Guy Fawkes Day

by K J Griffin

  ‘What time?’

  Fake cheeriness: ‘Umm…morning, some time.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’ Last despairing backwards look. Abrupt about-turn. Marcus marched off in search of his father without acknowledging the host.

  ‘Are you ready, Sophie?’ Al-Ajnabi was on his feet and looking into Sophie’s eyes.

  ‘Right now?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What about the other guests? Aren’t you going to see them off?’

  He puckered his lips. Imperious and disdainful shake of head.

  ‘Well…,’ she exhaled sharply, ‘I suppose I’m ready.’

  There was only one person in the room watching Sophie follow the Special Envoy into the corridor who felt as desperate as Marcus Easterby. Chapman had made a pact with the devil. Yes, Sophie had whispered to him in the corner of the room, she did have secret business with Omar. No! Of course it wasn’t anything like that! Tonight was the night when Omar had promised to take her into his confidence, explain his hidden agenda. Casting aside persistent suspicions, Chapman had agreed that Sophie was doing the right thing; she should tread extremely carefully and keep him fully informed of her every move.

  But it still pained him to see Sophie leaving like that, meekly following the eccentric Ramli diplomat to some inner lair. And it wasn’t Prince Omar’s secret schemes that bothered him right now. Something in Sophie’s erratic behaviour gave him cause to worry that she was as interested in the man himself as the mysteries surrounding him.

  Al-Ajnabi escorted Sophie as far as the door to her apartment.

  ‘Take your time to get what you need, Sophie. Then call Hasan and have him show you upstairs.’

  As on the first night, Sophie felt her bravery beginning to evaporate the closer she got to it and him. But there was still some stubbornness left.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Omar. I’ve been before, remember?’

  ‘As you wish,’ he shrugged, walking off towards the staircase.

  This time Sophie did not delay inside the apartment. She washed quickly, selected the sexiest underwear she could find and slipped a dressing gown on top. The best weapon would be attack, for it was certain that Omar was as apprehensive of what lay ahead as she was.

  The corridors were deserted, though echoes of the last guests filtered up the staircase. Hearing them, Sophie’s thoughts turned to Marcus and a tinge of sadness blended with her nervous trepidation. Was what she was about to do really that terrible? It wouldn’t alter her affections for Marcus, and the detestable artificiality of her forthcoming infidelity could surely only kill off any affection for Omar that might be growing inside with a will of its own.

  The door to his apartment was open. Sophie knocked and stepped inside without waiting for a reply. He was at the far end of the room, straining to read a piece of paper by the light of a candle. Evidently, his love of the dark was not easily compromised. He had changed into casual Western clothes but was otherwise just as unready for bed as he had been when she had last seen him. The usual cut-glass crystal of whisky gleamed in his other hand.

  ‘Come in, Sophie.’ His voice was friendly but distant. ‘Will you join me for a drink?’

  Despite all the champagne she had already drunk, Sophie asked for a Cointreau. She needed a further anaesthetic.

  Omar called up Mousa with the order, placed the paper on the table, and asked for Sophie’s impressions of dinner and the guests.

  He was friendly and natural but sad, too. Every now and then he would wander to the balcony windows and continue the conversation with his back turned against her.

  Sophie was confused again. Feelings of empathy that Omar had done nothing to arouse returned with increased intensity. She sat on the edge of the bed and flicked her hair.

  ‘A man came to see me in college today, Omar. He knew that I was living in your house. He asked a lot of questions about you.’

  Al-Ajnabi took a long swig of whisky and crushed an ice cube in his teeth. Mousa knocked with Sophie’s Cointreau. The master told him to leave the bottle and waited for Mousa to depart. When he did, Omar’s voice had frozen to a whisper.

  ‘What did he want to know?’

  Sophie told him everything she could remember.

  ‘But I didn’t tell him about Hennessy or any of the other guests at your house the first night.’

  He looked at her warily, then his voice gained a couple of decibels.

  ‘This man told you that he worked for a government agency, you say? Can you describe him to me?’

