Ali said with an elegant shrug, “In my family, as in life, the unexpected is the norm. My parents dined with the Algerian ambassador and I was, alas, otherwise occupied with a last-minute invitation. I trust you enjoyed yourself?”
Khaled’s tea arrived already steeped. He squeezed in a dollop of lemon and sipped slowly. It was excellent. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry you were called away. I had hoped to see you at your home.”
A perfect eyebrow arched upward. “My home? I thought you knew. Then again, why would you? No, I live in Holland Park. I purchased a house there three years ago.”
The imam, who had already ordered, took a bite of his sole, savored it. “My sister tells me you and her friends ate at the Carousel Club. I trust you found the food and the company enjoyable?”
“Yes, it was a very nice evening. Adara and her friends were excellent company.”
Ali laughed. “She has many friends. I’ve met those three gentlemen and found them deferential and devout—well, except for Yusuf. He’s a mystery I’ve yet to figure out. The two young men come to our mosque to worship. Where Yusuf worships, I have no idea. And tell me, Khaled, what did you think of my very Westernized sister?”
Khaled swallowed, remembering every detail of their time together on Saturday. He cleared his throat. “She was very gracious. I trust she gave you a positive report?”
“She did. She said she also enjoyed seeing you on Saturday.”
Luckily the waiter arrived with his lunch, giving Khaled time to think. Was the imam toying with him? His muscles clenched. Please, Adara couldn’t have told him how they’d spent the day.
The imam gracefully ate another bite of sole, and added, “Did you enjoy the tennis tournament?”
Khaled’s heart started beating again. He even managed a smile. So that was what Adara had told her brother. Thankfully he’d seen the sports report on the telly and knew what had happened at the Wembley tournament. “No one particularly enjoyed it since a Frenchman won, but I suppose we can’t expect the English to win every time.”
“Ah, you consider yourself English then, Khaled, not Syrian?”
“I am both, now and until I die. And you, Ali?”
“It is true England provides us with many opportunities few enjoy in Syria. But every day I miss the warmth of the Syrian people and our country’s great beauty. I am Syrian, Khaled, now and always, until I die. How can it be otherwise, when the English still reek of colonialism and sanction us for defending ourselves within our own borders against those misguided barbarians? It is unacceptable. Finally, the war is nearly won and the Arab League has welcomed us back after so many years in the cold. And yet the English persist in their sanctions, as if they still rule us.”
What was this all about? Khaled’s sole tasted dry as cardboard in his mouth. He put aside horrific images of Assad’s butchery against his own people, insurrectionists and civilians both. The government had won, but at a terrible cost. He looked up from his green beans. “Of course, Imam, the sanctions should be lifted. I know little of how these policies are decided, but what you have said is doubtless true of the West. Then again, war, devastation, and unfairness have been true of all cultures since the beginning of time.”
Ali said nothing, merely arched a brow.
Khaled wondered if he should have given him blanket agreement, but he couldn’t, simply couldn’t. He continued carefully. “I spoke with Rehan al-Albiri and will meet with him tomorrow, as agreed.”
Ali nodded. “Yes, Rehan told me. He is familiar with your career at Culver and Beck, and he’s impressed with you. You are very young, Rehan told me, to hold such a high position. It’s a testament to your abilities.”
Khaled said, “I’m glad he thinks well of me. He’s a splendid old man. He warned me his accounting system is quite different from what I use on a daily basis, but it has served the mosque very well for a long time.”
“I’m sure you will master it without difficulty,” the imam said. “Rehan has agreed to your offer to join us and take over his duties. He will prepare a contract that includes your compensation, which I insist you accept. Ah, yes, forgive me, but I promised him I would ask. Rehan has a grandson who wishes to join your firm and wonders if you would be so kind as to provide a recommendation for him.”
Khaled felt immense relief. John Eiserly would speak with the partners at the firm, and all would be well. He said, “I will ask Rehan about his grandson when I meet with him. If I believe his grandson would prosper at Culver and Beck it would be my pleasure to recommend him.”
Ali nodded. “Thank you. By the way, did you hear about the attempted kidnapping of the Countess of Camden? Saturday night at the gates of her country home?”
Khaled only cocked his head to the side in question. “Yes, I read about it in theEvening Standard. Very odd. Why do you mention it?”
“There were attempts to kidnap her daughter, Elizabeth, some months ago. She was connected to the near bombing of St. Paul’s last year, and so to our mosque. Such criminality happens often in England, and yet they continue to blame us.”
“The press profits from their speculations, Imam. It is what they do.”
Ali nodded to the waiter to remove his plate and looked down at his exquisite Patek Philippe watch. “Ah, it grows late and I must go home and change. I am expected at the mosque. I must be properly attired before I meet the faithful.”
With a final nod to Khaled, the imam rose, left cash on the table, and hurried out of the café. Khaled sat unmoving in his chair. He slowly sipped his tea, drummed his fingers on the table. Why had the imam brought up the attempted kidnapping, only to drop it? And Lady Elizabeth’s name as well. Did he truly not know who was responsible? Khaled realized he was no longer certain of anything.
Chapter Fifty-One
Darlington Hall
Monday
