellow floodlights. Two parallel phosphorescent beams soaked the sandy-coloured gravel of the parking area in a whiter glow.

  Easterby was surprised to see only two other vehicles in the parking area—a catering van and a dark blue Jaguar with diplomatic plates. He parked his Aston Martin next to the Jaguar and checked the time on the invitation: 7:00 p.m. He was right on time. The other guests lacked his punctuality.

  A security guard opened the driver’s side door of the Aston Martin and ushered the first guest towards the house. Still a fit man, Easterby skipped up the steps to the portico, deciding upon the best way to treat the Ramlis after the day’s horrendous news. The worst thing was not knowing exactly what had happened. Had Goss merely been killed in a car accident, or would the subsequent rumours that had filtered in during the course of the day from the BDS headquarters in Madinat Al Aasima prove to be true? He hoped for the first version of events. Goss’s death would probably be enough to close the whole damn business and allow him to focus the Ramlis’ attention on the new contracts.

  A seasoned traveller in the Arabian Jazeera, Easterby was nonetheless impressed by the draped magnificence of the hallway. Ornate wall hangings combined with sumptuous oriental carpeting to give the visitor the impression of being led into an enchanted cave.

  The security guard ushered him down the length of the ‘tunnel’, up the cream-carpeted stairs, and opened the first door on the right of the main upstairs corridor. He was in a large study. A mahogany, oriental bureau sat by the bay windows at the far end of the room. Bookshelves and paintings housed in oak panelled walls stretched towards the rear of the house.

  No lover of foreign cultures or exoticism, the ex-colonel was nevertheless surprised by the decoration of the study. The paintings were all Indian antiques, voluptuous art that fused the fleshiness of feminine form or the outline of natural shapes into the vibrant, deeper mysteries of Hindu mythology. But it was not the execution so much as the content that amazed Easterby. With its sensuous depiction of human form and Hindu deities, Indian art was the very antithesis of the ascetic, monotheistic values of Islam. Such finery was the last thing he would have expected to see in a Ramli diplomat’s mansion. The surreal effect of the room was enhanced by the suffusion of soft candlelight, flickering here and there over bronze or gold decorations, again of Indian design. Still left alone, Easterby walked over to the balcony and gazed down at the view. Soft floodlighting revealed a small footbridge leading to the towpath and the black, curling Isis.

  A door opened behind him to the left, opposite the one he had been shown in. The colonel turned to see two figures stepping into the room.

  ‘Colonel Easterby, how good it is to see you, again! On behalf of His Excellency Prince Omar, allow me to present our sincerest apologies for such a poor welcome.’

  Dr Al-Badawi pointed to the man behind him, dressed in full-flowing robes, cloak and headdress. The Arabs did not shake hands; instead, the Special Envoy gestured to three lounging chairs arranged in the centre of the room, focusing on a delicately latticed wooden coffee table.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Colonel Easterby,’ the Special Envoy smiled, swishing his robes backwards to slide onto his divan, legs tucked up behind.

  ‘Again, Your Excellency?’ Easterby snorted in astonishment, studying his host carefully for a clue of recognition. In the dim candlelight, Easterby was unable to recall the face, though the man’s strikingly Western features reminded him of certain type of Turkish or European-blooded immigrant one sometimes encountered in the Hejaz. So this was the man that had kept the old sultan on the throne back in the days of the famous coup! Easterby guessed he probably owed the secretive devil for saving such a juicy contract from the ruin an Islamist revolution might have brought.

  ‘Yes, I think we may have met in Sultan Adil’s palace during one of your visits to Ramliyya,’ the Special Envoy clarified, then looked more quizzical. ‘Or was it elsewhere? The past is such a slippery commodity!’

  ‘Well, perhaps it was in Ramliyya,’ Easterby conceded sceptically, amazed at the effortless fluency of the Special Envoy’s English. ‘But anyway, I’m delighted that we have now met properly here, Your Excellency, even if we were not formally introduced in Ramliyya.’

  ‘It is about Ramliyya, and your company’s operations there that we must talk,’ Dr Al-Badawi interrupted.

  Easterby was taken aback. It was highly irregular for the Ramlis to get straight down to business without the customary half-hour of polite preamble. Such bluntness did not augur well.

  ‘Oh yes?’ he asked uncertainly. ‘I understand that one of my employees was involved in a fatal accident—the same man you asked me to send to probe into the allegations made against some of my employees. That might hold up the investigation, I’m afraid. Do you still want me to go ahead with it?’

