The French at last agreed, the contracts were drawn up, and then the storm broke. A disgruntled retired colonel on the aircraft firm’s board denounced the deal as aid to the enemies of France and ruinous for the company itself. He also named Hussain, calling him a parasite. He accused Hussain of supplying the anti-French revolution with arms, and of a secret clause in this deal to sell fighter planes to the new government, bombers which would be used against French interests in the rest of Africa.
‘The filthy little liar!’ Hussain raged, beside himself with both anger and fear that success would be snatched away from him at the last moment. ‘I wouldn’t sell their lousy Rapier bomber even if I could. It’s nothing but a jet-propelled coffin!’
The scandal exploded in August, the worst possible month, when there was no political news and all the politicians were at leisure to give the press sanctimonious statements. The story raged across the front pages of all the national newspapers and soon the most influential was calling for an official enquiry.
Ayeshah calmly took down the small, oblong black box which housed the index cards on which the names of Madame Bernard’s clients were noted. Her slender fingers, tipped with cyclamenpink nails, flicked through the cards and she withdrew two of them and held them out to Hussain with an expression of enquiry. ‘Here is your enemy,’ she told him, showing him the name of the colonel, ‘and this man, I think, is on the board of the newspaper. Now it’s your choice, Hussain – what’s it to be? A good life and a failed one, or the success which you want, which you have worked for and which you deserve?’
He made a gesture of assent at once and with good grace. ‘You were right. I hoped not, but this proves it. How shall we handle it? Shall we start with the newspaper man; the old colonel is a complete fanatic and that type is always unpredictable.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Ayeshah said, giving her husband a smile which was intended to be reassuring, but which had precisely the opposite effect on him.
Within three days, the newspaper which had demanded an enquiry carried a lengthy statement of retraction from the colonel including a personal apology to Hussain. Beside it was a story from the paper’s chief defence correspondent confirming that he had seen the Air-Sahara contract with his own eyes, that it was a superb confirmation of France’s superiority in aviation and that it contained no clause in any way prejudicial to the national interest.
‘Perfect,’ Hussain congratulated Ayeshah. ‘If I’d written it myself I couldn’t have had a better vindication.’
‘It’s only the truth, after all,’ she reminded him. ‘Do you understand what I mean now? In our situation we can’t talk about right or wrong. There is no natural justice for us – we were wronged once, and we had to defend ourselves. Now it’s impossible for either of us to leave our past behind – all we can do is go on in the same way.’
That week the manilla envelope brought to Ayeshah by the aged domestic contained a spool of recording tape. Hussain awoke at 3 am to hear a faint twitter of voices from the sitting room and reached for his black foulard robe. He and Ayeshah shared separate but adjoining bedrooms, and he went first into his wife’s room, where he found that the bed, with its ivory satin quilt and white silk sheets which were changed every day, bore no imprint of her body.
He walked quickly and silently down the corridor and listened for a few moments outside the double doors of the sitting room. He heard a woman’s voice, harsh and threatening, and a man’s voice, arrogant and aggressive at first, then cracking with emotion as it began to plead. The conversation at last concluded with mumbled words of agreement from the man. There was silence for an instant, then the chattering of reversed voices as the tape was rewound.
Hussain pushed open the door and saw his wife, a tiny, tense figure in her tightly-sashed negligee of oyster satin, intently watching the tape-recorder as the spools revolved. When the tape was completely rewound she touched the switch to play it again, sinking back in her chair to listen and reaching for a cigarette from the silver box on the table beside her. She caught sight of Hussain, gasped with shock, then jumped up to draw him into the room.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘it’s priceless. Listen to this miserable little liar trying to deny everything. Then, when she starts giving him the dates and the times and the money, the girl’s names, what they did – everything – he just goes to pieces. I swear he’s almost crying. Listen …’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Hussain gently made her sit down and turned off the tape, inwardly appalled at the enjoyment which had gleamed from her eyes as she described the colonel’s collapse.
