by K J Griffin
‘Now this key will be yours,’ Al-Ajnabi continued, sounding unnecessarily formal. ‘No one else in the house, including myself, will have a copy, so I urge you not to lose it.’
She took it reverently from the man who had suddenly become the most unlikely saviour from impending financial destitution.
‘Hasan and Mousa will be at your service when I do not need them,’ he added. ‘You should also notify Hasan of your bank details so that he can arrange payment of the first instalment of your allowance. You may order food from the kitchen as you wish. My own meal times are irregular, but you will be most welcome to join me should our schedules coincide. Oh, one final thing, Miss Palmer—will you be expecting overnight guests?’
Sophie looked at him slyly.
‘No…I shouldn’t think so.’
The stark question produced an embarrassment that did not normally afflict her, and in its unwonted prickly flush she started to twine a loose twirl of hair around her forefinger and stare at her shoes.
‘Good,’ he carried on, ‘then all that remains for us to do is to agree upon your first duty night.’
‘I beg your pardon? Duty night?’
‘The arrangement—Hasan did not tell you?’
‘Arrangement? What arrangement?’ Suspicion had caused Sophie’s voice to rise.
‘That was most neglectful of him. Let me explain: I request my personal assistants to sleep with me at least one night per week. I do not insist on more, though my other assistants have always been keen to increase the number of their visits.’
‘What?’ she stammered, staring in disbelief at the Ramli prince. Her mouth quivered for a few seconds in silent shock. The hot flush descended the length of her spine, contorting her whole upper body into an involuntary convulsion when it reached its base. Finally, the fresh, hot anger found the form of words.
‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘You bloody… bastard! So this was just some pervy kind of set up all along!’
With contrived calmness, Sophie started to walk towards him, not wanting to give this Prince Al-Ajnabi the pleasure of seeing just how badly she was hurting inside. Then, looking him straight in the eyes, she took hold of the Ramli’s hand, placed the key in his palm, and folded his fingers tightly over the top of it.
‘Why didn’t you just say right from the beginning you were looking for a whore?’ she seethed, voice so contorted in outrage it had sunk to a sibilated whisper. ‘You’d have saved us both a lot of time and trouble.’
“Whore?” the Ramli chuckled. “Come, come, Miss Palmer, you’re being out of date. Today we are living at the very pinnacle of the market economy, and service industries are at the very heart of the system. The moral distinctions you allude to are absurdly misconceived in the world we inhabit. Do you despise the chairman of British Defence Systems because he sells lethal weaponry to the highest bidding country, a country which in all likelihood may be run by a murderous assassin? Of course not. You give him an O.B.E and buy shares in his company. Do you despise the City of London speculators who ruin vulnerable currencies or force the price of staple food commodities upwards if they smell a profit? Of course you don’t. You rush to invest your money with them. So why do you despise the humble prostitute, whose services are never so harmful? Besides,’ he continued, sounding almost offended, ‘you have misunderstood my meaning. I asked you only to sleep in my bed. No more than that. Any extra developments would be solely at your own desire and instigation.’
‘Fat chance!’ she spat into his face. ‘There must be hundreds of sites online advertising what you’re looking for. I suggest you try some of those.’
Turning her back on Al-Ajnabi, Sophie tried to storm out of the room, but the silence of her angry footsteps, cushioned by the rich carpet, was almost mockingly comical.
He called out to her when she put her hand on the door handle,
‘Perhaps I can overcome your scruples by increasing my offer, Miss Palmer. Let me raise the figure of your annual allowance to 100,000 – Ramli riyals, not sterling. Will that persuade you to reconsider my offer?’
Sophie gave her answer in the loudest door slam she could manage.
Chapter 7: Downing Street, London: October 8
The only good thing about his Wednesday morning with the foreign minister, Clayton thought to himself as he turned into Downing Street, was that it was usually brief and always unofficial. He knew he could have surprised a few people if had let it be known that the famously austere foreign minister, James McPherson, regularly trawled outside the cabinet secretary and the Joint Intelligence Committee to keep ahead of the pack when it came to unorthodox information.
