LITMIR.BIZ

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the gents’ toilet, made a telephone call to the hotel in the city centre explaining that he had been delayed, and was asked to attend as quickly as he could. On the cab rank outside he picked up a taxi, told the driver there was an extra tip for him if he could get to the city centre in record time, and settled back into his seat. The traffic was heavy, he did not feel it was the best preparation for the meeting ahead.

      He arrived at the hotel thirty-five minutes later, tipped the driver well, and was shown immediately to the suite on the fifth floor. Sheikh Saeed Khaled was waiting. Nabil apologised for being late, Khaled in turn apologised that he had little time to spare that day and had to leave the hotel for an appointment in thirty minutes. Breakfast arrived two minutes later.

      Whilst Khaled poured them both coffee they discussed the outline of their London meeting, concentrating on the sheikh’s suggestion that Nabil needed what they had called a friend, as well as the friend who would influence that friend.

      ‘That is why I have come to see you again,’ Nabil brought the conversation into focus.

      ‘You mean you have found the friend you were looking for?’

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘Who?’ asked Khaled.

      ‘I am told that Henry Armstrong will be the next major United States Foreign Affairs negotiator and that he has a special interest in the Middle East.’

      Khaled smiled, nodding his head. ‘I wonder who told you that.’ He drew his hands together and rested his chin on them. ‘You’re probably right. Henry Armstrong has the right connections, the right ambitions. Who will influence him on your behalf?’

      ‘The British Foreign Minister, John Kenshaw-Taylor.’

      The choice did not appear to surprise Khaled. Nabil began listing the details contained in the brief Ahmad Hussein had given him in New York, but Khaled interrupted. ‘I know him. We met during the oil discussions before he was moved to the Foreign Office. How are they connected?’

      Nabil explained the Jacksonian Institute link.

      There is one thing about Kenshaw-Taylor that you should know,’ Khaled said slowly and carefully. Nabil noted that the sheikh still had not passed comment on his choice and feared he was preparing the ground for a rejection. ‘One thing,’ continued the sheikh, ‘that might make him an ideal target, but which might also prejudice you against him.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Think of the betrayal of your country. Think when the betrayal started.’

      It was ironic, Nabil had already thought, and probably inevitable, that the man he had chosen to help his people return to their homeland should be the Foreign Minister of the imperial power which had played such a role in their original exodus from it.

      ‘Most people would say the United Nations decision of 1947,’ he began. ‘They would be wrong. It actually began in 1917. The Balfour Declaration. The first open support by the British for the idea of a separate Jewish state.’

      Khaled looked at him again. ‘Kenshaw-Taylor has a very long political pedigree. His father was in politics, his father before him.’

      ‘I knew he came from a political family.’

      ‘Did you know his grandfather was a senior advisor to Balfour?’

      ‘No,’ said Nabil. ‘I did not.’

      He sat silently, remembering the terms of the support, remembering the way his father had taught him to despise what the Declaration had done to his country and people.

      ‘Why did you choose him?’ asked Khaled.

      ‘Because he is ambitious.’

      ‘Some who know him would say he is too ambitious for his own good,’ said the power broker. ‘He is a good choice.’

      Nabil sensed his relief. ‘What else is there to know of him?’ He did not know what answer he expected, only knew later that he had not expected the answer he received.

      Khaled sat back, remembering the first time he had met Kenshaw-Taylor, the many times they had observed each other prior to negotiations, the informal conversations in the receptions after. Something about the man, he thought, something they might be able to use. ‘I don’t know, but I will find out.’

      The coloured lights were shining brightly, even though it was only four in the afternoon, the pavements were crowded. Enderson could smell the roast chestnuts on the corner of the street. It was as Christmas Eve used to be, as it should be, he could not help thinking.

      The children were tugging at his sleeve, forgetting that his left arm was in a sling. It still hurt, where it had been burned and torn, where the surgeon at the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital in Woolwich had pulled it together and informed him that it was to be checked every month until it was healed. Jane was in front of him, struggling under the weight of the turkey. In his one good hand he carried a bag of food and wine.

      ‘Dad,’ said his children, ‘come on, Dad, you know what, Dad.’ His wife pretended not to hear. ‘Look, love,’ he suggested, ‘you’ll want to get the turkey started. Why don’t you go home and the kids and I will finish here.’ His wife smiled. ‘OK, but don’t be late.’ She watched as Enderson and the children turned back down the pavement and headed for Chadds. ‘Great, Dad, great,’ she heard the boy say. ‘About time,’ said the girl.

      The ground floor of the department store was crowded: he followed the children, protecting his arm. Two weeks in a sling, he had been told, then a plaster. It would not affect his work as long as he took it carefully, the surgeon had said, as long as he came back for the monthly checks. They reached the perfume counter, he watched as the children worked out the prices, how much they could afford, then bought their mother her Christmas presents. ‘You want them wrapped here or shall we do it when we get home?’ He already knew the answer. ‘When we get home, Dad.’ It was his first Christmas with them for three years.

      By the time they left the store it was four thirty. ‘Can we have a Wimpy, Dad?’ He knew it was a conspiracy against which he could not win. ‘OK,’ he conceded, ‘you can have a Wimpy.’ On the way they passed a news-stand, he bought a copy of the Evening News, tucked it under his arm, and followed the children.

      The Wimpy bar was quieter than he would have thought; they sat at a table near the window: the children ordered burgers and coke, he asked for a tea and began to browse through the paper. At the third table to their left, his back against the wall, was a tramp, he had just finished a plate of chips and was eking out his cup of tea. The music in the bar was seasonal. Enderson remembered when he had last sat in a Wimpy bar, what the music had been then, and was glad that the food arrived. The tune changed and he recognised the words. On the table to his left the tramp had finished his tea; in the corner of his eye Enderson saw the waitress approach the man, assuming, he did not know why, that she was going to ask him to leave. She reached across the table and gave him another cup of tea. In the loudspeaker in the ceiling he heard the words of the tune.

       ‘They said there’d be snow at Christmas,

       They said there’d be peace on earth.’

      He looked out the window at the sky. No snow, he thought, remembering the boy in Belfast, the bombings and killings in Europe, the assassination on the motorway near Heathrow, not much peace on earth either.

      He turned to the foreign page of the newspaper. In the right-hand column was an item from the Reuters office in Bonn which a desperate sub-editor had used to fill up space. The piece was headed ‘Christmas terror alert in Germany’. The West German terrorist leader Klars Christian Mannheim, convicted on three bombing charges, had announced that from the New Year he would go on hunger strike in support of demands for greater civil liberties in the country’s prisons.

      On the table to his left the tramp was warming his fingers round the cup of tea. ‘Look, Dad, look.’ His son was pulling at his coat, drawing his attention to a woman in the street outside, trying to push a Christmas

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