by K J Griffin
Douglas Easterby longed to lie back on the cushions and brood quietly to the tempo of the wailing Arabic music he so hated, but he found himself trapped unwittingly in ebullient conversations between the Warden, Dr AbdulAziz and the horsy-faced woman on his right.
At one point he caught his son’s eye. Marcus was looking just as glum as he felt himself, unmoved by the music and its hypnotic drumbeats. The former colonel traced the source of Marcus’s misery to the girl, and from there, his gaze came to rest on the Special Envoy sitting opposite. The more he stared, the more irritable Easterby felt, squinting hard at a man who was starting to look increasingly familiar. Perhaps he had seen the mysterious fellow before in Madinat Al Aasima? Or had it been somewhere else…? Difficult to tell in the bloody half-light.
The music kept up over dessert, restraining guests who would otherwise have wandered more freely among the different groups. Eventually the waiters directed the guests towards Turkish coffee, liqueurs and hookah pipes in the smoking room.
That was where Chapman got his chance. He caught Prince Omar reclining alone, puffing on fruity tobacco and he flopped down on the cushions opposite. The host was polite but cool in his welcome. And yet Chapman had the distinct feeling that the prince had been waiting for him; that their meeting was both desired and contrived.
‘A magnificent supper in fantastic surroundings, Prince Omar.’
Al-Ajnabi nodded and puffed, scrutinizing Chapman closely through the haze.
‘Tell me, Prince,’ the journalist carried on, ‘does your religion acknowledge the existence of ghosts?’
Al-Ajnabi nodded.
‘Muslims certainly believe in the existence of djinn, or spirits that can assume human shape or form.’
In his excitement, Chapman could not lie comfortably on the cushions. He wriggled and fiddled with the bridge of his glasses.
‘And here in England, old houses such as this are often said to be visited by ghosts. I hope you haven’t been troubled by any strange appearances, Prince Omar, any visitations from the past.’
Al-Ajnabi was smiling, neither with amusement or embarrassment, but because he seemed to enjoy the game.
‘The ghosts of the past are burdens that we must all carry with us, Mr Chapman. They are necessary if we are to understand the perversities of the present.’
‘Or the future.’
‘Quite right,’ the Ramli prince smiled enigmatically. ‘Or indeed the future.’
Chapman pushed his glasses up again and tamed some flyaway wavy locks that were obscuring his vision.
‘Colonel Easterby, for example,’ the journalist continued. ‘It’s just as well he wasn’t at your house just over a week ago, or he might have met a ghost from his past, mightn’t he?’
‘Colonel Easterby is a very busy man right now, Mr. Chapman,’ Al-Ajnabi scowled. ‘I doubt whether he has time to look for ghosts.’
Chapman paused, declining the offer of a pipe from a passing attendant but accepting another Turkish coffee.
‘But do you think that Colonel Easterby would have reason to fear a ghost if he met one in your house?’
‘That would depend which ghost?’
‘Captain Clayton, for example?’
Long silence. Deep sigh.
‘No, I don’t think Colonel Easterby would fear the ghost of Captain Clayton who resigned his commission some years back, nor the current Deputy Director of MI6, Max Clayton, nor even Lieutenant Clayton of “D” Company, Parachute Regiment in Northern Ireland many years ago…’
But just as it was getting interesting for Chapman, Prince Al-Ajnabi broke off and looked up, for Sophie was standing above them. She smiled first at her friend and again more ambiguously at the man who had bought her body for that night. Al-Ajnabi moved aside and offered her the space between them. Chapman hungrily eyed the low cut of Sophie’s black dress, her ripe figure and the fleshy beauty of her face. But his mind had just grasped the significance of the last piece of information.
‘As you were saying, Prince?’ he asked speculatively.
But just then Hasan approached the group. He stooped, and whispered something in Al-Ajnabi’s ear. The Special Envoy nodded, placed the stem of his pipe next to the bowl in front and got to his feet with a swish of his robes.
‘What was all that about?’ Sophie asked Darren as she watched Omar disappear from the smoking room. Had Darren found out more of Omar’s secrets? Should she tell Darren about the strange visitor who had come to see her at Magdalen that afternoon?
