Jon Grimwood - Effendi

“Soon,” said Raf, “you’ll be telling me you didn’t know Abad still existed . . . Or where he was hidden.”

“We didn’t.” St. Cloud shrugged. “At least not officially, and that’s what counts. Mind you,” he added, “we certainly intend to be part of trying the monster.”

“Assuming it can be tried,” said a voice. But the fox’s comment was lost, because somewhere across the other side of the Long Drawing Room Hamzah nodded to Avatar, who hammered a whisky glass down on a wooden overmantel.

“Your Highness, gentlemen, ladies . . .” Hamzah should have got an Excellencies in there after Highness, but having had a speech carefully prepared by Olga he’d decided at the last minute to do without notes.

He knew exactly what he wanted to say.

This was payback time, in its way. He had a roomful of notables, most of whom didn’t want to be there but knew better than to refuse. Twenty-seven-point-three percent of the Midas Refinery belonged to him, which was why St. Cloud, its urbane public face, joked uneasily at the edge of a group that included Ashraf Bey and that young German.

St. Mark’s relied on Hamzah’s generosity for its recent scholarships. He could see the headmaster across the room, a drab Christian Brother wrapped in dirt-coloured tweeds. The city’s famous library still needed new glass, somewhat urgently after the recent bouts of rain. Madame Syria was smiling fondly at Hani, but she’d been less happy earlier, when she’d been talking to Zara about the library’s need to find finance for repairs.

The two thickset men in suits, standing over by the door, headed up the Kharmous and El Anfushi crime families and were both doing their uncertain best to look happy at finding themselves in the same room as Mushin Bey, Minister of Police.

“Your Highness, Excellencies, ladies and gentlemen . . .” Hamzah draped one arm heavily around Avatar’s narrow shoulders. “I don’t think any of you have been formally introduced to my son Kamil.”

“Avatar,” insisted Avatar, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

On the other side of the boy stood Madame Rahina, her face dark as thunder, her arms heavy with new and unwanted gold bracelets. And it was obvious that Hamzah was as oblivious to his wife’s smouldering anger as he was to the tears running down his own broad cheeks.

“Very clever.” Senator Liz handed Raf a fresh glass of champagne and instantly a waiter materialized to spirit away his dirty glass, depositing it on a passing silver salver. Both waiter and salver-carrier were models of professionalism, right down to the shoulder-holstered guns under their left arms. Hamzah might be everyone’s favourite son but he was still taking no chances.

“What was clever?” Raf asked.

“Taking the Colonel into protective custody.” The Senator’s smile was tight. “Can a synthetic intelligence be tried for crimes against humanity?” She shrugged. “Thanks to you, I think we’re probably about to find out.”

“Only if it’s first possible for software to be extradited . . .” Raf said lightly.

The woman opened her mouth and forgot to close it.

“And that’s always assuming the Khedive accepts the extradition papers. Which he probably won’t.”

“What?”

“Colonel Abad has asked for political asylum.”

“On what grounds?”

“That it won’t get a fair trial elsewhere.”

“Then try the thing in El Iskandryia,” said the Senator. “I don’t see that being a problem. If you can stand having the reptiles crawl all over you again.” She glanced at C3N’s Nick Richardson, accidentally caught his eye and immediately smiled.

“I hear you’re going to put Colonel Abad on trial,” St. Cloud said, about five minutes later, when he tracked Raf down to a window seat overlooking the grey waters of the Mediterranean. “If Paris can be of any help . . .”

Raf shook his head. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” said Raf, taking another sip from one glass too many. “As sure as anything.”

“Such certainty in one so youthful.” The Marquis shrugged. “The sign of true breeding. And yet, a German recently suggested to me that you were a fake and that, for undisclosed reasons, Koenig Pasha has been colluding in this pretence.”

“Really?” said Raf. “I’d love to meet this person.”

“That might be difficult. She died in the basement of a derelict house. After someone took out her throat.”

“Which is what happens,” said the fox, “if you build your city on top of a graveyard. The dead forget to stay dead.”

Raf raised his glass to his lips and wondered why St. Cloud was looking at him, then realized the glass was empty, again.

People nearby looked surprised when the fox made Raf click his fingers but the fox was too tired to care. It needed more champagne and then some sleep. A long dark sleep with no dreams. But most of all it wanted this party to end before Hamzah got round to making more speeches.

It just knew Raf was going to offend the man.

“She was right,” Raf told the Marquis, once both their drinks were refreshed and a nervous young waiter had vanished. “Your woman got it right. I’m not a bey. I don’t belong in El Iskandryia. My name isn’t Ashraf al-Mansur . . .”

He watched the man walk away.

“I doubt I’m even Berber,” Raf added quietly, to no one in particular. “Hani probably isn’t my niece.” He glanced across to where the small girl stood next to Zara, half-listening to someone, half-staring at Raf. “Maybe I’m just someone who got lucky . . .”

“Uncle Ashraf.”

Everyone in the room was looking in his direction, Raf realized. Hamzah, in particular, was waiting expectantly for something.

“He wasn’t listening,” said Hani. She sounded obscurely proud of this fact. “He was probably talking to his fox.”

“His what . . . ?” Zara sounded puzzled.

“It’s a long story,” Hani told her. “Weird too.”

“Well,” said Zara. “Are you going to take Dad’s money this time?”

“Your reward.” Hamzah’s grin had become slightly anxious.

“No,” said Raf. “I really don’t think . . .”

What stopped him finishing his sentence was the anguish that flooded Zara’s face when she realized he was about to hurt her father’s feelings again.

“The thing is . . .” Raf paused.

“Oh really!” said the fox. “The thing is what?”

“The thing is,” said Raf carefully, “my niece needs a dowry. And since she can’t hold property for herself . . .” He didn’t make Iskandryia’s laws and pretty soon he was going to stop trying to uphold them. “I thought perhaps His Highness and Hamzah Effendi . . . As trustees?”

Tewfik Pasha looked shocked, then resigned, Hamzah looked delighted.

“You want all the reward to go to Hani?” It was Zara who spoke.

Raf nodded and saw St. Cloud shake his head in disbelief.

“It’s a large sum.” Koenig Pasha sounded doubtful.

“Good,” said Raf. “Maybe it’ll be enough to keep her out of trouble.”

Hani stuck out her tongue.

Later, when everyone had gone back to talking to each other, mostly about Hani’s fabulous newfound wealth, St. Cloud reappeared at Raf’s side. “Well,” he said, “you won’t take my bribe and you won’t take Hamzah’s . . . That either makes you unbelievably stupid or even more dangerous than I imagined.”

“I’ll settle for a drink,” offered Raf.

“And I’d get you one,” St. Cloud said, “but your pretty little girlfriend thinks you’ve had enough.”

“She’s right,” a familiar voice said in his head, but Raf shushed the fox into silence. There was something about St. Cloud that required absolute concentration.