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  ‘It is. I’m sure that if I went to the police or to a lawyer, I could take action against you—diplomatic status or not.’

  He smiled broadly and extended his arms wide open.

  ‘So you would be prepared take such extreme action against me for making an offer that is—possibly—immoral, an offer that might be unpleasant for you to a small degree—though you may even enjoy it (she scowled at him)—but would bring you rewards that you would never have dreamt possible before. That is truly noble of you, Sophie!’

  He took another long slug of whisky then fell strangely silent and pensive again. And as she scrutinized him carefully while pretending to stare at her cut-crystal beer glass, she thought that some of the old malevolence had returned to his features.

  ‘But just tell me one more thing, Sophie,’ he continued eventually. ‘If you feel so strongly about my offer, then why do you not take action against the people who make far more intrusive and binding decisions about your daily life—the people in power and the people behind the power.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Sophie interrupted, ‘you can’t possibly be equating the decisions made by governments, businesses or international organisations with your lurid sexual propositions. That’s a fallacious argument if ever I heard one. The government here is elected by the people, to serve the people. The prime minister doesn’t go around the country propositioning innocent young women to have sex with him!’

  Al-Ajnabi laughed. Finally the clouds lifted from his face.

  ‘My fault, I don’t think I’m making myself clear. Allow me to give some examples: When you finish here at Oxford, you will hope to get some job interviews, yes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And I believe that journalism is the career you wish to follow?’

  Again, Sophie nodded.

  ‘Maybe you will follow your friend Mr Chapman into the Guardian?’

  Sophie shrugged,

  ‘That would be fantastic, but it will be very hard. I might have to start outside print journalism; it’s a declining market.’

  He nodded dismissively and carried on.

  ‘Well, wherever you start in the world of journalism, there will be plenty to report in the coming years, stories that will shock and change the world, your world too, long before you reach my age.’

  His look was intense and he seemed animated again.

  ‘Maybe,’ Sophie shrugged. ‘But are you claiming you can read the future?’

  ‘I don’t need to, Sophie,’ he all but whispered. ‘I have travelled far. I know where the fault lines are weakest and the earthquakes are set to explode. I can even take you there.’

  ‘Where?’ she whispered, as if she about to follow a ghoul.

  ‘I will take you to Generals in Ethiopia and Egypt who are about to fight a war over the water in the river Nile. Their populations have grown so large there is no longer enough water to share. I will take you across the capitals of the Middle East, from Tunis to Cairo and from Amman to Baghdad, where the swollen masses of jobless youngsters and destitute are just one price rise away from revolutions that will unleash levels of barbarism unheard of even in Syria and Iraq. I will introduce you to so called friends of mine, sheikhs from Saudi Arabia and the Emirates, who have bought up nearly all the fertile agricultural land in sub-Saharan Africa as food security for the desperate times ahead. I will take you to Bangladesh, where more than two hundred million people live in homes that will shortly be lost to the waves. Do you think they will just sit there and drown? How will the imminent arrival of two hundred million refugees go down in Brussels? Do the people of Europe have two hundred million council house waiting for them?’

  Sophie shook her head, warming to the argument.

  ‘And will we see the four horse riders of the apocalypse in the sky above us,’ she scoffed. ‘These are extreme and exaggerated claims, even by your own standards, Omar.’

  ‘These are the predictions of your own scientists and the finest minds in the world.’

  Sophie shifted awkwardly in her chair. The debate was enjoyable, much like being in a tutorial, and though she remained utterly unconvinced of his claims, she felt strangely at a loss for her next riposte.

  ‘History never works in such extreme ways. And I’m sure that you will find that the truth is likely to be far less extreme. For a start, the debate on world population growth is far from a over. There are some studies that show the world’s population peaking and even starting to decline after 2050. As for climate change, yes, we all know it is happening and governments and agencies around the world are planning for it.’

  Omar shot forward in his chair so quickly, for a second she thought he was going to slap her. But instead, he took the crystal from her hand, deposited it on the latticed coffee table and grasped her hands in his own. He pulled both her palms gently towards him, then folded them out and upwards, staring down at the central creases as if he were a gifted palmist.