But as far back as his days in the Paras Clayton had earned himself a reputation for keeping secrets well, and it was such trusted currency that had paved the way for his steady but inexorable series of promotions over the years. Not that promotion didn’t come with its own constraints. He had been permanent in London for the past two years, a necessary sacrifice in his quest for the top job, but a sacrifice nevertheless. The continuing fine autumn weather made him feel nostalgic for the glory years he had spent largely in Southern Europe, South America and North Africa. Days like this made him yearn to leave London.
Now, instead of the glamour life abroad, Clayton sighed at the prospect of another off-the-record meeting with McPherson. He had never managed to develop a liking for the awkward Scot, despite the seemingly symbiotic relationship. Theirs was an alliance founded on mutual interest and ambition; it had always been that way, ever since those long-gone army days. In the Regiment, friendship was sometimes forged, but loyalty always endured between ex-comrades-in-arms, even where affection was lacking.
The policeman outside Number 9 greeted his usual Wednesday visitor; Clayton gave him his usual wink in return. As usual the same secretary let him in and showed him to the first-floor room, where, as usual, the dour Scottish bastard was fingering a report with those lank, bony fingers.
‘Good morning, Max. Have a seat.’
Clayton pulled a face somewhere between a sly grin and a grimace. As usual, he thought, McPherson sounded as welcoming as a freshly cleaned toilet seeing a particularly sticky turd hanging ripe for the drop.
He studied the minister with ill-concealed derision: the untameable, wavy-grey hair, the hawkish nose, the cold blue eyes. A grunt did for a ‘hello’. There was never any small talk, so Clayton got straight down to business and brought his goodies out of the bag one by one. He had some good stuff on China, some saucy titbits on the German foreign minister, some interesting rumblings of a possible shake-up in the Russian government.
But McPherson’s mind was evidently preoccupied elsewhere.
‘Tell me Max,’ he cut in with customary bluntness, ‘what do your boys make of this?’
The minister thrust three of the morning’s quality papers at the Deputy Director-General of MI6. With varying amounts of detail all of them carried articles on the Ramli ambassador’s pledge the day before to place contracts worth up to five billion sterling exclusively with British companies. A giant international Ramli finance company was also to be created at a location to be announced somewhere in Britain. A special envoy had been dispatched from Ramliyya to oversee the implementation of these plans. Interestingly, none of the papers had been able to track down the fellow for further comment.
Clayton shrugged his shoulders.
‘Good news for us, I’d say. The new sultan has turned out to be a closet anglophile, just as we thought.’
McPherson’s eyes were staring straight ahead, unfocused. Clayton knew of that far-away gaze and prepared himself for further questioning.
‘I don’t get it, Max; I just don’t get it. I can understand these fellows wanting to create some goodwill here, place contracts with British companies, play a little on the London money markets. But five billion? All in Britain? Doesn’t make financial or diplomatic sense. The Americans are already complaining. The Germans and French are beating the drum for the mainland
Eurozone; even the Qataris and their cousins in Abu Dhabi and Dubai are bleating about not being invited to the party.’
‘Surely you’re not suggesting we make a fuss about their money? What harm can a few billion Ramli petrodollars do anyone?’
But McPherson didn’t seem to be listening. The eyes were distant again and as the silence deepened Clayton communicated his own impatience in creaks of the ancient leather sofa. Typical of McPherson to pick on such an innocuous-looking bone! But he had to hand it to the humourless bastard—when others missed the wood, they returned to find McPherson examining the bark on the most interesting trees.
‘I want you to find out what’s going on in Ramliyya, Max,’ the minister finally resumed, returning from his private thoughts. ‘And I want to know what the Ramlis’ motives are behind this sudden windfall spending. Maybe it’s just what it seems. In that case, some of the kudos is bound to rub off on the government, and I want to claim all the credit, provided your chaps can prove all this largesse is as innocuous as it seems. But I’m telling you, Max, my instinct tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye.’
