'You are impossible!' She giggled, and then became serious. 'Did you
manage to send-the fax to Mrs. Street?'
'It went through at the first attempt and she acknowledged. Sends you
her salaams, and promises to have some information about Pegasus double
pronto.' It was a mild evening and Sir Oliver was waiting to greet them
on the veranda. Geoffrey hurried forward to make the introductions. The
Ambassadot-bad a bush of white hair and a red face. Geoffrey had warned
them about him and his view on troublesome tourists, but his hostile
frown started to fade as soon as he laid eyes on Royan.
There were a dozen other guests for dinner apart from Geoffrey and
Sylvia Tennant, and Sir Oliver took Royan's arm and led her around the
group introducing her. Nicholas trailed along behind them, resigned by
now to the fact that Royan had that effect on most men.
'May I present General Obeid, the Commissioner of Police,' Sir Oliver
said. The head of the Ethiopian police force was tall and very
dark-complexioned, suave and elegant in his blue mess uniform. He bowed
over Royan's hand.
believe that we have an appointment to meet tomorrow morning. I look
forward to that with the keenest pleasure.'
Royan glanced at Sir Oliver uncertainly. She had been told nothing of
this.
'General Obeid wants to know from you and Sir Nichola a little more
about this business in, the Abbay gorge,' Sir Oliver explained. 'I took
the liberty of having my secretary make the appointment.'
'Just a routine interview, I assure you both, Dr Al Simma and Sir
Nicholas. I will take up very little of your time, I promise you that.'
'Of course we will do everything that we can to assist you' Nicholas
told him politely. 'What time are we coming to see you?'
'I believe we are meeting at eleven in the morning, if that suits you.'
'A most civilized hour,'Nicholas agreed.
'My driver will pick you up at ten-thirty, and take you down to police
headquarters,' Sir Oliver promised.
At the dinner table Royan was seated between Sir Oliver and General
Obeid. She was pretty and charming, and both men were attentive.
Nicholas realized that he would have to become accustomed to sharing her
company with other men; he had had her to himself for much too long.
For his own part, Nicholas found Lady Bradford at the other end of the
table rather heavy-going. She was a second wife, thirty years younger
than her husband, with a pronounced London accent and an even more
pronounced common streak, with a mane of dyed blonde hair and an
improbable bust which overflowed her sequined cleavage.
An old man's folly, Nicholas concluded. It appeared that she had made
herself an expert on the genealogy of the English aristocracy - in other
words she was an arrant snob.
She questioned him closely on his antecedents, insisting on going back
several generations.
In the end she called to her husband down the table, 'Sir Nicholas owns
Quenton Park. Did you know that, dear?' And then she turned back to
Nicholas. 'My husband is a very keen shot.'
Sir Oliver looked suitably impressed by his wife's intelligence.
