City of the Lost. Will Adams

him. ‘I can take a taxi back to the airport when I’m done.’

      ‘It’s no trouble,’ he said.

      But Layla shook her head. ‘I’ll take a taxi,’ she said.

      II

      The reports on Global Analysis and Iain Black had arrived from London during the night. Michel Bejjani printed out copies for his father and brother to digest along with their breakfast. He handed Georges his with a certain satisfaction then scooped up a generous dollop of tahini with a strip of pita bread and gestured for some coffee.

      Until recently, there’d been no question about his and Georges’ respective futures within the Bejjani Group. Michel didn’t just have seniority, a Cambridge degree and a Harvard MBA, he also had the look, temperament and connections of a top international financier. All Georges had, by contrast, was a certain innate shrewdness and a bullish forcefulness that together suited him perfectly for security and the like. It was humiliating, therefore, that there was any question about the succession, but his father had the old-fashioned attitude that a company leader should be able to handle all aspects of the business. That was why Michel had been on the lookout for a way to dent Georges’ reputation in such matters; and this man Black was his opportunity.

      The report on Global Analysis was extensive. It included its latest balance sheet and accounts, its scope of operations, key clients and an executive summary that portrayed a company with a once-stellar reputation now hit by rumours of cash-flow problems, perhaps on account of an ill-fated joint venture between the founder-owner Quentin Oliver and a shady Uzbek oligarch.

      The report on Iain Black was even more detailed. By happy chance, Black had sent his CV to all the leading business intelligence companies a couple of years before, including RGS, the agency the Bejjanis sometimes used. Black had ultimately opted to join Global Analysis, but in the meantime RGS had been interested enough to commission a head-hunter’s report, which they’d kept on file. It included eight photographs of him, both by himself and in company. They showed a tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties; and with a certain presence, to judge from the way other people arrayed themselves around him.

      His British father and Jordanian mother had met while working on a pipeline project outside Amman. They’d later worked together on similar projects in Turkey, Pakistan, Egypt and elsewhere, giving Black a suite of useful languages, a comfort with exotic places and – thanks to his mother’s genes – a valuable ability to pass for native in most Middle-Eastern countries. Back in England for his teens, joining the army out of school, serving with distinction in Afghanistan and Iraq. But then suddenly his file went dark. His records for his last seven years were classified, and the head-hunters had had to make do with unconfirmed reports of secondment to a shadowy military intelligence unit running special ops across the region, from Pakistan to Iran, Somalia and Libya.

      Michel watched with satisfaction his father’s eyebrows rising as he read, and the finger Georges tugged inside his collar. He didn’t wait for them to finish, therefore, but said instead: ‘We need to call this morning off. It’s not fair to expect Georges to take on a man like this.’

      ‘What are you talking about?’ scowled Georges.

      Michel turned to Butros. ‘I’m the first to acknowledge what a fine job Georges does running security, Father. But we need to be realistic. We’re bankers, not men of war.’

      ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Georges. ‘He’s one man. I’ll have Sami and Faisal and the whole crew with me. We can take him easily, I assure you.’

      Their father held up a finger for silence. He thought for half a minute or so then turned to Georges. ‘Your brother is right,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a job for you.’

      ‘But, Father—’

      ‘This is a job for him.’

      Michel’s smile grew a little strained. ‘With respect, Father, that wasn’t what I meant. What I meant was—’

      ‘I know what you meant. But you’ve been assuring me that Mexico was a one-off. It’s time for you to prove that.’

      Silence fell. It was Georges’ turn to smile. Michel felt a sudden unwelcome squishing in his gut, but he knew better than to let it show. ‘And so I will, Father,’ he said. ‘And so I will.’

      III

      Zehra rose early to prepare a light breakfast for herself and Katerina. After last night’s harrowing drive, not all the demons in hell would ever get her back behind the wheel of her son’s car, so she had Katerina show her the way across the park to her school. She said goodbye to her at the gates and promised to meet her there again that afternoon.

      It was a promise she had no intention of keeping.

      A bus to the Old City, then on foot to a small enclave of handsome whitewashed homes just inside its walls. Two policemen were on duty outside the Professor’s house. She hesitated but then steeled herself. ‘I’m here to see Metin Volkan,’ she told them.

      A scar from upper lip to left nostril made the nearer policeman seem to sneer. Or maybe he really was sneering. ‘And you are?’

      ‘Zehra Inzanoğlu.’

      ‘And what are you to him? His cleaner? His lover?’

      She ignored their laughter. ‘We were children together.’

      ‘That was a while ago, I’m guessing.’ He took her bag, rummaged through it, holding individual items up for mockery before thrusting the whole thing back at her. ‘Go on in, then,’ said his companion, opening the door for her. ‘You’ll find your sweetheart in his study.’

      Zehra didn’t know where that was, but she wasn’t about to ask. She opened doors at random, therefore, until she found him at a desk in a brightly lit, book-lined room, making notes in green biro upon a sheaf of stapled papers. Professor Metin Volkan, formerly a noted historian but now best-known as leader of One Cyprus, the political party he’d founded to press for reunification of the island. He looked up irritably from his work but sprang to his feet the moment he recognized her, hurried around to greet her. ‘My dear Zehra,’ he said. ‘How good to see you. But what are you doing here?’

      ‘My son came to visit me yesterday,’ she told him, launching into the speech she’d rehearsed on her way here. ‘Before they arrested him. He asked me to look after his daughter. But it’s impossible, I can’t, I’m too old. She needs to be here, near her school, near her friends.’ She thrust out her jaw. ‘You’ll have to look after her for me.’

      ‘Me?’

      ‘Yes. You.’

      He looked at her as though she were crazy. ‘What do I know about looking after a schoolgirl, Zehra? And did you really not notice those policemen at my door? I’m under effective house arrest. It’ll be a miracle if I’m not under full arrest in the next few days. The moment they find anything on me, anything at all … Anyway, she’s your granddaughter, not mine.’ He shook his head in bafflement. ‘What happened to you, Zehra? You used to be so kind.’

      ‘She’s one of them,’ spat Zehra.

      ‘One of them?’ frowned the Professor.

      ‘Yes,’ insisted Zehra. ‘One of them. A Greek. Like her mother. That whore you introduced to my son. So this is your fault. Your fault, your responsibility.’ She folded her arms emphatically, as if her position was unarguable.

      Volkan nodded. ‘I’m sorry about what happened between you and your son. I truly am. But it wasn’t my fault. Nor was it even your son’s. All he ever did was fall in love.’

      ‘Then whose fault was it?’ demanded Zehra.

      ‘Yours.’

      She looked incredulously