The beach at Baida fil-Einek was short and wide and had pristine white sand in a rough oval contained by the sea and limestone escarpments. The waves were small and gentle and the beach quite gradual which would have made it ideal for parents and children. The sun was pretty much exactly overhead and the sky was a deep azure that was common for much of the summer. The heat wasn’t yet at its worst, but it was hot enough to make the sea look increasingly inviting.
At the back of the beach, dug into the escarpment so that yellow-white limestone, marred here and there by blue-green lichen, overhung the terrace, was a café. Expensive designer chairs were set cautiously around equally expensive tables; no table had more than three chairs at it, and the chairs were always spaced as far apart as possible. Two of the tables were occupied other than Chretien’s: one had the Minister of Finance in deep conversation with suited men who Chretien did not recognise, and the other had one of the two Ministers of the Interior sat with her Deputy. Potted plants were laid between the tables to form sound baffles; Chretien could see, if a little indistinctly, the people at the other tables, but their conversations were murmurs at most. Occasionally a word might escape the maze of greenery and fall into his ears but rarely enough that they were essentially meaningless.
He sipped a non-alcoholic cocktail and tapped at the iPad nestled in his lap. Messages from the security details for both Ministers present were updating in real time. Soon he learned that the Minister of the Interior had been coming here with each of her Deputies all week under the pretence of conducting performance reviews and that the Finance Minister had declined to update his security detail with any more information than that he was meeting important foreigners.
“Corruption as usual,” murmured Chretien to himself. He touched the button on the top edge of the iPad to turn it off and sipped his drink again. The sea produced more noise than the other conversations and he rather liked the soft rushing of the tiny waves breaking on the beach and the lacy patterns of foam they created. Each design lasted mere seconds before breaking up and fading away, but there was always another to replace it.
The iPad lit up briefly; a new message had arrived to tell him something banal about European football results. He noted only that the first team was AC Milan; this meant that Mahrie im-Mantis, Mistress of the Treasury, was arriving for their scheduled meeting. Twenty-five minutes late, but a lack of punctuality was one of the hallmarks of the im-Mantis family. He walked inside, carrying his drink, and when he returned holding two drinks he found Mahrie approaching the terrace across the white sands.
He returned to his table, where the iPad was now discretely tucked in at the side of his chair, and set the drinks down.
Mahrie was short and dressed as though she were taller. Despite everything her tailor attempted her skirt was too long and too heavy for the heat, her blouse was overbroad in the shoulders and her chest was flatter than she wanted it to be. She had a green jacket slung over her arm and a black leather handbag dangled from her fingers and she gave the impression of having learned how to dress from a book.
“Cretin,” she said. She never bothered to use Chretien’s actual name and barely even bothered to look at him now; her eyes were on the drink. “Did William make this?”
“Yes,” said Chretien as she called out to the barman loudly, ignoring him and drowning his response.
“William? Did you make this?”
When the affirmative reply came from the bar, muffled by the plants and seating arrangements, she sat and tasted it. Her lips pursed a little; Mahrie im-Mantis only really liked Champagne and so had all other alcoholic drinks made equally as acidic.
“Why are we meeting here?” she said. She met Chretien’s gaze briefly then looked away again. She clearly disliked him but all of his attempts to find out what the cause was had met dead ends.
Chretien placed the stained envelope containing the demands that Allabar im-Mantis had refused on the table in front of her, and then took a clear plastic case from his pocket and set that down next to it. Her son’s shrivelled finger was nestled inside it in cotton wool.
“Qasqar’s finger?” She sneered and returned to her drink.
“The demands in the letter are quite clear,” said Chretien. While Allabar refused to read almost everything his ex-wife was compulsive about gathering information. “Allabar has provided his response. I am curious only if you have anything to add.”
“I agree with Allabar that the perpetrators of this crime need to be found and brought to justice,” she said. “The Fort is appropriate. Other than that, I do not see why we are meeting here.”
Chretien sat back and tasted his drink. The barman had topped it up with water so that it looked fresh; now, diluted, it was less pleasant. The Mistress of the Treasury looked at him after the silence drew out to a surprising level, and then she looked around more carefully.
“Ah,” she said. “I see that Mehrab is here, with people I have not been informed about. This… finger is a pointer, isn’t it, little Cretin? You think you’re so clever, so sneaky, and yet all I have to do is ask a question and I find the answer.” She sipped her drink; despite seeming to only sip the glass was already half-empty. “I can replace you any time I like, Cretin. You’re only still here because my hus— ex-husband — finds you useful. You should remember that.”
“My concern,” said Chretien, “is simply to ask if your ex-husband should be advised against his current course of action. Such advice would carry more weight if it came from an office equal to his own.” It was, he reflected, nice to be able to use proper words instead of having to choose from a restricted list more suited to tabloid newspapers.
“You are not to tell him that I want anything other than what I just said!” Mahrie’s reply was as fast as a striking snake. She was now watching her Finance Minister, moving her head this way and that to try and get a better view of the people he was entertaining. “I want Qasqar revenged and that is it.”
“The letter is quite clear that they may attempt to harm Qasqar again if no ground is given,” said Chretien.
“Empty threats.”
“They have managed to show signs of competence.” Chretien rubbed his hands together beneath the table. Playing mental chess was certainly more interesting than listening to the blunt stupidities of Allabar im-Mantis but, he reflected, it would be nice if sometimes he could just be blunt with Mahrie. Bluntness however reminded her of her ex-husband and made her recalcitrant.
“Rubbish! Qasqar was stupid and paid the price. You’ve increased his security? You’ve certainly increased mi— ah, Mehrab is getting up!” She half-rose, hesitating until the Minister of Finance had gone inside. “Don’t wait for me.”
Chretien set his still-mostly-full drink aside and picked up the iPad. He waited until he heard hints of Mahrie introducing herself to Mehrab’s companions and then unlocked it. He opened the browser and went to a bookmarked page, selecting an article from it seemingly at random and then sent an encrypted message containing only the link. To all intents and purposes it looked like he was simply commenting on the outcome of a chess tournament in Las Vegas. The coded message, to those who understood the code, was simply no-one need be spared.