  Sophie was embarrassed. ‘Well…actually, he looked a lot like you, Omar, only perhaps a tiny bit taller. Umm…brown hair…fit and trim…forties something maybe.’

  Omar was smiling at her; it was that horrible vampire’s smile again.

  ‘Is there something I should know, Omar? It’s about your business here, isn’t it? You’re up to something. I can tell.’

  He was standing even closer to her now.

  ‘That’s what your visitor wanted you to find out, I suppose?’

  Sophie stood up in front of him, close enough to see the filaments of tiny runnelled creases at the corners of his eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she barely whispered. ‘And he’s asked me to meet him tomorrow, actually. Wants me to spy on you, I think.’

  For a while, there was silence between them. Then, without knowing why she did it, she ran a couple of fingers up the sleeve of his shirt and caught his eyes. ‘But I’m not going to, Omar. It’s you I want to help. All I ask for in return is to know what this is all about. Even the very briefest outline would be something.’

  The next move caught Sophie off balance. His left arm came across his chest to scoop up the fingers tickling the inside of his right arm. With his right, he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her towards him. Their eyes met deeply before their mouths touched. The kiss, when it came, was soft and languid on her lips.

  This wasn’t how she had it expected it to happen. She had imagined all along that when the time came she would let herself be taken, non-resistant yet non-cooperative. So where had this active collusion of hers come from? From an inner force she could neither fathom nor subdue.

  When their lips broke free, Sophie thought she had better get the rules of bed understood before Omar progressed any further. Presumably he intended to use some sort of protection.

  But he had already backed away and was walking towards the balcony.

  ‘I’ve got one last proposal to put to you, Sophie.’ His voice sounded remote and distant again, as if nothing had happened between them.

  A feeling of dread washed over Sophie. What more could he possibly want now?

  ‘Proposal? Whatever can that be? I don’t have anything left to give you, Omar!’

  But he ignored the irony.

  ‘I have business abroad and I would like you to come with me. It should last a week, at most. If you agree to accompany me, then I will release you from your sexual obligation, though the house and the money will still be yours, as we agreed.’

  ‘And if I refuse to join you?’

  He smiled with disarming honesty.

  ‘You win either way. Even if you refuse my request, I will still be forced to release you from your sexual commitment. The house and money will be yours for free. When I leave tomorrow, I will not return here again to disturb you. You will have your money for nothing.’

  Sophie let out a sharp breath. She should have been overjoyed at what she was hearing, but she only felt hopelessly perplexed.

  ‘What do you mean, Omar? Why are you doing this? Why did you go to all this trouble just to…hang on a minute, it’s the same thing again, isn’t it? It’s something about me you…’

  ‘I’ve already told you the reason why, Sophie,’ he interrupted curtly, enunciating his words clearly and slowly, almost without accent. ‘I am not one of them; I do not believe that the rich and powerful should be allowed to do as they please, that Might is Right, or that political and economic power give
s the mighty the right to rape the world in their insatiable lust for more. If I made you spend the night here as an object for my sexual gratification, then I would be the same as them: that will never happen.’

  She sat for a long time on the edge of the bed trying to digest what she had just been told. A glut of conflicting emotions swarmed inside her, thrusting and parrying till only one survived. It seemed like an age after he had finished speaking before she lifted herself from the corner of the bed, walked slowly towards him and took a long look into those green eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and stroking a cheek with the rims of her nails. ‘You are by far the craziest person I have ever met, Omar—but…thank you.’

  They lingered fractionally face to face, neither willing to break a tense emotional barrier. It was Sophie who finally broke the spell, brushing the side of his cheek with a gossamer kiss before turning on her heel. She had almost reached the door when he spoke up.

  ‘So will you come with me? I warn you, it may not be a pleasant trip.’

  ‘Sophie’s head was bowed; she was looking away from him towards the door.

  ‘I would like to, Omar, but it’s not possible. I’m not allowed to leave Oxford during term time.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve already cleared it with the Warden and Miss Ockenden.’

