Legacy. James Steel

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      ‘Look, let’s just get to the point here, Dad. We need to sell Akerley. Without the land the house is just a liability — we’re living in the ruins of our history. We can’t go on as if we’re …’ he raised his free hand in exasperation, ‘… in the Middle Ages or something. You know we—’

      ‘And you know damn well that I never will, so don’t you start that cant again! If you were earning some decent bloody money as a colonel, instead of pissing around with nignogs in the bush, you might actually be able to start putting something back into this family!’

      Alex stopped pacing; his shoulders heaved and he put his head down, his eyes closed, as he summoned up all his strength not to retaliate.

      With forced calm he said: ‘I am trying my best, Dad.’

      ‘Trying won’t do, Alexander! If you weren’t such a fucking failure the family wouldn’t be in this bloody mess!’

      ‘I am not a fucking failure!’ His voice cracked into a shout of rage.

      Provoked.

      Exposed.

      Defeated,

      Humiliated.

      He had failed.

      He had been drawn into an argument, allowing his father to score the petty victory he had been looking for to make himself feel better.

      Alex slammed the phone down but he could hear the braying, triumphant laugh all the way from Herefordshire. His father’s uncanny ability to zero in on his weakness had worked yet again.

      Alex was shaking with anger as he walked to the back of the living room and stood with his hands on his hips, staring out of the window at the overgrown back garden. He did not see or hear anything else as the scene played itself over in his head.

      Murderous fury consumed half of him; the rest was simply crushed by his father’s scorn and his own fear of what he was.

      I am not a fucking failure!

      The phone rang again.

      He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment and then snatched it off the cradle and barked, ‘Yes!’

      ‘Mr Devereux?’ asked a voice in a concerned tone.

      Alex could not place the accent exactly, something Middle Eastern but with an American overtone.

      He forced himself to sound more civil. ‘Yes, this is Alexander Devereux.’

      ‘My name is Mr Al-Khouri. I represent an organisation that is interested in doing some business with you, Mr Devereux.’

      ‘Yes?’ Alex replied cautiously.

      ‘I realise that you cannot talk on the phone but I would be interested to meet you tomorrow to outline a project.’

      ‘Right,’ Alex managed.

      ‘I have booked a table for tea at the Ritz at three o’clock tomorrow. Would that be acceptable?’

      ‘Fine …’ Alex said slowly, avoiding commitment as he desperately tried to think if he wanted to go. He knew he did not have any alternative, and the Ritz was about as unthreatening a place as one could meet in.

      ‘Very well, Mr Devereux. Just ask for my table, Mr Al-Khouri, and it’s jacket and tie,’ he said in a smug tone.

      ‘Right, OK. Thank you,’ Alex tried to end the conversation sounding as if he was in control.

      As usual, Alex arrived early; army habits died hard.

      He was wearing highly polished black Oxfords, his bespoke blue pinstripe suit with a crisply ironed white shirt, and his Cavalry and Guards blue and red striped tie.

      He didn’t like being so obvious about his regiment — ‘cabbage’ was their derisory term for flaunting the connection too overtly — but this was business, and he knew it was one of the few British army symbols that foreigners in his line of work recognised and valued.

      He walked up the side entrance steps on Arlington Street and was greeted by a smartly uniformed porter with white gloves tucked into one of the epaulettes of his overcoat.

      He was shown along the broad entrance hall by an overly suave waiter in black tie and a white dinner jacket. The middle of the Palm Court tearoom was dominated by an enormous gilt urn decorated with palms. A lady in a sequined dress tinkled away at a piano on one side.

      Alex cringed; the whole effect was one of stifling fussiness. The sparse clientele included grandmothers being taken out on their birthdays, aspirational fathers fulfilling their dreams by bringing cowed wives and children out for tea at the Ritz. Conversation was reduced to a subdued level by the formality.

      ‘Mr Al-Khouri is over there, sir,’ said the officious waiter, his arm extended grandly to point to a table in the far corner of the room. Alex straightened his shoulders and walked over slowly, eyeing his potential business partner carefully.

      On first sight Mr Al-Khouri looked the epitome of a wealthy playboy: about thirty-five, blow-dried black hair, average height, slim build and cleanshaven. He was wearing a white shirt with a black Armani suit and tie.

      The man stood up as Alex approached, all slick smiles and competitive bonhomie. ‘Mr Devereux. Please come, sit down, sit down.’

      ‘Alexander Devereux,’ said Alex unnecessarily, and gave his firmest handshake as he towered over the smaller man. It was all part of the male posturing, manoeuvring to show who was in charge.

      ‘Yes, yes. Kalil Al-Khouri. Thank you for coming, Mr Devereux. Tea for two, please.’ He signalled to the waiter hovering behind Alex. ‘Your finest Earl Grey,’ he added fastidiously.

      ‘A nice location.’ He swept his hand around the room.

      ‘Splendid,’ replied Alex.

      ‘I like to come to the Ritz when I am in town; it has a very … established feel. I do a lot of business in London.’ Kalil spread his hands and his voice dropped to a quieter conspiratorial tone. The word ‘business’ was deliberately vague, implying things far too important and secret to be spoken about in detail.

      ‘Right,’ Alex nodded, and waited for the posturing to stop.

      ‘So,’ Kalil tilted his head to one side, ‘my contacts tell me that you’ve been in Angola recently.’

      Alex was not sure who Kalil’s contacts were but there was nothing secret in what he had said so far. Alex’s work was sanctioned tacitly by the Foreign Office so he had nothing to hide.

      ‘Yes, a contract on the Lucapa field in the north. Mine defence and security team training,’ said Alex.

      ‘And how did that go?’

      ‘It went well,’ he replied cautiously. ‘We had good support from the government,’ which was a lie, but he was always careful to sound positive about his employers. ‘We did СКАЧАТЬ