  If the Ramlis were playing it direct, Easterby saw every advantage in being the first to take the plunge.

  ‘Unfortunately, your information is not up to date, Colonel Easterby,’ the Special Envoy sighed. Easterby was held spellbound by the voice. Something familiar. Something about it that jarred.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Your agent, a Mister…?’

  ‘Goss,’ Dr Al-Badawi helped out.

  ‘Yes, Goss, thank you, Doctor,’ the Special Envoy smiled. ‘In any case, this man Goss was not killed, but is recovering right now in a hospital in Madinat Al-Aasima.’

  ‘Well I suppose that’s good news,’ Easterby sighed, with a deep exhalation of breath that suggested he found it anything but.

  ‘Not really,’ the Special Envoy carried on, leaning forward in his chair. ‘For as things stand, your agent….’

  ‘Goss,’ Dr Al Badawi helped out.

  ‘Yes, Goss,’ the Special Envoy continued, ‘now stands accused of murdering a Ramli national and abusing his position to organize a smuggling operation of drugs and alcohol into our country. I hear that the evidence against him is quite overwhelming, and consequently, there can be no room for clemency. You will appreciate the delicacy of the situation and its implications for Ramli-British diplomatic relations, let alone the future of your company’s contract in Ramliyya. This man, after all, was officially a British Defence Systems employee.’

  Easterby swallowed hard. This was far worse than he had ever imagined. His stern face flushed bright red, all the way up to the receding blond hair that was brushed neatly across a granite forehead.

  ‘I do appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Your Excellency, but Dr Al-Badawi will recall that sending this man Goss to Ramliyya was not my idea in the first place. Personally, I would have conducted the investigation quite differently, brought in someone other than Goss, someone with a proven track record at this sort of thing.’

  ‘So you blame us for what has happened, Colonel Easterby?’ The Special Envoy sounded all the more malevolent for the quiet calm of his tone.

  Easterby was flustered.

  ‘No, no. That’s not what I mean at all, Your Excellency. I’m just pointing out that since this situation is not entirely of my own, or my company’s making, perhaps there can be room for compromise? Surely there could be some way of settling this sorry business unofficially, between ourselves, so to speak?’

  ‘Impossible, I’m afraid.’ The Special Envoy swished a robed length of arm dismissively. ‘His Excellency Sultan Faysal has taken the unusual step of communicating with me personally about the incident. He is most incensed, particularly as the man who committed these crimes was the very man sent to Ramliyya to settle the problems caused by your employees. As there is no shortage of witnesses, Sultan Faysal is anxious for the guilty man to stand trial and face punis
hment without delay, according to our holy shariah law.’

  Easterby thought for a second. It wasn’t the thought of Goss’s imminent execution that bothered him—he was mad enough with his ex-sergeant to cut that chubby ginger head off by himself—and with the bluntest of knives. No, it was the likely escalation that bothered him. The British media would jump on the case, castigate the Ramli judicial system, revel in the medieval barbarity of a public beheading. The Ramlis would then retaliate, and the giant new contracts Al-Badawi had lured him with at their last meeting would be lost to the French or Americans.

  There was a knock on the door. Prince Omar shouted something in Arabic and a servant appeared with a tray of drinks. Oh, good—plenty of alcohol, Easterby sighed inwardly with relief, ordering a straight whisky from the Egyptian-looking domestic. The special envoy had also taken a whisky with plenty of ice. Only Al-Badawi took the fruit juice prescribed by his religion.

  They sipped in silence for a minute; it was the Special Envoy who eventually broke the deadlock.

  ‘I’m afraid there is worse news for you, Colonel Easterby. Sultan Faysal also instructed me to suspend our contract with British Defence Systems immediately and repatriate all your employees. Naturally, this will also preclude your company from bidding for any future contracts in Ramliyya.’

  Easterby swallowed a large mouthful of Scotch in glum silence. In abject morbidity, he began to stare through the soft candlelight at the peculiar man talking to him in such faultless English and in such an odd accent. The more he studied the face, the more disturbed it made him feel. But he couldn’t work out why.

  ‘Does His Excellency Sultan Faysal appreciate the media interest that the public execution of a British citizen will arouse back here?’ Easterby asked morosely.

  ‘You make a good point, Colonel, and that is precisely what I told Sultan Faysal. In fact, you may be interested to hear that I tried very hard to persuade His Excellency not to rush into any stern action against your company, or to proceed with the trial and execution of this Mister…’

  ‘Goss,’ Al-Badawi clarified for the third time.

