With a swish of his silver-handled letter opener, Paul Driscoll sliced through the top of the envelope and pulled out the last reply. Another acceptance! And the big one at that: Mr Ed Topacio of the World Bank. The Ramlis would be delighted with his hard work.
Almost suicidally depressed just four evenings ago, Driscoll had warmed considerably to this newfound role the Ramlis had thrust upon him. He had become their Westminster agent, their front man in a highly secretive, and therefore, he guessed, highly remunerative deal. And if there had been any lingering doubts in the MP’s mind, Dr Abdul-Aziz Al-Badawi had done more than enough to dispel them two nights ago, when another large envelope of cash had arrived on his desk.
With all the flak the Ramlis were facing in the press at the moment, Driscoll could see why Dr Al-Badawi had been keen that he should avoid mentioning Ramliyya directly when arranging Friday's party. And he had been careful to indulge their craving for secrecy too. The security passes for entry to the Commons had been processed long before all the furore in the press. For all other purposes he had referred to his Ramli friends as 'influential businessmen from the Middle East'.
Driscoll walked from his desk to the window and looked out across the river. Just five days ago in Oxford he had watched his career, his life even, go up in smoke when the Ramli Special Envoy had thrown those black and white Star Street stills onto the coffee table.
Five days could do a lot for a politician. Now he not only found himself power-brokering in some of the most influential financial circles, but, thanks to the Ramli cash, he was also able to indulge his favourite vice more frequently and in a more up-market establishment. All right, his backers had him by the balls, but as long as he played their game, he saw no reason why the Ramlis should turn nasty on him, not like they had done to that poor old paratrooper sergeant.
He returned to his desk and buzzed the intercom.
‘Can you confirm my booking for six in the Commons dining room for Friday evening, please, Maggie? Oh, and remember you’ll be able to leave early then. I’ll cope fine with the guests by myself.’
Friday. The more he thought about it, the more absorbed Driscoll became with the arrangements. Sure, it would be as good a day as any other for the visit: the last day of the session before Parliament was prorogued for the State Opening on November 3rd. His guests could catch the back end of that tedious bill proposing British nationality for St Helena; if they were lucky, they might even see the foreign secretary in action. Quite why the Ramli delegation was so keen on witnessing such a dull non-event was a mystery, but anyway, he was getting used to their capricious ways. Presumably, the Ramlis’ real interests lay in the sumptuous dinner he had arranged for them and their financial associates afterwards, in the stately pomp of a Commons’ dining room overlooking the Thames. And if things went well on Friday, perhaps Dr Abdul-Aziz Al-Badawi would have another fat envelope of cash waiting inside his breast pocket.
There was only one concern that tempered Driscoll’s growing enthusiasm for his role: the prospect of seeing that stern-faced, western-looking Ramli again, the one whose penetrating stare had so unnerved him at Oxford. Still, even that couldn’t tarnish the thought of the after-dinner treat: an hour in Chelsea with his new Russian girl, Irena, who had more than compensated for the treachery of his Star Street honey.