by Tom Stacey
‘You do,’ Carew confirmed.
‘Is that safe?’
‘It’ll be all over the world’s press by the time you go on the air. I thought you’d be out in the streets filming.’
‘We’re on our way. We’re on our way.’
‘The Emir’s been driving around the town with Hatim beside him waving at the people.’
‘With Hatim?’
Carew frowned again.
‘You don’t know much about the Arabs, Lou, do you?’
Rivers was stung. Then he spotted the copy of the Post in Carew’s hand. ‘D’you mind? Yesterday’s?’ He opened out the front page, which carried the headline GULF EMIR DEFIES USURPERS under a strap which read, ‘Island Ruler Passes Message to Morning Post Correspondent.’ Under the byline, and alongside the picture of the Emir’s message, appeared a photograph of Granville Jones, taken a good thirty years ago, wearing a felt hat at a rakish angle. He was only just recognisable. Mick and Phil peered over Rivers’s shoulder.
‘The old devil!’ Rivers exclaimed softly in genuine admiration.
But Carew enquired, ‘Which one?’
‘Old Gran.’ Rivers chuckled. ‘He swore to us the Emir never gave interviews! The old devil! How the hell did he move it?’
Carew said, ‘That’s what tipped it – that story of Gran’s.’ It was obvious. After that, Washington and London would withhold recognition. They were bound to. It meant all the neighbours would rally to the Emir. ‘Hatim knew the game was up.’
Rivers handed back the newspaper and prepared to hasten out. He supposed, he said, the Emir would ‘load Jones up with a sack or two of gold.’
Carew mocked him. ‘A golden harp would be more appropriate.’
Rivers seemed puzzled.
‘You didn’t hear?’ Carew said. ‘He popped off. The night he filed.’
‘The old devil!’
As Rivers hurried down the main steps of the Darwish into the ferocious sun, was there not in his eyes a certain reflectiveness never quite present before? For two or three descending steps, yes. Then the sunlight, and the roar of event.