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CHAPTER 27

HANIKHALIL LOOKED UP FROMbehind his desk when the Chief of Police and his deputy came barging into his office without an appointment.

‘Good afternoon, Chief,’ said Khalil. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘It is indeed a pleasure,’ said the Chief, ‘to finally place you under arrest.’

‘On what charge?’ asked Khalil calmly.

‘Bribing a public official.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ asked Khalil, trying to make light of it.

‘The Governor of ‘Ulaysha Prison.’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever come across the man,’ responded Khalil, testing the water.

‘You had a meeting with him in his office on Tuesday, just after midnight.’

‘You have proof, of course,’ said Khalil, now more cautious.

‘A signed confession,’ said the Chief, ‘admitting that youoffered him three hundred thousand dollars in cash to have Mr Simon Hartley killed.’

‘Hearsay at best,’ said Khalil, now on the defensive, ‘and in any case, as you well know, Mr Hartley is very much alive – and, I’m told, on his way back home.’

‘But what isn’t hearsay,’ replied the Chief, ‘is that last Monday you withdrew three hundred thousand dollars from your personal account, one hundred and fifty thousand of which has ended up in a bank account in Dublin in the name of Mrs Sean O’Driscoll.’

‘Not a name I’m familiar with,’ said Khalil.

‘That much I believe,’ said the Chief, ‘but – unfortunately for you – the Governor has handed over the remaining one hundred and fifty thousand. He’s agreed to take early retirement and will be appearing as a government witness in exchange for no charges being brought against him.’

Khalil shifted uneasily in his seat, and this time didn’t come up with an immediate response.

‘If I had to guess,’ said the Chief, ‘I suspect you’re looking at ten years in ‘Ulaysha Prison where, I can assure you, you won’t be getting ten per cent of anything.’ He paused, ‘Unless of course …’

‘Unless of course?’ repeated Khalil, now clinging onto a lifeline.

‘You’re finally willing to tell the truth about who did kill Paolo Conti at the Overseas Club, because it certainly wasn’t Simon Hartley, as the barman and the security guard on duty that night have already testified.’ He paused to let the information sink in. ‘They’ve both confirmed in a written statement that it was in fact Prince Ahmed bin Majid who stabbed Conti, and not Mr Simon Hartley, who they both say wasyourguest at the club that night, despite the fact you claimed at the time you didn’t know him.’

‘But if I were to do that,’ said Khalil, ‘I would be signing my own death warrant.’

‘Not if your friend Prince Ahmed is in prison, while you’re safely back at home in Lebanon.’

Khalil took his time considering the percentages in this particular deal, and decided the odds weren’t fifty-fifty. ‘If I were to agree to make a statement confirming it was Ahmed who killed Conti, will you guarantee that I can leave the country without being charged?’

‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours,’ said the Chief, ‘no more. If you’re still around after that, I will arrest you.’

•••

When the aircraft door opened, Simon stepped off the plane to be greeted with the wonderful sight of a London drizzle. He walked unsteadily down the steps, surprised not to be hounded by baying journalists or the flashing bulbs of photographers desperate for a picture – all part of the agreement struck between the new Saudi Defence Minister and the British Ambassador.

A solitary figure was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. Simon had met Mr Trevelyan during his Westminster briefings before leaving for Saudi and had at one time wondered if they’d ever meet again.

‘Welcome home, Mr Hartley,’ said the Foreign Secretary’s private secretary.

‘Thank you,’ said Simon, ‘and I must also thank you for the role you played in getting me home safely.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Trevelyan. ‘It was a far higherauthority who oiled those particular wheels. But before you join your wife and family, there is one more thing I need to brief you on.’