  ‘What if I told you,’ he almost whispered ‘that no meaningful action will ever be taken, for every politician knows that election to government will be impossible on the harsh agenda of action needed to save us from ourselves.’

  ‘If such dire action is really necessary, then it’s up to a brave politician to convince us at the ballot box. That is the price of freedom.’

  ‘Ah, freedom!’ Al-Ajnabi smiled coldly, letting go of her hands as if they were covered in poison. ‘A word I like to hear. And often! Like the freedom you get when democratic government after government either abnegates its authority, or willingly colludes with the corporate profit ethic to form a virulent brand of runaway capitalism that is a slave to the global free markets and a purveyor of death by syrup. Yes, then you are free to watch them destroy the lakes, rivers, oceans and forests, pollute your air, your water, your food, downsize your jobs and your pay, threaten the very future of life on this planet. And why do they do it? Because they can! Because the masses underneath them have prostituted themselves to their masters’ greed in the hope of gaining a few unwanted cast-offs from the rich man’s table. And has their runaway consumerism really made anyone any happier? What will the planet look like when ten billion humans have felled every tree in the Amazon and the Congo and processed them into furniture, have fished the last tuna fish bleached-coral ocean, drunk every river dry and unleashed Armageddon over the resources they have collectively plundered?’

  He had become animated again, just as he always did when talking politics. Sophie was confused and wary.

  ‘I’m sorry, Omar. I can’t follow your logic at all and I don’t see how all this political theorizing changes anything. What good do you think it will do you?’

  The smile was vampiric again; she shuddered deep down to see its return.

  ‘Because either way, you see, Sophie, I win: If you choose to accept, I get to gratify my physical desire; and if you refuse…,’ his voice trailed off and he swigged the last of his whisky.

  ‘Yes?’

  “Then you are one of us. Then you are one of the very, very few who do not believe that might should be right, that the rich and powerful should treat the world, its people and its resources as their personal playthings.’

  In her confusion Sophie was slow to realise that he might be paying her some backhanded compliment.

  ‘And who are ‘us’?’ she asked sharply. ‘Is that why you entertain the likes of Mr Hennessy here?’

  He laughed, good-naturedly for once, and got to his feet.

  ‘I think I have tormented you enough for one night, Sophie. Please, take your time to consider my offer, and I urge you to consider it very carefully. Do not be swayed by what others might think, or even by what I have said. Do what is right for you. Either way, your choice will intrigue me. But for the time being, I wish you a good night.’

  As he made for the door, Sophie hit upon one last, desperate gamble to outmanoeuvre the vampire. Instinct told her that he did not really want her to accept.

  ‘So,’ she sighed ph
legmatically. ‘I suppose you’ll have the title deeds made over? And five years’ worth of cash? Or do you just expect me to take your word for your side of the bargain?’

  Al-Ajnabi turned in the doorway. As she had hoped, Sophie could feel his astonishment.

  ‘You wish to accept?’

  ‘Of course! And I’ll tell you why, Omar: because I don’t believe you want to do it any more than I do, and I’m going to make you take back everything you have just said.’

  He paused for a while, as if were about to change his mind. But then the menacing smile returned.

  ‘As you wish, Sophie. I will instruct Hasan to have a lawyer take care of the deeds and the money…and…I always enjoy a challenge!’ he added, closing the door behind.

  Chapter 16: South Bank, London: October 19: 8:00 a.m.

  Clayton arrived bleary-eyed in the office long before any of the non-duty officers. The residual alcohol from the overnight Hong Kong flight did not help to improve his mood. He had to make his own coffee, too. God, in any half-decent developing country there’d be a local chappie employed just to do that; and if one were really lucky, the ‘chappie’ would turn out to be some sexy, dusky young thing, too, who turned the odd trick or two to supplement her pitiful stipend. God, how he hated being back in England! The drab monotony, the unrelieved sameness of it all: retail centre after retail centre; phalanxes of Ford Focuses and white vans on permanent motorway patrol to gunge up the gaps on M25 or the M6; reality TV, chicken jalfrezi and a four-pack of lager on a Saturday night; car boot sale in a muddy field littered with burger wrappers and discarded cans of Red Bull on a Sunday morning. Meanwhile even his own job was threatened by the budget-slashers in government. What was needed was a new enemy that was more novel and alluring than a violent but pathetically disjointed Al-Qaeeda or IS for attracting government funding. And Clayton thought he just might have found one.

