Jon Grimwood - Effendi

Hamzah shrugged.

“Only, I didn’t, because that wasn’t what Colonel Abad wanted.”

“What the Colonel wanted?” Raf raised his eyebrows. “What happened to Colonel Abad . . . ?”

“Koenig Pasha stole him.”

That was the point Raf turned off the police-issue recorder, thought about his options for all of thirty seconds and hitDELETE /ALL/CONFIRM.

It took another brandy and the rest of that Sunday morning for Raf to get from Hamzah a collection of facts that the drink-sodden industrialist thought obvious. Chief among them was that the Arab-speaking, Ottoman-appointed liaison officer aboard the USS Richmond had been a certain Major Koenig Bey.

So impressed was he by the boy’s tragedy that he insisted on finding a children’s home for the boy and personally escorting him to El Iskandryia, cracked radio, spectacles and all.

“And Sarah,” asked Raf, “you ever find out what happened to her?”

“Oh yes,” said Hamzah. “She died.”

“You eventually traced her records then?”

“No,” said Hamzah. “But her daughter found me . . .” he added bleakly. “Avatar’s mother.”

“I thought Avatar was your son?” Raf said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Hamzah nodded. “That too.”

Hamzah Effendi came down the precinct steps into a storm of flashguns. Behind him walked Raf with one hand heavy on the industrialist’s shoulder. In that gesture was ownership and authority. That was what the cameras were meant to catch and that was what they reported, streaming the Monday evening press conference live to newsfeeds around the world.

Behind Raf came his bodyguards. And to one side of the front steps, watching them intently, stood Zara, her face a mask of misery.

“Excellency . . .”

Raf spotted the questioner in the middle of the scrum and nodded. “In the red, blonde hair . . .”

“Claire duBois, Television 5. Is Hamzah Effendi under arrest?”

“He has put himself into police custody.”

“Yes, but . . .” The rest of her reply got drowned beneath a wave of competing questions. So Raf waited for the storm to still and pointed to a man from C3N.

“Nick Richardson, C3N. Do you expect to allow Hamzah’s extradition?”

“As you unquestionably know,” said Raf, looking round at the cameras, “PaxForce has issued a warrant for Hamzah Effendi’s arrest on the charge of crimes against humanity . . .” Out of the corner of his eye, Raf spotted the limousine used by Senator Liz slide itself into a parking bay reserved for the Minister of Police.

“Excellency?”

“Wait.” One by one the Ishies and journalists turned to see what His Excellency was watching. Which was why most of the newsfeeds ended up featuring the face of Senator Liz Elsing when the first bomb exploded.

It was nothing spectacular, just a rattling crump and a burst of static that drizzled snow across a dozen different camera screens.

“What was that?” The accent was English, the speaker a crookbacked little man with bad hair and worse dress sense.

Raf shrugged. “Sword of God, I imagine.” His gaze as it took in the journalists was cool, almost amused. He smiled sourly and flicked blond hair back from the shades he wore to keep flashguns at bay. “This is Iskandryia, bombs happen . . .”

“What about the extradition?” The man from C3N refused to let go of his question.

“What about it . . . ?”

Raf was being watched by the Senator, who was being watched by about a third of the press corps, mostly those from American channels. All of them looked anxious, torn between chasing down the distant bomb and sticking with the news happening in front of them.

“You accept the need for a trial?”

“If a Grand Jury so decides,” said Raf.

“And where would this trial be, if the Grand Jury so decides . . .” The speaker was Austrian, the humour heavy.

“Iskandryia,” said Raf. “However, I will not be a judge.” He paused to let them consider that. “And the rules of evidence will be those used by The Hague.”

“And the judges?”

“Three,” Raf said. “French, German, and American . . .” He was selecting the nationalities as he went along. Raf wondered if any of them realized that. And if the Grand Jury did decide Hamzah had a case to answer, then they’d automatically become his judges. Though Raf didn’t think he’d mention that fact just then.

“Excuse me . . .” Raf touched his earbead and took a call, nodding rapidly. “I have to go,” he told the crowd. “My men have found a second bomb outside a children’s home in Karmous.” Pushing Hamzah slightly, Raf steered the industrialist towards the waiting Bentley and saw the man from C3N materialize beside him, persistent as a shadow.

“Will you be acting as prosecutor?”

Raf turned back and smiled in admiration. There was a lot to recommend sheer bloody-mindedness when it came to a job. “No,” he said. “One of the judges will be chosen as prosecuting judge. And I won’t be acting for the defence either . . . She will.” Raf jerked his thumb backward and heard Zara gasp.

Which was around the point the second EMP bomb exploded, followed by a third and a fourth, so those watching newsfeeds in other countries never knew if Zara’s shock was at being named defender or the fact that El Iskandryia had begun to shut down around her.

“Boss.” Bodyguards closed in on both sides, obviously anxious but still functioning. “We’ve got to get you back inside.”

Overhead, bright stars blossomed between clouds as the lights of the city began to flicker, its sodium halo fading from orange through palest yellow to perfect night. Somewhere far distant a dog began to bark.

“I shouldn’t be here,” said Zara, “you know that . . .”

Here was Raf’s bedroom, with its domed roof and high windows, naked babies staring down from the painted ceiling and the air rich with the scent of orchids. A newly cut bunch stood in a Lalique vase beside the bed. Where Khartoum had found tiger orchids, Raf couldn’t begin to imagine. A smaller vase was thick with lilies and a silver bowl on his glass-topped dressing table contained potpourri. Neither flowers nor bowl had been there when they finally fell asleep.

But Raf’s smile was at the memory of warm skin and the smell of lapsang suchong, mixed with something citrus, labelled for an American/Japanese designer and bottled in Frankfurt. The tiny scent flask was on his dressing table along with the rest of Zara’s cosmetics. And, actually, that hadn’t been there either . . .

“Maybe I’m the one who should be somewhere else,” said Raf and Zara smiled, rolling over with a linen sheet tucked around her. The night before she’d had darkness to hide behind and only a candle flame to let them see each other. Now the sun streamed in through high windows, turning the white marble floor to a sheet of glistening ice, and the sea breeze tasted of iodine. Outside, the whole city was silent, with Rue Riyad Pasha devoid of cars. Or at least of cars that moved.

“Let it go,” said Raf, giving the sheet a small tug.

Zara shook her head.

“Please,” he said and so she did, at least partly. Letting him unwrap her shoulders to reveal full breasts and the start of a soft stomach. Her skin was honey, her nipples dark walnut. The rest she kept hidden, one hand holding her modesty in place.

“Marry me,” Raf said.

She pulled a face and grinned, but her smile died the second she realized Raf’s suggestion was serious. “Last night you wanted to have me arrested.”

“That was last night.”