‘Why not? Don’t you want at least to hear your enemy surrender?’ She squared her shoulders defensively, sensing his disapproval. ‘Isn’t this the moment you’ve been waiting for, Hussain?’
‘Not I. You. You’ve been waiting for this, surely? This is the point to which your whole life has been leading you: all this time what you’ve wanted was to see someone destroyed. You were craving it.’
‘No, of course not, how could you suggest such a thing? It’s natural to enjoy one’s little victories, isn’t it?’ She smiled coquettishly and sat down, curling her legs under her, aware that she sounded evasive. His manner was not threatening, but“ Hussain was as cunning, as sensitive and as implacable as she was, and he was asking for an explanation. Ayeshah bit her lip and looked up at him, playing for time.
He looked down at her sadly, then slowly sat beside her and took her hands, making her turn to face him. ‘It isn’t this man you really want to destroy, is it?’ He gestured towards the tape-recorder. ‘He was my enemy – but who is yours? Do you know what I think, Ayeshah? I have the sense that this whole operation is something you have created to attack one man, a man whose only vulnerable point is his sexuality, isn’t that right?’
She swallowed, weighing up the possible answers. She knew she could not lie to him, because he knew her too well to be deceived; to lie would be to undermine their relationship, perhaps beyond repair, and she needed him. If she told him the truth, perhaps he would help her. She decided to unfold for him the story which for so long she had hardly dared repeat to herself, fearing that the pain and bitterness which she had buried in her memory would once more engulf her.
When she had finished talking, Hussain continued to hold her hands in silence for a long while, understanding at last the weight of hatred which aligned her energies like a lodestone towards the annihilation of the man who had betrayed her. She did not cry. The pain was so keen, so strong, so close to the core of her spirit, that tears would not have eased it.
‘You’re still afraid of him, aren’t you?’ he said quietly, stroking her head over and over again.
It was true, although she had not recognized her fear before. She nodded. ‘He has everything, after all – wealth, position, power. He can’t give me what I want without losing those things.’
Hussain stood up and walked to and fro across the pool of light shed by the single lamp which illuminated the room. He ran his fingers through his short, curly, black hair. ‘There’s no point whatever in going to lawyers,’ he said at last, ‘my guess is that you could spend thousands and get nowhere. We’ll ask him directly, and if he doesn’t agree – yes, we’ll destroy him. He’ll be finished, I promise you.’
On a fine spring morning, the slight, spruce figure of an Englishman strode across the cobbles of the Place Vendóme, raising his hat to a pair of pretty shopgirls who pranced across his path clutching each other tightly for support as they walked awkwardly over the uneven stones in their high-heeled shoes.
Any Parisian could have identified his nationality at once; the immaculate camel-hair overcoat covered his shoulders like a second skin – only a Savile Row tailor could have moulded cloth to flesh so exactly, without a wrinkle; his black leather briefcase was ostentatiously scuffed, and the stitching was split at one corner – only an English gentleman would advertise his contempt for commerce so blatantly; there were the unmistakable, quasi-milita
ry features of his appearance, the severely cropped and parted black hair, the black shoes polished until they gleamed like mirrors; above all, there was the arrogant spring in his stride, the proprietorial width of his smile, the condescending courtesy of his gestures – in 1960, only an Englishman could have been so secure in the delusion that he was superior to the whole of the rest of the world.
Lord James Bourton left the Ritz behind him, crossed the Rue St-Honoré and strolled through the Tuileries gardens, smiling benevolently at the children who scrambled on to the gaily painted merry-go-round under the watchful eyes of their nurses. The trees were mantled with the misty, pale green of their new foliage and beneath his feet the fine gravel was clotted with mud from the frequent squalls of the past few days. The rainy spell had passed now, and the sky was the identical, clear carefree blue of a sky painted by Watteau. He allowed himself a moment’s unpatriotic reflection as he strolled across the Pont de la Concorde, acknowledging that the Seine embankment, with its heroic vistas of palaces and monuments, presented a far more inspiring landscape than the grimy borders of the Thames. But then, he reassured himself at once, the French only excelled at inessentials.