  He checked his watch: just gone eight o’clock. There was a good chance that Graham Knox would be in his office already over at MI5. Clayton rustled in his desk for the number and picked up the phone.

  Knox, Clayton had to admit, was a good man dogged by a nervous cough that a consumptive would have been proud of.

  ‘Morning, Graham, surprised to find you still answer your phone. Thought you lot spent all day snooping on the internet these days.’

  ‘Good morning, Max. How the devil are you?’ Cough. Nervous giggle. ‘Heard you’d been away…Oh, the Far East—very exotic!’ Scrape of throat.

  Clayton cut short on the travel details and told Knox as much as he thought the deputy director of M15 needed to know about Mr Hasan and the Ramli special envoy in Oxford. As they got down to business, the coughs turned to more infrequent throat clearances.

  ‘Ramlis, eh?’ said Knox dubiously. ‘The same ones bringing all the arms contracts in? Sounds doubtful to me; it won’t go down well upstairs either, Max. Now if it were Iranians, I could quite understand.’

  Clayton didn’t mind the hesitancy. He would sooner that than feverish excitement. The last thing he wanted was a thunder-stealer with a ticklish throat.

  ‘I’m not asking for anything official, Graham, more a personal favour. Wondered if you could divert a couple of your lot to Oxford for a few days—you know, checking up on a dodgy fundamentalist house that happens to be next door to the Ramli special envoy’s residence. Very low-key stuff; you know the drill—comings and goings, visitors, that sort of thing.’

  Knox was still doubtful. The uncertainty upgraded the throat splutters to fully-fledged coughing bouts.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, Max.’ Cough. ‘But you know how it is these days; everything has to be tightly accounted for. Give me a couple of hours. I’ll let you know this afternoon if I can arrange anything.’

  ‘There is one more thing, Graham. I’ll text you a photo I’d like your lot to run through your files. Maybe it’ll be a face you know. My lot are doing the same.’

  Knox grunted and Clayton texted a JPEG of the print of the unidentified Westerner that Eitan had given him in Cairo. The faces in the rest of his portfolio he would withhold till later—no need to let Knox know any more than strictly necessary.

  ‘OK, Max, I’ve got it,’ Knox replied after a lengthy pause and a hurried cough. ‘I’ll give you the results when I call you later.’

  Oh, one last thing,’ Clayton blurted out just in time. ‘Tell your team to get me a photo of the Ramli special envoy. Nothing kinky. Just a plain mug shot will do.’

  Gritty grunt. ‘OK, Max. I’ll pass the message on.’

  Clayton put the phone down and thought about how much he would tell McPherson. Best not to get the foreign secretary too excited too soon. After all, there was still no positive link connecting the mysterious Prince Al-Ajnabi to any of the faces in the rogues' gallery Eitan had furnished. It would be wise to play down the significance of his findings for the time being, while he waited for news from Knox.

  Al-Ajnabi? The name reminded Clayton of something that made his eyes go hazy, looking out over the grey Thames towards Westminster. In Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, he had all but put from his mind the thoughts that had so irrationally troubled him in Cairo. Now they returned with airsick hangovers. Did he really want to go into all that business again? He watched a barge drift down the river while he chewed on the question. The sight of it reminded him of the opening of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and that made him even grumpier, gave him the extra impetus to get his teeth stuck in to Prince Al-Ajnabi.

  He swiped at the phone as if it had been jeering at his doubt and uncertainty.

  ‘Williamson? Oh, OK, you’ll do, Houghton. Google me a number in South Africa—company called Critical Interference, head office Johannesburg. Ring back when you’ve got it.’