Marcus flopped down on the cushion beside her; Sophie felt irritable, even wished that Marcus would go away. But suddenly she remembered the forthcoming ‘bed duty’, and in guilty sympathy she reached for her boyfriend’s hand. Far from revolting her, the thought of her imminent infidelity made Sophie tingle with a tremor of excitement. Poor Marcus! For the first time in their relationship Sophie could feel the urgency of his passion, which had only been retrieved from its strongroom seclusion by the sight of her with Omar. Seeing Marcus that way made the imminent deception all the more appealing. Was it that she wanted to punish Marcus for playing it so cool for so long?
Claire Ferris was waiting in the upstairs room where Mr Hasan had escorted her, admiring the antique Indian decorations. But in every picture she saw the host’s mocking face and a benevolent malice that lay behind a curious smile. She had recovered from the initial shock at dinner, and having sat on the discomfort for course after interminable course, her mood was now more combative than submissive.
Oh yes, she understood it all far too easily by now. Nothing had been a coincidence—the choice of her constituency as a candidate for the site of the Ramli investment bank, the invitation to tonight’s soirée and Mark’s surprise appearance at dinner, where he had been deliberately positioned opposite her. It was obvious: she had to assume that the Ramli prince knew everything and that there was a reason she would soon discover why he had gone to all this trouble. He wanted something from her, that much was sure. Out of spite, she felt like refusing whatever that turned out to be, even if refusal meant losing her career.
‘You like the picture, Ms. Ferris? Allow me to make a gift of it to you.’
She recognized the voice behind, only it seemed to have lost some of the heavy Middle Eastern accent that had flavoured it during dinner.
‘It’s a most generous offer, Prince Omar, but one that I must sadly decline. With so many prying eyes around Parliament these days, I have to be careful who I accept gifts from. It would be easy for the press to get the wrong idea.’
‘Exactly,’ he agreed, coming up close behind her. ‘And what a pity it is that all your colleagues in Parliament are not always able to emulate your spotless sense of discretion. Scandalous revelations claim the scalps of far too many of you tireless public servants.’
Now Ferris knew beyond doubt that he knew. And the certainty of her knowledge made her want to cut through the circumlocution.
‘Why was Mark Elmer at dinner this evening, Prince Omar?’
‘As I explained…’
‘No. I want the real reason.’
Al-Ajnabi walked to the windows and peered out at the floodlit view of the near riverbank.
‘You will be pleased to know that Mark has also been able to kick his drug habit, Ms Ferris, though, of course, he was not so fortunate as you. He would still be out of work now if I hadn’t picked him up.’
Ferris bowed her head. Although she had initiated the topic of conversation, hearing about her previous mistakes from the Ramli’s lips made her cringe with a cheek-slap of embarrassment all the same. And with the sudden shame that the direct articulation of her long-kept secret thrust upon her, she felt all her powers of resistance instantaneously crumble.
‘Look. Let’s get this over with. Just tell me what it is that you want from me.’
‘A small favour, I assure you, Ms Ferris. So small, you would probably have accorded it to me without the lengthy precautions I have taken. I regret the pain and emb
arrassment I have caused you, but I had to be sure of your cooperation.’
‘Go on.’
“Some friends of mine wish to tour the Palace of Westminster. I want you to arrange for their admittance and to show them around inside once they get there.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you want?’
He moved away from the window and nodded.
Ferris looked at him suspiciously.
‘Why all this bother for such a commonplace and inconsequential favour? Why are your friends so keen to visit Parliament?’
Al-Ajnabi shot her a disdainful look.
‘That is their business. You will arrange visitors’ passes for me and my friends. They will wish to visit your office and view an evening debate. In due course you will be sent names and photos, and will be informed of the date on which you are to admit them. That is all I require.’
‘And what about your investment bank, Prince Omar? Do I have reason to hope that you will choose my constituency?’
Al-Ajnabi removed his headdress and stepped towards her, running his fingers through his long, off-blond hair. Again, the wickedest of ghostly smiles.