  His presumptuousness shattered the overwhelming tenderness that had suddenly swept over her, like a nagging fly in a sunny beauty spot; it was the sort of thing he would have said and done in those malicious, early meetings.

  ‘If you want it so much, then I’ll come,’ she answered coolly. ‘What time do we leave?’

  ‘Early. Hasan will call you in the morning.’

  ‘And where are we going?’

  ‘You will see. Pack for warm weather, then get some sleep.’

  Chapter 23: South Bank, London: October 23

  Chuckle.

  ‘Good morning, Max. Did you manage to wangle yourself an invitation?’

  Stupid people with stupid coughs shouldn’t try to be cryptic, Clayton felt like shouting down the receiver.

  ‘You’d better explain, Graham.’

  ‘Your Ramli friend—Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi. There was a function at his mansion last night.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t watching the house anymore?’

  Smug laughter. ‘We’re not. Don’t have to—heard it from the horse’s mouth this morning. Friend of mine from Oxford was on the guest list. Small show, but very chic, by all accounts.’

  Clayton jumped up from his seat.

  ‘Friend of yours? I want to talk to him, Graham. Can you give me his number?’

  ‘Nothing simpler, Max. He’s a superintendent in the Thames Valley Police. Name of John Whitaker.’

  *****

  Two and a half hours after speaking to Whitaker, Clayton was again at Oxford station. The superintendent had a busy schedule that day, but he had put Clayton in touch with his friend Raymond Salisbury, Warden of Magdalen College. Clayton had been even keener on that idea; there were other attractions at Magdalen College.

  Same porter. Same helpfulness. Clayton was even honoured with a personal escort as far as the Warden’s lodgings.

  ‘Mr Clayton,’ the Warden beamed, ‘I believe that this is a double honour—chance to meet a rather special servant of Her Majesty’s government, and a long-lost fellow of the College. Care for a sherry?’

  ‘Dry,’ said Clayton tersely, and settled on another ancient leather sofa, only marginally more comfortable than the bed of nails in McPherson’s Downing Street study.

  The Warden was effusive with the chitchat, but Clayton brought him straight down to business before the ruddy-faced old devil could pour his first refill, asking the Warden to give him a physical description of Prince Omar Adil Al-Ajnabi.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ murmured the Warden. ‘Quite a distinguished looking Arab. Got his face firmly imprinted here,’ he added, tapping his shiny pate and launching into a patchy description that fitted nobody Clayton was anxious to hear about.

  Further conversation convinced Clayton that he was wasting his time.

  ‘Thank you, Warden,’ he snapped, putting his glass on the heavy oak table. ‘You’ve been a great help. Now, one last thing. I believe that one of your undergraduates is lodging with the special envoy. I’d like to see this girl, if you could have the Porters’ Lodge find out where she is at the moment.’

  The Warden looked concerned.

  ‘Sophie Palmer, I think you mean,’ he mumbled, dropping his voice. ‘That could be a little awkward right now, Mr Clayton. You see, this is most irregular during term time, but I have just given Sophie a week’s exeat from college. It is a golden opportunity for the pretty young thing, you see, and anyway, how could I refuse Prince Omar’s request after all he’s done for the college renovation appeal?’

  ‘You mean Miss Palmer has left Oxford?’

  “Just for the week. Prince Omar gave me his word that she would be back in college by next Thursday. I can have Sophie contact you then if you leave a number.’

  Clayton walked over to the windows and gazed down at the main quad. The gargoyles on the roofs of the opposite building were leering at his impotence.

  ‘So where has Miss Palmer gone? Or should I say, where have they gone, Warden?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Mr Clayton. Say, what’s all this about, anyway? Why are you chaps so interested? Has Prince Omar done anything wrong?’

  But Clayton ignored the question; he had almost forgotten something else. Taking a brown envelope from his jacket pocket, he walked crisply across the polished floorboards and arranged three of the photographs Eitan had given him side by side on the oak table.

  ‘Take a good look, Warden. Tell me if you saw any of these faces among the guests at Prince Omar’s dinner party last night.’

