Twelve Red Herrings (17 page)

“No.
The one who looked like an Arab.”

“There are no
Arabs on my crew,” the captain assured him.

A1-Takriti
strode over to the senior flight attendant. “He was sitting next to you. His
upper lip had make-up on it that was beginning to run.”

“The captain of
the French plane was sitting next to me,” the senior flight attendant said. She
immediately realised her mistake.

Saad all-Takriti
turned and looked out of the window to see the Air France plane at the end of
the runway preparing for take-off.

He jabbed a
button on his hand phone as the thrust of the jet engines started up, and
barked out some orders in his native tongue.

The captain
didn’t need to speak Arabic to get the gist of what he was saying.

By now the
American crew were all staring at the French aircraft, willing it to move,
while all-Takriti’s voice was rising with every word he
uttered.

The Air France 747
eased forward and slowly began to gather momentum. Saad all-Takriti cursed
loudly, then ran out of the building and jumped into a waiting jeep. He pointed
towards the plane and ordered the driver to chase after it. The jeep shot off,
accelerating as it weaved its way in and out of the parked aircraft.

By the time it
reached the runway it must have been doing ninety miles an hour, and for the
next hundred yards it sped along parallel to the French aircraft, with
all-Takriti standing on the front seat, clinging onto the windscreen and waving
his fist at the cockpit.

The French
captain acknowledged him with a crisp salute, and as the 747’s wheels lifted
off, a loud cheer went up in the transit lounge.

The American
captain smiled and turned to his chief flight attendant. “That only proves my
theory that the French will go to any lengths to get an extra passenger.” Hamid
Zebari landed in New Delhi six hours
later,
and
immediately phoned his wife to let her know what had happened. Early the next
morning Pan Am flew him back to New York - first class. When Hamid emerged from
the airport terminal, his wife jumped out of the car and threw her arms around
him.

Nadim wound the
window down and declared, “You were wrong, Papa.

A fortnight
turns out to be fifteen days.” Harod grinned at his son, but his daughter burst
into tears, and not because their car had come to a sudden halt. It was just
that she was horrified to see her mother hugging a strange man.

WHENEVER I’M IN NEW YORK, I ALWAYS TRY
to have dinner with an old friend of mine called Duncan Mcpherson. We are
opposites, and so naturally we attract. In fact, Duncan and I have only one
thing in common: we are both writers.

But even then
there’s a difference, because Duncan specialises in screenplays, which he
writes in the intervals between his occasional articles for Newsweek and the
New Yorker, whereas I prefer novels and short stories.

One of the other
differences between us is the fact that I have been married to the same woman
for twenty-eight years, while Duncan seems to have a different girlfriend every
time I visit New York – not bad going, as I average at least a couple of trips
a year. The girls are always attractive, lively and bright, and there are
various levels of intensity – depending on what stage the relationship is at.
In the past I’ve been around at the beginning (very physical) and in the middle
(starting to cool off), but this trip was to be the first time I experienced an
ending.

I phoned Duncan
from my hotel on Fifth Avenue to let him know I was in town to promote my new
novel, and he immediately asked me over for dinner the following evening. I
assumed, as in the past, that it would be at his apartment. Another opposite:
unlike me, he’s a quite superlative cook.

“I can’t wait to
see you,” he said. “I’ve come up with an idea for a novel at last, and I want
to try the plot out on you.”

“Delighted,” I
replied. “Look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow night. And may I ask...”
I
hesitated. “Christabel,” he said.

“Christabel...”
I
repeated, trying to recall if I had ever met her.

“But there’s no
need for you to remember anything about her,” he added.
“Because
she’s about to be given the heave-ho, to use one of your English expressions.
I’ve just met a new one – Karen.

She’s absolutely
sensational. You’ll adore her.” I didn’t feel this was the appropriate moment
to point out to Duncan that I had adored them all. I merely asked which one was
likely to be joining us for dinner.

“Depends if
Christabel has finished packing,” Duncan replied.

“If she has, it
will be Karen. We haven’t slept together yet, and I’d been planning on that for
tomorrow night. But as you’re in town, it will have to be postponed.” I
laughed. “I could wait,” I assured him. “After all, I’m here for at least a
week.”

“No, no. In any
case, I must tell you about my idea for a novel.

That’s far more
important. So why don’t you come to my place tomorrow evening. Shall we say
around seven thirty?” Before I left the hotel, I wrapped up a copy of my latest
book, and wrote “Hope you enjoy it’ on the outside.

Duncan lives in
one of those apartment blocks on 72nd and Park, and though I’ve been there many
times, it always takes me a few minutes to locate the entrance to the building.
And, like Duncan’s girlfriends, the doorman seems to change with every trip.

The new doorman
grunted when I gave my name, and directed me to the elevator on the far side of
the hall. I slid the grille doors across and pressed the button for the
fourteenth floor. It was one of those top floors that could not be described as
a penthouse even by the most imaginative of estate agents.

I pulled back
the doors and stepped out onto the landing, rehearsing the appropriate smiles
for Christabel (goodbyel and Karen (hello). As I walked towards Duncan’s front
door 1 could hear raised voices – a very British expression, born of
understatement; let’s be frank and admit that they were screaming at each other
at the tops of their voices. I concluded that this had to be the end of
Christabel, rather than the beginning of Karen.

I was already a
few minutes late, so there was no turning back.

I pressed the
doorbell, and to my relief the voices immediately fell silent. Duncan opened
the door, and although his cheeks were scarlet with rage, he still managed a casual
grin.
Which reminds me that I forgot to tell you about a few
more opposites – the damn man has a mop of boyish dark curly hair, the rugged
features of his Irish ancestors, and the build of a champion tennis player.