Clayton nodded, shrewd enough not to mention just how little MI6 really had on Ramliyya. Then his mind hit on something else.
‘And how much official licence do I get to work on this?’ he asked, always anxious to show the Director-General that his deputy was beyond his jurisdiction.
The question threw McPherson into quiet thought again, punctuated only by the rhythmic cracking of his long fingers.
‘Scratch around by yourself first of all. If you come up with anything, I’ll push the appropriate authorities to sanction you officially.’
‘OK, I’ll ask around in a few places,’ Clayton replied, reckoning it was time to bolt for the door. But McPherson caught him again before he could make good his escape.
‘Oh and Max, find out about this special envoy fellow of theirs while you’re snooping around. I don’t recall hearing of his arrival—certainly no one in my department was informed. Very strange. Anyway, see if you can track him down. I’d like to arrange a meeting. It’s almost as if he’s going out of his way to avoid normal diplomatic protocol.’
Chapter 8: Oxford: October 8
Sophie left the mansion at Folly Bridge in panic, pedalling furiously all the way. Safely back in college, she plunged herself into the quietest corner of the library and stayed there alone till long past supper. It wasn’t anger, hurt or disappointment that stung. Those had been brief. She felt contaminated, almost guilty; for she had wanted to accept the Ramli devil’s proposition.
Ruminating in the library stacks, at first she thought of telling somebody—Joanna, Marcus, the police? But what would she say? What had really happened? Nothing she could explain clearly. A mysterious, impeccably mannered foreign millionaire had offered her an obscene amount of money to play founder member of his English harem.
But the shame of temptation was eating her alive. The money still lurked there, hanging in front of her eyes in great abstract wads of cash. One hundred thousand Ramli riyals! One hundred and eighty two thousand pounds could have been mine, could still be mine!
And had his request really been that offensive? Sophie couldn’t quite stifle a lingering suspicion that the proposition was not meant to be taken seriously. Maybe it was just some sort of test, a ploy to check her reactions? If it was, she had failed.
And then again, what if his proposition was meant to be taken literally? She didn’t have to feel guilty about accepting his terms. She was being asked to become a kept mistress; what was so shameful or unusual about that? If anything, she should feel a little flattered that such a powerful and wealthy man, with his talk of diplomats and big business, had singled an ignominious university undergraduate out for such attention. And he was certainly handsome enough, too, even if his cold, off-hand manner was not instantly seductive.
But she hated herself for thinking that way. It was all wrong. Was she so desperate that she would let herself be bargained for like a high-class slut, some chattel for a sexist, deviant pseudo-Arab? No, No, NO! Never.
‘Where’ve you been all day?’ Joanna asked Sophie when she finally returned home long after nine o’clock. ‘And how did the interview go?’
‘Oh, not bad really. But I won’t know for a while whether I got the grant or not,’ Sophie lied, busying herself with the festering dishes in the kitchen sink, while Joanna pumped her with questions about the interview. Sophie fed her housemate a story about appearing before the selection committee of a reputable educational trust and reckoned she had soon convinced Joanna that there was little more to report.
Joanna yawned unenthusiastically.
‘Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed. And by the way, Marcus has been looking for you all afternoon. He’ll probably come round later.’
Sophie cupped her head in her hands.
‘Oh, please do me a favour and ask him not to come. Tell him I’m sick or something.’
Joanna looked at her friend curiously. ‘Are you all right? Has something happened? I say, you haven’t met someone else, have you, Soph?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Sophie huffed, escaping the kitchen just as Lucy, her other housemate, arrived to hear about her interview. This wasn’t the time for coffee and confidences. She was behind with work, she told them. It was time for her to go to her room.