  ****

  Central London: 9:00 a.m.

  Douglas Easterby was relieved to open the letter Amanda handed to him in the morning post, bearing the ornate markings of the Royal Embassy of Ramliyya. A dinner invitation. Well, well, about time!

  There had been a lengthy silence since Dr Al-Badawi had visited his office on the 3rd. Fair enough, the BDS bad boys in Ramliyya had not yet been weeded out, but with all the fanfare over the Ramlis’ lavish spending habits in Britain, Easterby had been hoping that Al-Badawi would want to settle the preliminaries of the additional contracts without delay. It was surely only a matter of time before Goss sent a couple of sacrificial lambs to appease the Ramli sensitivities and bless the new contracts.

  Easterby pulled out the invitation and looked at the details. To his surprise, it was not from Dr Al-Badawi but the special envoy himself—the man whose name had been in the papers recently. That was more like it! The heavy, gilded paper carried the imprimatur and promise of inexhaustible currency.

  Admiring the intricate calligraphy, Easterby studied the signature at the bottom. This Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi was not someone that any of his chaps at BDS could recall seeing, though Allard, an old Ramli hand now attached to head office, had mentioned the fellow’s name a couple of times. Something of a recluse. Well, so much the better.

  Easterby looked again at the details. Oxford, eh? Bit of a fortuitous coincidence. Might as well go up on Wednesday afternoon and pay Marcus a surprise visit. Meanwhile, he rang down to Amanda and asked her to cancel his normal Wednesday evening booking at the Savoy.

  ****

  South Bank, London 1:00 p.m.

  The telephone rang; Clayton put down broke away from the monotony of his emails and took it.

  Cough. ‘Good and bad news for you, Max. Good first: there’s a two-man, or two-person, rather, (nervous giggle) surveillance team watching your Ramli’s Oxford mansion right now. Bad news on the photo, though. My lot haven’t been able to match your fellow to anything on our files, but I’ll try with Special Branch if you like.’

  ‘Hang on, Graham. I don’t want to get Special Branch involved right now. Just let me know if you get anything interesting from Oxford.’

  Clayton rod
e some more uncertain coughs and rang off. There was one more call to make.

  ‘Any luck with that number, Houghton?’

  ‘No, sir. Not on Google. Couldn’t get hold of it anywhere. In the end, I spoke to Johannesburg Section. According to them, Critical Interference went out of business at least five years ago.’

  ‘And Johannesburg doesn’t have any more than that? No contact names on file?’

  ‘Nothing immediately available, Sir. Shall I have them check it out?’

  The reply took a long time in coming.

  ‘No, don’t you bother, Houghton,’ Clayton sighed. ‘Maybe I’ll follow this one up myself.’

  There was no point in getting carried away with fantasy. If Knox’s team did their work properly, the identity of the enigmatic Mr Al-Ajnabi would be settled soon enough; and with such closure Clayton knew that he could finally bury a ghost that had irrationally slipped from its grave to haunt his subconscious in Cairo.

  Chapter 17: Oxford, October 20, 9:30 a.m.

  A blustery autumnal shower sent the last withered horse chestnut leaves cascading onto Dave Cohen’s expensive raincoat. He was hurrying across the University Parks, walking towards the Nuffield Institute. Well-groomed and fastidious in appearance, Cohen was several showers and a Kenzo suit away from the computer nerd of popular mythology. The morning walk was a daily fad he indulged despite the myriad risks of physical contamination that could ruin the venture: an unnoticed dog turd; an impromptu shower to sully his unprotected, sculptured hair; an inadvertent collision with a sweaty jogger.

  Cohen had been back at Oxford for a year, a city he had left too many years ago with a poor history degree. But this time round, things were very different. Receiving a fantastic grant, funded partly by an anonymous government department, partly by a computer giant, he was able to afford the lifestyle he had missed as a student. There were lavish opera nights in London, meals and drinks for friends in Oxford’s trendiest cocktail bars and restaurants, all at his expense. A large mortgage on a period house in Jericho completed the transition.