‘In the long term you may well be grateful that I have decided to distance myself and my projects from your constituency, Ms Ferris.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that, Prince Omar?’
But he was already holding open the door, and Hasan was waiting in the corridor to return the MP to the other guests.
Chapter 22
Chapman was talking to a company director and Dr Al-Badawi, keeping one eye on Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi as the Special Envoy flitted from group to group. Most of the guests had long since abandoned the unfamiliar, low-lying feel of the cushions to stand in unsteady groups in the centre of the room.
Prince Omar spent some time chatting to the business types. Judging from the expressions on their faces, the reporter guessed that Al-Ajnabi was entertaining them with more of those unorthodox political views that Sophie had mentioned over lunch in Little Clarendon Street.
With half-formed theories still fomenting in his mind, Chapman was especially interested in Al-Ajnabi’s dealings with Douglas Easterby. The longer he watched, the more obvious it became that the prince was at pains to avoid all contact with the colonel; at times, it was almost comical. Easterby would join a group or conversation; Al-Ajnabi would instantly leave it to migrate elsewhere.
The feminist tutor whom Chapman had spoken to over dinner followed Prince Omar around the salon with limpet-like tenacity. Eventually their errant orbit brought the pair to some lounging cushions in a dim corner, where Marcus and Sophie were trying to get intimate.
Chapman was glad to see that little tête à tête disturbed. But despite the poor light, the soft look he caught on Sophie’s face as she looked up to recognize Al-Ajnabi filled the journalist with a dread far greater than anything Marcus could ever inspire. Compulsively, he hurried across the room to investigate and intercede.
Al-Ajnabi sank casually on top of the cushions to Sophie’s right; Ockenden settled with catlike stealth opposite. Sophie smiled at both mentors, dropped Marcus’s hand and sat up.
Chapman had arrived behind the quartet, eyes still fixed on Al-Ajnabi. The Special Envoy ordered another pipe from a passing waiter, then looked across a central rug, on top of which shiny bowls brimming with dates and exotic fruits gleamed in the candlelight. His gaze fell nonchalantly on Marcus Easterby.
‘I hate to intrude into your private business, Mr Easterby, but I must inform you that I have booked Miss Palmer’s services for later on tonight.’
Chapman couldn’t believe his ears. It was too dark to see the colour on Sophie’s cheeks, but even the tutor, Ockenden, looked quizzical.
‘Services, Soph?’ Marcus stammered, ignoring the host to stare incredulously into his girlfriend’s dark eyes.
‘Just some liaison work,’ Al-Ajnabi clarified obscurely. ‘My projects are nearing their climax, and I need all the support I can lay my hands on right now.’
It was too much for Sophie. She cupped her head in her hands and burst into laughter; Ockenden accompanied her with something a little more circumspect. Marcus stared speechlessly at the Ramli prince, then back at Sophie in search of explanation.
Though he enjoyed Marcus’s frustration, Chapman was shocked by Sophie’s reaction. Suddenly, he had no more doubts—Sophie had fallen under the spell of this curious man, and together they were hatching some sort of plan. It was time to intervene.
‘I say, can we have a private word, Soph?’
Stifling her giggles, Sophie patted Marcus’s shoulder and got up, following Darren to a quiet spot near the door, for she was glad of the opportunity to escape the two men who exerted such very different influences over her life. Marcus Easterby glared bitterly at his host, gloomily watching the coils of smoke purl from the summit of the prince’s hookah pipe.
‘You seem very fond of my most promising undergraduate, Prince Omar,’ Ockenden teased. ‘I do hope you intend to take good care of her.’
‘I have Miss Palmer’s best interests at heart,’ Al-Ajnabi replied, his voice dry and oblique. ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea for your undergraduates to be exposed to the real world outside your college walls, Ms Ockenden? Isn’t being here amid such influential company as useful to Miss Palmer’s development and education as any of your lectures and tutorials? After all, unless your students come from very wealthy or well-connected families,’ he smiled coldly at Marcus, exhaling plumes of sheesha smoke over the young man, ‘the non-academic world can be cruelly disappointing for young adults.’
