at himself.
"You look absolutely scrumptious," he told her, and meant it.
"Thank you, sir," she laughed back at him, "and you look very dashing
yourself May I take your arm?"
"I was hoping to carry you. Addictive activity."
"Those days are over," she told him, and brandished the carved ebony
walking-stick with which the butler had provided her. She used it on her
bad side. As they started down the long corridor, she asked in a
whisper, "What is the name of our host?"
"Her Britannic Majesty's Ambassador, Sir Oliver Bradford KCMG."
"Which stands for Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George,
right?" she asked.
"No," he corrected her, "it stands for Kindly Call Me God."
"You are impossible!" She giggled, and then became serious. "Did you
manage to send-the fax to Mrs. Street?"
"It went through at the first attempt and she acknowledged. Sends you
her salaams, and promises to have some information about Pegasus double
pronto." It was a mild evening and Sir Oliver was waiting to greet them
on the veranda. Geoffrey hurried forward to make the introductions. The
Ambassadot-bad a bush of white hair and a red face. Geoffrey had warned
them about him and his view on troublesome tourists, but his hostile
frown started to fade as soon as he laid eyes on Royan.
There were a dozen other guests for dinner apart from Geoffrey and
Sylvia Tennant, and Sir Oliver took Royan's arm and led her around the
group introducing her. Nicholas trailed along behind them, resigned by
now to the fact that Royan had that effect on most men.
"May I present General Obeid, the Commissioner of Police," Sir Oliver
said. The head of the Ethiopian police force was tall and very
dark-complexioned, suave and elegant in his blue mess uniform. He bowed
over Royan's hand.
believe that we have an appointment to meet tomorrow morning. I look
forward to that with the keenest pleasure."
Royan glanced at Sir Oliver uncertainly. She had been told nothing of
this.
"General Obeid wants to know from you and Sir Nichola a little more
about this business in, the Abbay gorge," Sir Oliver explained. "I took
the liberty of having my secretary make the appointment."
"Just a routine interview, I assure you both, Dr Al Simma and Sir
Nicholas. I will take up very little of your time, I promise you that."
"Of course we will do everything that we can to assist you" Nicholas
told him politely. "What time are we coming to see you?"
"I believe we are meeting at eleven in the morning, if that suits you."
"A most civilized hour,'Nicholas agreed.
"My driver will pick you up at ten-thirty, and take you down to police
headquarters," Sir Oliver promised.
At the dinner table Royan was seated between Sir Oliver and General
Obeid. She was pretty and charming, and both men were attentive.
Nicholas realized that he would have to become accustomed to sharing her
company with other men; he had had her to himself for much too long.
For his own part, Nicholas found Lady Bradford at the other end of the
table rather heavy-going. She was a second wife, thirty years younger
than her husband, with a pronounced London accent and an even more
pronounced common streak, with a mane of dyed blonde hair and an
improbable bust which overflowed her sequined cleavage.
An old man's folly, Nicholas concluded. It appeared that she had made
herself an expert on the genealogy of the English aristocracy - in other
words she was an arrant snob.
She questioned him closely on his antecedents, insisting on going back
several generations.
In the end she called to her husband down the table, "Sir Nicholas owns
Quenton Park. Did you know that, dear?" And then she turned back to
Nicholas. "My husband is a very keen shot."
Sir Oliver looked suitably impressed by his wife's intelligence.
"Quenton Park, hey? I read an article in the Shooting Times the other
day. You have a drive there called the "High Beeches". Is that right?"
"The "High Larches",'Nicholas corrected him.
"Some of the best birds in Britain. That's what they said," Sir Oliver
enthused, looking eager and expectant.
"I don't know about that,'Nicholas protested modestly.
"But we are rather proud of them. You must come and have a shot at them
next time you are home - as my guest, Of course."
From that moment Sir Oliver's attitude towards Nicholas altered
dramatically. He became affable and solicitous, even going so far as to
send the butler to fetch a bottle of the 1954 Lafite.
"You have made a good impression," Geoffrey murmured wryly. "HE doesn't
waste the 1954 on anybody but the chosen few."
It was after midnight when Nicholas was at last able to escape from his
hostess and rescue Royan from Sir Oliver and General Obeid. He led her
away, supporting her as she limped along fetchingly at his side,
avoiding Geoffrey Tennant's knowing and speculative gaze until they had
negotiated the first landing of the staircase.
"Well, you were definitely the star of the evening," he told her.
"You had Lady Bradford purring like a cat," she counterattacked, and he
was delighted to hear the faint tone of possessive jealousy in her
voice. He had not been the only one.
At her door she solved any problems by offering him her cheek, and he
kissed it chastely.
"Those bosoms!" she murmured. "Don't have nightmares about them." And
she closed the door behind her.
He felt quite jaunty as he went to his own room, but as he opened the
door he saw the envelope lying at the threshold. During dinner, one of
the servants must have pushed it under the door. Quickly he tore open
the flap of the envelope and unfolded the pages that it contained. His
expression changed as he scanned through them, and he left the bedroom
and went back to tap on Royan's door.
After a moment she opened it a crack, and peeped out at him. He saw the
confusion in her eyes, and he hurried to allay her suspicions.
"Reply to my fax." He showed her the sheaf of papers.
"Are you decent?"
"One moment." She closed the door, and opened it again only seconds
later. "Come in, she said.
She indicated the decanter on the cabinet. "Would you like a nightcap?"
"I think I need one. We know who runs Pegasus now."
"Tell me!" she ordered, but he took his time pouring a Scotch, and then
smiled at her over his shoulder. "How about a soda water for you?"
"Damn you, Nicholas Quenton-Harper." She stamped her stockinged foot.
"Don't you dare torment me. Who is it?, "When I first met you, you were
a dutiful little Arab girl. One who realized the superiority of the mate
species.
Listen to you now. I think I have spoiled you."
"I think I should warn you that you are flirting with disaster." She
tried to suppress her smile. "Tell me, please, Nicky."
"Sit down," he ordered, and took the armchair facing her. He unfolded
the fax and then looked up at her. "Mrs. Street has worked fast. In my
fax, I suggested that she rang my stockbroker in the city. We are three
hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time, so it seems that she must have
caught him before he left his office. Anyway, she has all the