He reminded himself of the address from the deep blue pages of his pocket diary. The manservant who opened the door to him was absurdly well-dressed, he remarked, smiling to himself at this typical sign of nouveau-riche ostentation. Still, he could find no fault with the room into which he was shown to wait. He had expected a vulgar riot of Rococo, gilded, overdecorated and uncomfortable; instead the furniture was mostly from the Directoire period, heavy and dark with severe, neo-classical lines. A Greek amphora, subtly illuminated in an alcove, emphasized the atmosphere of homage to antiquity. The heavy fringed curtains of pale grey moiré enhanced the room’s beautiful, watery radiance.
Curiosity had brought him to Paris this time. He was perfectly certain that his bank would not wish to be involved in any way with Prince Shahzdeh – or his wife. They were not the kind of people with whom a reputable City firm would wish to do business. The Prince was by all accounts an astute businessman, but his background was disreputable in the extreme. And the nightclub business, even at the exalted level of L’Equipe, was notoriously unstable and inseparable from the criminal element. However, when the Prince’s letter had arrived at his office, describing a proposed resort development for which he was seeking finance, and suggesting an exploratory meeting, James Bourton decided to agree simply because he wanted to take a look at the Shahzdeh couple.
There were so many rumours about them, about their origins, their wealth, their bizarre relationship. They were both presumed to be of Middle Eastern origin, and Hussain’s title was often guessed by Europeans to be false. Many people who encountered the Prince and Princess sensed something unnatural about their liaison but could only express their suspicion in gossip and conjecture. James had heard that the Princess had been nothing but a cabaret dancer in Beirut when her husband had discovered her and fallen under the spell of her extraordinary beauty; he had been told that their bedroom was entirely panelled in mirrors, that the Princess hoarded clothes and owned three thousand pairs of shoes alone, that her exquisite face was entirely the creation of a famous Brazilian plastic surgeon. Naturally, no one would decline the opportunity to meet this legendary creature.
Time passed. A maid brought him the French interpretation of English tea, a watery, scented brew which was undrinkable. The room was very quiet, and James noticed that the continual roar of traffic was muffled by double windows. He looked at his watch and realized he had been waiting almost forty minutes. Still, discourtesy was to be expected from these marginal types. The wait only confirmed his opinion of them.
In her bedroom, Ayeshah wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth and redrew the line with a carmine pencil. With a tremendous effort of will she stilled the tremor of her hand, completed her makeup and rose to her feet, smoothing the tight skirt of her fawn and cream tweed suit and brushing imaginary grains of powder from the jabot of her white silk blouse. The glistening, dark sweep of her hair was furled immaculately into a pleat, revealing her small ears with their plain pearl studs. She twisted, checking in the mirror that the seams of her pale beige stockings were straight.
Hussain kissed the top of her head. ‘He’ll be at a disadvantage now, because he is not on his own ground. Never fear, he can do nothing to hurt you now. Don’t forget that I will be directly outside the door. If you need me all you have to do is call. Are you sure that half an hour alone with him will be enough?’
‘I don’t know. It will be as much as I can stand, I’m sure.’ Her face was completely drained of colour under its masklike maquillage. Together they walked down the long corridor. The manservant opened the double doors of the salon and closed them softly behind her. Hussain slowly lowered himself into an armchair beside the doorway.
James turned as he heard the doors open, and stood up as he saw the woman enter the room. She was as stunning as he had expected, a perfect beauty made awesome by her aura of power. The slender but rounded body, the exquisitely delicate legs, the full, sensual mouth and the flawless complexion would have made her irresistible, but her round black eyes with their heavy lids held a warning for anyone who dared to desire her. The Princess’s beauty held the traces of corruption, like flaws in a jewel, which James recognized at once.
