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‘It won’t help your father,’ said the officer quietly, ‘and believe it or not, we’re all on his side.’

‘Will you be telling my father?’ asked Artemisia.

‘That’s way above my pay grade,’ said Wainwright, ‘so why don’t you go home? By the way, both your fathers would be proud of you.’

Robert burst into tears.

Artemisia took his hand and led him quietly out of the police station.

CHAPTER 15

WILLIAM TICKED OFF THE LASTof the dinner party guests as they left the Saudi Embassy. He checked his watch: just after eleven. Most of the protestors had also departed – nothing like a cold night and PC Rain to assist the police with their job. William decided to go home and find out if he still had a wife and children.

He was just about to tap Danny on the shoulder when a young man, no longer in a keffiyeh and thawb but wearing a casual sports jacket and an open-neck shirt, came out of the rear of the embassy. William recognized him immediately.

‘Time for some old-fashioned foot slogging,’ said William, who quickly jumped out of the car, making sure he didn’t lose sight of the Black Prince as he made his way along Curzon Street, past his favourite bookshop and on towards Park Lane.

Prince Ahmed kept a steady pace and never once looked back.

William wondered where he could be going at this time of night, unaccompanied by his usual hangers-on.

When the Prince reached Park Lane, he turned right and headed in the direction of Marble Arch, but had only covered another hundred yards before he reached the entrance to a hotel where the head porter bowed low and said, ‘Good evening your Royal Highness.’

William kept his distance and hung back before entering the Dorchester a few moments later, as if he were a guest. He remained out of sight as the manager escorted the Prince to the nearest lift.

William walked slowly across the lobby, his eyes fixed on the indicator above the lift that showed Ahmed was heading for the ninth floor. When the night manager returned a few minutes later, William was standing in the corridor waiting for him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’m responsible for the Prince’s security,’ said William, producing his warrant card. ‘It would be helpful for my team if we knew if His Royal Highness has retired for the night or has plans to go out again. I want to make sure he gets the best protection possible while he’s a guest of the British government.’

The manager looked suitably impressed. ‘All I can tell you, Chief Superintendent, is that His Royal Highness is expecting a guest in about twenty minutes’ time, and has no plans to go out that I’m aware of.’

‘Thank you,’ said William. ‘That’s most helpful. And I feel sure we can rely on your discretion.’

The night manager nodded before returning to the reception desk.

William was puzzled by who could possibly be visiting Prince Ahmed at that time of night. He assumed it had to be a young lady who charged by the hour. He hoped it wasn’t one in particular, because if it was, he would have no way of protecting her.

He allowed a policeman’s curiosity to get the better of him, walked back across the lobby and remained secreted behind a pillar in the far corner that gave him a clear view of the revolving door, as well as the bank of lifts to his left. He didn’t have to wait long.

When he saw who it was entering the hotel, he assumed it had to be a coincidence, but then policemen don’t believe in coincidences. He remained behind the pillar as the night manager greeted the guest and accompanied him across the lobby to a waiting lift. When the doors slid closed, William walked across to see that the little arrow didn’t stop until it reached the ninth floor.

If this had been Moscow or even Washington, the room would have been bugged, but it was London, so William could only hazard a guess as to what they might be discussing. He returned to his place behind the pillar and wondered how long he would have to wait.

•••

As Miles made his way up to the ninth floor, he felt unusually nervous. Dealing with petty criminals and people who relied on his patronage was one thing, but having to handle a prince of the Royal Blood was quite another, especially as this particular Prince was not in need of financial succour. But then, perhaps he had something to offer that he needed more than money. He hoped that half the stories about the Black Prince were true.

When Miles stepped out of the lift on the ninth floor, he made his way across to an un-numbered door. He pressed the little pearl button and, moments later, it was opened by a man dressed in a light blue suit and open-neck shirt, whothrust out his hand and said, ‘I’m Hani Khalil, His Royal Highness’s senior consultant.’

Miles shook hands with a man he instantly disliked, but returned his insincere smile before being led into the presence of his master. Prince Ahmed was sitting in a large, comfortable chair as if it were a throne; he made no effort to welcome Miles. The two men stared at each other like a mongoose who’s come across a snake, each waiting for the other to strike. Ahmed waved an imperious hand in the direction of the seat opposite him to let him know he could sit down. Khalil remained standing.

Miles sat on the edge of his seat and took a closer look at his would-be collaborator. He exuded arrogance, vanity and entitlement in equal measure – three weaknesses he always welcomed whenever he was trying to close a deal. Miles bowed low and said, ‘How kind of you to spare the time to see me, Your Royal Highness,’ playing his first card: flattery.

The Prince didn’t respond; clearly this was no more than he expected from an infidel.

‘His Royal Highness,’ said Khalil, ‘understands you have a proposition to put to him, Mr Faulkner, and as he is expecting another guest to join him in a few minutes’ time, perhaps you could tell us the purpose of your visit.’