Sophie slept fitfully that night and woke early the next morning. Unwashed and without make-up, she set off in her jogging things for a long walk, heading down the Iffley Road towards the Isis and the towpath. The mist was soothing, and she remembered similar mornings last winter when she and Marcus had woken early in his Christ Church rooms to jog to the river for rowing.
But it was not Marcus she wanted to see now. It was the house by Folly Bridge, that magical domain full of secrets, fascination and the prospect of treasure. The moral victory had been hers, but the stranger had snared her enough to make her desperate for a last, sneaky look from the safety of the opposite bank. She wanted to live for a few moments in a world of might-have-beens, a world where she would have been able to finish her studies, get the job she wanted, help out her hopelessly impecunious mum.
It took her twenty minutes to get there. From this side of the river the house looked even more enchanting. Curls of river mist fudged the sand-brown colour of the walls. Lights were on downstairs and above. She could make out a figure silhouetted against the window of the furthest room to the right on the second floor. It had to be him.
Sophie felt suddenly cold. Pulling up the hood of her rowing jacket, an irrational fear seized her. She began to run, steadily at first, then as fast as she could go, right at Folly Bridge, then up St. Aldates, all the way to Christ Church. She went in past the Porters’ Lodge, turned right, and walked across the front quad. Marcus still had rooms in college. It was not yet eight. He would still be there, nice and warm in bed.
***
London: October 9
There were still a lot of tourists sitting on the park benches in Soho Square, their umbrellas up against the soft drizzle. Douglas Easterby checked his watch. Five to one. Still early. Whatever else he might be, an old Para like Goss would be a stickler for punctuality.
‘It’s been a long time, sir! Good to see you again!’
Easterby looked over his shoulder, then recognizing the Yorkshire accent he turned to give his former sergeant’s outstretched hand a wary shake, for he was a reluctant old comrade-in-arms. It was over twenty years since he had last seen Goss, not that absence had made his heart grow any fonder. Common, vulgar and wantonly violent, Easterby thought, looking at those dog-hungry eyes, the razor-thin crew cut and trim, ginger moustache. Still, they had their uses, Goss’s kind. It was men like Goss that had plundered and pacified the Empire—mean brutes who could be relied upon to impart the swifter variety of British justice at the point of a bayonet, or with full magazine of .303.
Goss had evidently tried to dress for their ‘little meeting’, E
asterby noted, eyeing with contempt the unfashionably thin dark-blue tie and the cheap grey suit. Either his ex-sergeant had fallen on hard times or was just too tacky to know any better. He suspected a combination of the two.
‘Good of you to come, Phil,’ Easterby began, choking on the use of that plebeian first name. But what else could he call him? ‘Mr Goss’ would be too formal, ‘Sergeant’ too inappropriate.
‘Let me take you to a little pub I know down the road here. Talk business over a few jars, eh?’
‘Very good, sir,’ Goss replied, standing almost to attention. ‘A couple of bevvies’ll go down smooth, like.’
The stocky sergeant trailed about half a pace behind as Easterby walked briskly out of the western side of the square, turning left towards Soho. Neither man was interested in conversation. Goss was no doubt wondering why his former CO had looked him up after so long, Easterby mused, but doubtless the ginger terrier sensed a profit in his Colonel’s call.
Easterby marched morosely through the stiffening drizzle increasingly perplexed by this bizarre and unwanted reunion the Ramlis had unwittingly thrust upon him.
The pub was old, lacking the trendy renovations of its rivals. Easterby bought whisky and ginger for himself and a pint of strong lager for the sergeant.
‘So, Phil, how long have you been running this security and surveillance business of yours?’ Easterby asked, putting the drinks on the table and checking all around for intrusive ears. The pub was only half-full. Several businessmen lingered around the counter, chatting up the pretty Australian barmaid. Other tables were talking company or office business.
‘Ultimate, sir? Er…about fourteen years now. Started it up soon after I joined Civvy Street.’
‘Business going well?’
‘Has its ups and downs, sir. Sometimes I get a few jobs on the side, like.’
Easterby swallowed his whisky thoughtfully.