“Come on in,” he
said. “This is Christabel, by the way – if you hadn’t already guessed.” I’m not
by nature a man who likes other people’s cast-offs, but I’m bound to confess I
would have been happy to make Christabel the exception. She had an oval face,
deep blue eyes, and an angelic smile. She was also graced with that fine fair
hair that only the Nordic races are born
with,
and the
type of figure that slimming advertisements make their profits out of. She wore
a cashmere sweater and tapered white jeans that left little to the imagination.

Christabel shook
me by the hand, and apologised for looking a little scruffy. “I’ve been packing
all afternoon,” she explained.

The proof of her
labours was there for all to see – three large suitcases and two cardboard
boxes full of books standing by the door.

On the top of
one of the boxes lay a copy of CHUNNEL VISION a Dorothy L. Sayers murder
mystery with a torn red dustjacket.

I was becoming
acutely aware that I couldn’t have chosen a worse evening for a reunion with my
old friend. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to eat out for a change,” Duncan
said. “It’s been’ he paused -’a busy day. I haven’t had a chance to visit the
local store. Good thing, actually,” he added. “It’ll give me more time to take
you through the plot of my novel.”

“Congratulations,”
Christabel said.

I turned to face
her.

“Your novel,”
she said. “Number one on the New York Times bestseller list, isn’t it?”

“Yes,
congratulations,” said Duncan. “I haven’t got round to reading it yet, so don’t
tell me anything about it. It wasn’t on sale in Bosnia,” he added with a laugh.
I handed him my little gift.

“Thank you,” he
said, and placed it on the hall table. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“I’ve read it,”
said Christabel.

Duncan bit his
lip. “Let’s go,” he said, and was about to turn and say goodbye to Christabel
when she asked me, “Would you mind if I joined you? I’m starving, and as Duncan
said, there’s absolutely nothing in the icebox.” I could see that Duncan was
about to protest, but by then Christabel had passed him, and was already in the
corridor and heading for the elevator.

“We can walk to
the restaurant,” Duncan said as we trundled down to the ground floor. “It’s
only Californians who need a car to take them one block.” As we strolled west
on 72nd Street Duncan told me that he had chosen a fancy new French restaurant
to take me to.

I began to
protest, not just because I’ve never really cared for ornate French food, but I
was also aware of Duncan’s unpredictable pecuniary circumstances. Sometimes he
was flush with money, at other times stony broke. I just hoped that he’d had an
advance on the novel.

“No, like you, I
normally wouldn’t bother,” he said. “But it’s only just opened, and the New
York Times gave it a rave review.

In any case,
whenever I’m in London, you always entertain me “right royally”,” he added, in
what he imagined was an English accent.

It was one of
those cool evenings that make walking in New York so pleasant, and I enjoyed
the stroll, as Duncan began to tell me about his recent trip to Bosnia.

“You were lucky
to catch me in New York,” he was saying.

“I’ve only just
got back after being holed up in the damned place for three months.”

“Yes, I know. I
read your article in Newsweek on the plane coming over,” I said, and went on to
tell him how fascinated I had been by his evidence that a group of UN soldiers
had set up their own underground network, and felt no scruples about operating
an illegal black market in whatever country they were stationed.

“Yes, that’s
caused quite a stir at the UN,” said Duncan. “The New York Times and the
Washington Post have both followed the story up with features on the main
culprits – but without bothering to give me any credit for the original
research, of course. ‘ I turned round to see if Christabel was still with us.
She seemed to be deep in thought, and was lagging a few paces behind. I smiled
a smile that I hoped said I think Duncan’s a fool and you’re fantastic, but I
received no response.

After a few more
yards I spotted a red and gold awning flapping in the breeze outside something
called “Le Manoir’. My heart sank. I’ve always preferred simple food, and have
long considered pretentious French cuisine to be one of the major cons of the
eighties, and one that should have been passe, if not part of culinary history,
by the nineties.

Duncan led us
down a short crazy-paving path through a heavy oak door and into a brightly lit
restaurant. One look around the large, over-decorated room and my worst fears
were confirmed. The maitre d’ stepped forward and said, “Good evening,
monsieur.”

“Good evening,”
replied Duncan. “I have a table reserved in the name of Mcpherson.” The maitre
d’ checked down a long list of bookings.
“Ah, yes, a table
for two.”
Christabel pouted, but looked no less beautiful.

“Can we make it
three?” my host asked rather half-heartedly.

“Of
course, sir.
Allow me to show you to your table.” We were guided through a crowded room to a
little alcove in the corner which had only been set for two.

One look at the tablecloth,
the massive flowered plates with “Le Manoir’ painted in crimson all over them,
and the arrangement of lilies on the centre of the table, made me feel even
more guilty about what I had let Duncan in for. A waiter dressed in a white
open-neck shirt, black trousers and black waistcoat with “Le Manoir’ sewn in
red on the breast pocket hurriedly supplied Christabel with a chair, while
another deftly laid a place for her.

A third waiter
appeared at Duncan’s side and enquired
i{
we would
care for an aperitif. Christabel smiled sweetly and asked if she might have a
glass of champagne. I requested some Evian water, and Duncan nodded that he
would have the same.

For the next [ew
minutes, while we waited for the menus to appear, we continued to discuss Duncan’s
trip to Bosnia, and the contrast between scraping one’s food out of a billycan
in a cold dugout accompanied by the sound of bullets, and dining off china
plates in a warm restaurant, with a string quartet playinc Schubert in the
background.