Ayeshah controlled herself with every ounce of strength she could summon. In the intervening years since their parting she had trained herself to imagine him with a white skin, but the shock of seeing him, standing here in her own home, a pale, privileged Englishman, made her feel faint. She crossed the room and sat down in the dark leather chair which Hussain usually chose; its massive solidity reassured her.
She tried to speak, but for a few instants her mouth would not open. Instead James spoke as he walked towards her. ‘Have I the honour of addressing Princess Ayeshah herself?’ he enquired in French, expecting her to extend her hand. Realizing that he would touch her, she fixed him with a forbidding stare.
‘Do you recognize me?’ she asked, feeling herself gain control of the situation.
‘Why of course; who could fail to recognize you, Princess? You’re famous. Even in England everyone has heard of L’Equipe and its beautiful owner.’ James was disconcerted, sensing a peculiar electricity between the woman and himself.
‘We met many years before L’Equipe ever existed. Look at me carefully. You ought to remember.’
‘I’m sure I would never have forgotten such a charming personality …’
‘Think carefully,’ she warned, a cold, flat note in her voice. He did as she asked with increasing guilty unease. He certainly recognized the tone of her question, it was the kind of reproach which a few women had made to him before, always as a prelude to a clumsy attempt at blackmail.
What her question suggested was, of course, possible. In his forty-odd years James had experienced sexual encounters with more women than he could possibly remember, most of them of Asian or African origin. His youthful libido had survived the brief trauma of his marriage and matured into a voracious sensual appetite. Were it not for her imperious aura, the Princess would have been precisely the exotic type which he most enjoyed. But he had no recollection of her.
Besides, he reasoned swiftly, this woman was wealthy, successful and protected. She would have no need to resort to blackmail. Nevertheless, he followed the precepts of his class for avoiding the possibility of embarrassment, and began courteously to negate her statements.
‘Princess, I am quite certain you are mistaken,’ he told her, returning to his seat. ‘I never forget a face, especially not a beautiful face. Will your husband be joining us shortly? Or perhaps you would care to tell me a little about this development that you are planning in London?’
‘I’d prefer to wait for my husband, he will not be long.’ Fury began to roar through her mind like a fire. Now Ayeshah knew what his reaction would be; he would look down on her from the unas
sailable height of his race and standing, and dismiss her. She was sure that for the moment he genuinely did not remember her, and sure that when she forced him to recall everything he would flatly deny it. She racked her brains for a way in which to trap him.
‘Tell me about your family, Lord Bourton.’ He was momentarily puzzled, then relieved.
‘My family? Yes, well –’ he coughed, ‘I’m a great family man of course. I’ve got two daughters, lovely girls, at school most of the time …’
‘May I ask what their names are?’
‘The elder one is Catherine, and the younger one was christened Miranda although at home she’s usually called by a sort of nickname.’ He smiled and there was an awkward silence.
Ayeshah walked to the writing-desk and opened one of its small mahogany drawers. From the drawer she took a photograph, a curled monochrome print measuring two inches by two-and-a-half. It was blurry, having been taken in sunlight too bright for the speed of the equipment, but it was possible to make out two infants in sun-bonnets. One stood upright, the other, a mere baby, was held in the arms of a Chinese girl who wore a blouse and black trousers. They were posed in front of a single-storey wooden building raised on piles.
‘Then perhaps, if you do not remember me, you can at least tell me who these children are?’
He examined the indistinct photograph, screwing up his eyes. ‘Why, those are my girls, aren’t they – with their amah? That looks very much like the house I used to have out in …’ The word ‘Malaya’died on his lips as a realization struck like lightning. He looked up at her with the fixed gaze of a doomed animal, terror curdling his blood.
She smiled, and he saw what he had not seen at first, the sweet, kittenish features of Khatijah, the wife he had married in the kampong in wartime. In mere appearance she had hardly changed at all, although her skin was pale, her clothes were European, and she wore make-up; but innocence had disappeared from her face and the yielding softness from her movements, affecting a chilling perversion of her allure. It was a spiritual change that had transformed her completely.
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