“How many peasants like me get invited to Kassouli’s house?”
“Lots of people.”
“I can prove you flew me over here!”
“Your ticket was paid for in cash. If necessary we’ll say that you met me in Devon and followed me here because you were besotted by my beauty. You wouldn’t be the first guy to bug me like that.” She grinned. “I’m empowered to increase the offer to four hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand in cash when you agree, and the rest after completion. Payable in any tax haven and in any currency you like.”
“I’m not helping you. When I get back to England I’m moving Sycorax to a hiding place. Somewhere a long way from Bannister and a long way from you.”
She ignored me. “I’ll be over in England soon, Nick. I’ll get in touch, OK?”
“You won’t find me.”
She touched my forearm. “Don’t be a pain, Nick. Chivalry died with Nadeznha. Stay with Bannister, say you’ll navigate his boat, and buy yourself a calculator that goes up to four hundred big ones.” She picked up the menu again. “You want to eat?” I shook my head.
“OK.” She slid off the stool, her new drink untouched. “I’ll see you soon, Nick, and I’ll have one hundred thousand dollars cash with me. If you’re not there, then kiss a lot of British jobs goodbye.
Safe home.”
I turned as she reached the door. “Why me, Jill-Beth?” She paused. “Because you’re there, Nick. Because you’re there.” She smiled, blew me a kiss, and went.
I felt like a frog that had sought out the princess, been kissed, but stayed a frog all the same. In short, I felt damned foolish. And up to my neck in trouble.
The Honourable John Makyns, MP, pretended that he was not embarrassed by lunching with his wife’s cast-off husband, but I noted how he had chosen one of the West End’s less prestigious clubs for our meeting. “I thought you were a member of Whites?” I teased him.
“The food can be better here,” he lied smoothly, then waved his fish knife towards the trompe l’oeil ceiling. “And it’s an amusing place, don’t you think?”
“Side-splitting. Is Melissa well?”
“Very well, thank you.” He paused. “I probably won’t mention to her that we’ve lunched.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t either.”
He gave me a quick smile of thanks. “Not that she dislikes you, Nick. You mustn’t think that.”
“But she might think we were swopping dirty secrets?”
“Something like that, I suppose.” He seemed rather sombre, but perhaps that was understandable. It isn’t every day that you’re telephoned from Heathrow to be told that a major foreign industrialist is declaring economic war against your country. The Honourable John broke off a piece of an over-baked bread roll that he thickly smeared with butter. “How was America?”
“Hot, shining, busy.”
“Quite. It is like that, isn’t it?” He fussed over the choice of wine and recommended the lamb to me. I ordered it, then listened as he told me a long and disjointed story about his mother’s kitchen garden and the problems of finding craftsmen who could repair Tudor brickwork. He was avoiding the subject, which was Yassir Kassouli.
He’d tried to ignore the subject on the telephone, but as soon as I threatened to call the Fleet Street newspapers he had hastened to suggest this luncheon. He was still evasive, though, asking about Devon, the weather in America, my health and my opinion of the lamb.
“I’ve tasted better out of cat-food tins.”
“They’re rather proud of their lamb here.” He was hurt.
“Tell me about Kassouli.” I decided to cut through to the reason for our meeting.
“Ah.” The Honourable John speared a piece of meat with his fork and energetically sawed at the gristle with his knife. “Kassouli did approach HMG. Not officially, of course. As a private citizen of a foreign state, Kassouli has no diplomatic standing, you understand?”
“But he’s rich, so Her Majesty’s Government listened?” He frowned at my crudity, but nodded. “We like to be accommodating to influential foreigners. Why shouldn’t we be?”
“Indeed.”
He was still frowning. “But we really could not help him.”
“What did he want?”
The Honourable John shrugged. “I think he wanted us to put Bannister on trial, but there really was no cause, nor justification, nor reason.”
“A dead girl?” I suggested.
He shook his head. “An incident happened on the high seas, beyond the limits of our or anyone else’s sovereignty. Agreed that the boat is British registered, which is why there was a British inquest, but the coroner’s findings were quite clear. It was an accident.”
“Couldn’t you have given Kassouli another inquest? Just to satisfy him?”
“There was no legal reason for doing so. There would have had to be fresh evidence, and there was none.”
“There was a rumour,” I said, “that lies were told at the inquest.
I hear Bannister was on deck when Nadeznha died, not Mulder.”
“As you say,” John said delicately, “a rumour. Insufficient, alas, to initiate new proceedings.”
“But it was explored?” I persisted.
“I really couldn’t say.”
Which meant that the Government had toyed with the idea of re-opening the inquest, but had sheered away for lack of real evidence.
“So Kassouli’s been threatening you?” I accused John.
He gave a tiny and frosty smile. “One does not threaten HMG.”
“He told me he’d pull all his jobs out of Britain, then follow it with his investments, and then persuade all his rich pals to do the same thing. That won’t look good on the unemployment figures.” The Honourable John concentrated on chewing, but finally decided he would have to reveal something from his side of the table. “You aren’t the first person to bring us this message, Nick. A Kassouli embargo on Britain?” He frowned as he drew from his meat a length of string which he fussily placed at the side of his plate. “I do trust, Nick, that you won’t be telling any of this to the newspapers? HMG
wouldn’t like that.”
I ignored that. “Could Kassouli hurt us?”
The Honourable John leaned back and stared at the painted ceiling for a few seconds, then jerked his head forward. “Not as much as he thinks. But he could embarrass us, yes. And he could damage confidence at a time when we’re working hard to attract foreign investment.”
“How bad would the damage be?”
“We’d survive.” He said it without much fervour. “The longer-term damage would be to unemployment. If all Kassouli’s jobs went to Germany or Ireland or Spain, we’d never see them again. And most of them are in just the kind of sunrise industry we need to encourage.”
“So he could hurt us?” I insisted.
“Embarrass,” he insisted.
“So what do I do?”
The Honourable John grimaced with a politician’s dislike of a direct question which needed a straight answer. “I really can’t say,” he said primly. “I’m merely a humble back-bencher, am I not?”
“For Christ’s sake, John. You’ve been briefed on this! Just as soon as I telephoned you trotted round to the Department of Industry or whatever honey-pot has got the problem and told them what I told you!”
“I might have mentioned it to the Permanent Secretary,” he allowed cautiously. The real truth was that HMG had moved with the speed of a scalded cat; partly because they were terrified of Kassouli, and even more terrified that I’d spill the whole rotting can of worms into Fleet Street’s lap.
“So what do I do?” I insisted.
He swirled the white wine around in his glass, trying to look judicious. “What do you feel is best, Nick?”