‘Can it? Are you speaking from personal experience, Prince Omar?’
‘It has always been commonplace for the young to find the outside world a cruel and disillusioning place. But finding that out is merely a necessary and banal part of growing up. It is one’s reaction to the disillusionment that determines the shape of later life.’
‘And what sort of reactions are you talking about, Prince?’
Al-Ajnabi sighed and gave the tutor a sad smile.
‘Unfortunately the righteous anger of the young has a very poor track record of putting the world to rights. From 1848 to 1968, what lasting impact have the young hotheads ever achieved? And just as well, too, perhaps. With nearly seven billion people sitting on our crowded planet we couldn’t risk the turmoil of smashing the system to bits before rebuilding from the roots.’
Ockenden had sat up. She leaned towards the Prince, looking serious and interested.
‘But what other solutions do we have, Prince?’
Again, Al-Ajnabi sighed and looked askance.
‘It would take someone who has the bitter disappointments of youth long undigested inside but the maturity of experience to know what to cut and what to keep. It would take someone who has the power, the will and skill to perform a radical set of keyhole surgical procedures on a moribund patient and then leave the patient to regain consciousness and follow his own cures.’
‘And you are such a revolutionary surgeon, Prince Omar? What an unlikely Che Guevara you make! Marcus, what do you think of Prince Omar in that role?’
Marcus had been listening to little of the discussion, but had been nurturing a welling dislike for the man who was in control of it. The voice both hypnotized and irritated him. The more animated it became, the more it seemed to shed its Middle Eastern outer skin, turning into something far more sinister and closer-to-home.
But it was not the political philosophy that bothered Marcus—he hadn’t been listening to much of that crap. No, he sensed a different malice in the man. The Ramli was making a bold ploy for Sophie with the detestable arrogance of some jumped-up greasy foreign millionaire used to snapping his fingers at tarts in a Vegas casino. Christ, couldn’t Soph see that? Wasn’t she disgusted by the Ramli’s brash effrontery? It sickened him to see the doting, captivated looks she kept giving the pompous Arab. In the bitterness of jealousy, Marcus worried that his hitherto invincible
arsenal of looks, wealth and class might have finally come up against an unassailable opponent.
‘With due respect, I’d say Prince Al-Ajnabi’s views sound like a load of cock,’ he snapped back when the tutor asked his opinion for the second time.
Al-Ajnabi shrugged. Ockenden smiled for an unfathomable variety of reasons. Further conversation was disrupted by the noisy departures of several guests.
Soon Ockenden, too, chose to say her goodbyes, for she had spotted the tottering Warden making a circuitous approach by way of a lengthy bending of Colonel Easterby’s ear.
‘I hope you will remember that the young are very impressionable, Prince Omar,’ she said meaningfully to Al-Ajnabi, with a glance in Sophie’s direction. ‘If you are fighting against cruelty and injustice, you should remember that.’
But Al-Ajnabi was lost somewhere in the coils of fruity smoke pungently invisible in the dim light. Seeing Sophie and Chapman coming back, Marcus, too, got huffily to his feet.
‘I’m off, Soph,’ he announced glumly, sweeping a blond lock from his eyes with all the beguiling come-and-get-me innocence he could muster. ‘You not coming, then?’
He had never wanted her so much before. All the things that he had ever taken for granted about his girlfriend suddenly returned to choke him like drug-resistant bacteria.
Sophie looked bittersweet, not sad; indecisive more than emotional. Their familiar roles had been unexpectedly reversed. This time she was the one a “play-it-cool-Soph” (as he would have put it) away from true passion.
‘See you tomorrow, Marky,’ she smiled, giving him a hug and long, soft kiss.
‘That’s it, then, for tonight?’ Blue eyes sad and downcast; more hair flicked back.
Sophie squeezed his arm; he had picked the worst possible moment to turn irresistible and in love.
‘I’m sorry, Marky,’ and she looked it, too. ‘I promised Omar I’d help him tonight as a one-off favour. I’ll call round tomorrow. Promise.’