  The Warden withdrew his reading glasses from the pocket of his waistcoat and screwed up his face to study the photos.

  ‘No, can’t say I did,’ he pondered sceptically, but then he paused and looked again at the last photo. ‘Wait a minute. Curly-haired, swarthy-looking fellow on the right. He could have been there. Let me see…yes, I believe he runs one the companies that’s just landed a big arms contract with the Ramlis. Can’t remember his name, though, I’m afraid.’

  Clayton picked up the photo of Chentouf, gazed at it for a second and then returned it with the others to his jacket pocket. He declined another sherry, thanked the Warden and made for the door. But he stopped as his hand touched the door handle.

  ‘You’re quite sure that the man in the photo was talking to Prince Omar, not just to his PA, Hasan Shukri?’

  ‘Quite sure, Mr Clayton. They were sitting next to each other at dinner.’

  At least finding Chentouf was some consolation, Clayton thought grumpily as he walked across the misty quad, back towards the Porter’s Lodge. It looked as if Ronny Eitan had been right about the kind of friends Prince Omar was keeping. But it was going to be hard to persuade McPherson to extend a free rein for further delving, if, as the Warden reckoned, Prince Omar Adil Al-Ajnabi had already fled the country.

  Chapter 24: Heathrow Airport: 6:30 p.m.

  Clayton bit his thumbnail in frustration and had the surveillance officer replay the CCTV tape for the third time. He was interested in a twenty-minute section that had recorded the VIP lounge between eleven and eleven-twenty that morning. Hasan was clear enough in several stills, but Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi was painfully camera-shy. The more Clayton watched, the more certain he became that this was no accident. On the rare occasions when the prince did not have his back to the camera, he had most of his face wrapped in the folds of a long, white headdress; the dark sunglasses were never either re-adjusted or removed.

  ‘Freeze it there, can you,’ Clayton snapped. The face was still shrouded, but it was as near to the camera as the Special Envoy got, taken just as the prince was about to leave the departure lounge.

  Clayton
had the surveillance officer print him out a still. It wasn’t much to go on, but maybe one of the wizards back at GCHQ would be able to play around with CCTV data files once they were sent over.

  Just then, the pleasant young female security officer returned.

  ‘Miss Sophie Louise Palmer left first class on the Egypt Air morning flight to Cairo,’ she smiled at Clayton.

  ‘No surprise there,’ Clayton sighed. ‘Any onward flight from Cairo?’

  ‘No. Final destination was Cairo.’

  Clayton was surprised. ‘Invoice? Who paid for her ticket, and when?’

  The young woman shuffled some papers on her clipboard.

  ‘Here we are. The ticket was bought last week by a Mr Hasan. He paid by Visa. Full price.’

  Clayton nodded. ‘You say that Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi didn’t enter the country through the VIP terminal here?’

  ‘No,’ replied the young woman breezily. ‘There’s no record of such a flight. Last private jet from Ramliyya was…yes, a Prince Ayman Al-Janoubi, one of the old sultan’s brothers, I believe. That was three months ago.’

  Fuck! Clayton was seething inside. If Al-Ajnabi had entered the country via the normal channels, it could take days even for a full staff to sift through hours of dull CCTV tape, looking for a face that would probably reveal no more of its features than the shrouded still he already held. The Ramli had slipped away. The best Clayton could hope for would be to give the pretty girl a torrid time when she got back to Oxford, and maybe (who could say), a little more besides!

  Clayton turned to the young woman, switched on the charm, and appropriated a private office where he could use his mobile without an audience. He was lucky enough to catch the minister at his Downing Street residence, in the process of squeezing his gaunt frame into a dinner jacket.

  Initially, there was just a blank silence, as there usually was when the things weren’t going McPherson’s way.

  ‘All right, Max,’ the minister sighed eventually. ‘No point in organizing a special watch on our bird if he’s already flown the nest. We’ll reassess the situation if and when Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi returns to the UK on another visit. Meanwhile, you’ll want to get busy with our little Chinese problem.’