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Dever’s Café

London

Monday

Khaled wasn’t surprised to see Ali seated at the same corner booth on a small dais near the back of the café, where the more elite members of Parliament often jockeyed to hold court, looking out over the lesser members. Ali was perfectly tailored again in a Savile Row suit, light gray today with discreet darker gray pinstripes, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He looked like one of the richer members of Parliament, not a holy man. Ali looked up at him, with his fluid, dark eyes that gave the impression they saw everything, and nodded. Khaled gave him a small bow. “Imam.”

“No, Khaled, we are not in the mosque. You may call me Ali. Sit down.” He motioned to a waiter.

“Yes, it was a very nice evening. Adara and her friends were excellent company.”

“She did. She said she also enjoyed seeing you on Saturday.”

The imam gracefully ate another bite of sole, and added, “Did you enjoy the tennis tournament?”

“Ah, you consider yourself English then, Khaled, not Syrian?”

“I am both, now and until I die. And you, Ali?”

Ali said nothing, merely arched a brow.

Khaled wondered if he should have given him blanket agreement, but he couldn’t, simply couldn’t. He continued carefully. “I spoke with Rehan al-Albiri and will meet with him tomorrow, as agreed.”

“The press profits from their speculations, Imam. It is what they do.”