  ‘Yes. Goss. And I believe that I was modestly successful. In the end I was able to persuade His Excellency to offer you a choice, Colonel Easterby.’

  ‘A choice, eh? Go on, please.’ Easterby was intrigued, if somewhat alarmed. The Ramlis were always the very wiliest of business partners. But anyway, beneath all their hypocritical piety, he knew that the buggers were as anxious to do business as he was.

  ‘It is simple: The first choice is that this man…’

  ‘Goss.’ Easterby himself came to the rescue this time.

  ‘…Goss…be quietly released, in which case we will cancel our remaining contract and all future contracts with your company. In this way, the Sultan will spare himself an embarrassment and avoid the possibility of any future embarrassments from your company. Alternatively, Goss will be tried and executed, and my government will continue to honour its contract with British Defence Systems. You will understand, however, that should your press here in Britain become too hostile, we will inform them that BDS itself approved and sanctioned our action.’

  Easterby exhaled sharply, smiled awkwardly, and switched position on the damned divan thing he wished were a normal chair.

  ‘You must understand, Your Excellency, that you put me in a very difficult position, he stammered, his mind racing over the hidden implications. ‘Privately, I am fully supportive of your action. If Goss is found guilty of the crimes you say he has committed, then he deserves whatever he gets. However, you must appreciate that it would be impossible for me to give you public support for the execution of a fellow Englishman and a company employee.’

  ‘Then let us drop that demand,’ Al-Ajnabi waved magnanimously. ‘I told Sultan Faysal, that he was being insensitive in asking for your public backing. But the choice is still yours, Colonel. Do we execute your man or keep the contracts?’

  Easterby’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘If Goss is executed, will my company still be able to bid for the new contracts which Dr Al-Badawi and I discussed?’

  Both Ramlis nodded.

  ‘Then there is no decision to be made,’ he sighed heavily. ‘If a Ramli court finds Goss guilty as charged, he must face whatever penalty your law prescribes. I will have no objections about that; in fact, I may even be able to put a few words in for your government in the right places over here—you know, get our press barons to tone down their rhetoric. And if Goss is to face the sword, then I would advise your government that the sentence be carried out sooner rather than later. What’s more, it would be better for you to delay giving the British Embassy in Ramliyya official notification until the day of execution. That way, the press here won’t know about Goss’s fate till it’s too late to whip up much of a furore.’

  ‘That is most thoughtful of you, Colonel, but there is one last concern that I must communicate to you. His Excellency Sultan Faysal is most anxious for you to attend the execution personally, and unofficially, of course. There would be no record of your attendance, but the Sultan would feel he had seized the moral initiative if our religious leaders in Ramliyya were to see the Chairman of British Defence Systems at the execution of a Western criminal. It would also help him to explain the award of your new contract, should there be any local concern.’

  Easterby frowned and finished the remains of his whisky.

  ‘You are quite sure that it would be unofficial? No press involvement or briefing?’

  The Special Envoy laughed coldly.

  ‘Come, come, Colonel. You are no stranger to our country. When have you ever been disturbed by reporters or photographers in Ramliyya?’

  Easterby placed his glass decisively on the wooden table.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘If you give me sufficient warning of the date and time of execution, I will fly to Madinat Al-Aasima on the pretext of paying our operations there a surprise visit.’

  ‘Excellent, Colonel. Dr Al-Badawi will inform you in person as soon as we are notified of the appropriate arrangements for the punishment of the murderer. And now I think we have spent long enough discussing this unfortunate business. Allow Dr Al-Badawi to escort you downstairs, where, I believe, the other guests are arriving as we speak. Regrettably, I have some other business to attend to right now. But I will look forward to seeing you and your son at dinner.’

  ‘My son?’ Easterby stiffened in surprise. ‘Did you say my son will be at dinner, too?’

  ‘He didn’t text you?’ the Special Envoy shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Maybe he did not realize that you would be here, Colonel. Anyway, my personal assistant has invited him,’ the Special Envoy smiled enigmatically. ‘They are both students at the university, you see.’

  In all the turmoil Goss had thrown on his plate that day, Easterby had not had a second to think about his son. An odd coincidence, slightly too odd, that they should be reunited here of all places.

  Still startled, the chairman followed Dr Al-Badawi downstairs to the main reception, feeling that he ought to have been elated at what he had managed to salvage from such a burning wreck. But he wasn’t. There was too much funny stuff going on, and for the first time in his career Easterby felt outmanoeuvred and ill at ease. The Ramlis were becoming a little too consistent with their surprises.