The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 6: The Trial of Carstairs
September 10th, 2015. Somewhere over Southern Europe.
“This is ... I don’t know his real name. He was in Fatherland, with Emma Lestrade. She was a Polish resistance fighter and he chased her. He played a soldier. Asim! Asim! Did you hire him to play your butler?!”
“Uhm ... I ... What?” said Asim nonplussed. “Carstairs?”
I now had two options: admit that I was an actor and spin a yarn about needing the money or researching a role, or stick to my guns and ride this out. I had a genuine passport in the name of Reginald Carstairs. I had been vetted by the Saudis, who had even called the college I supposedly attended. Nothing on my person or in my phone would lead back to Martin King, never mind Martin van de Casteele. I had never spoken Dutch in their presence. And admitting I had been lying to them now would make them feel betrayed, whereas right now everybody was just confused. Never admit. Never, ever admit. Let others find the rope to hang you with. Don’t hand it to them, hoping for clemency.
“Your Royal Highness, this is an unfortunate misunderstanding. Prince Muhammed has mistaken me for an actor. It happens, occasionally.”
“The beard threw me off. You didn’t have it in the movie,” said MBS, who was rapidly losing interest now that he’d solved the puzzle.
“Which actor?” demanded Omar, hissing in my ear.
I had to give him the name. If you look like a celebrity, you generally know who.
“I think his Highness is referring to King, Martin King. He’s DUTCH.”
Omar snapped his fingers and pointed at the nearest civil servant’s laptop.
“You. Search for it.”
As you can imagine, internet connectivity is readily available on Saudi private planes.
“What was the name?” asked the man. He and his colleagues were clearly settling in for some quality entertainment and he seemed very eager to fan the flames. Omar and I were still standing, but now he pushed me towards the nearest seat.
“Well?” he demanded.
“King. K I N G. Martin.”
The Saudi’s laptop had an Arabic keyboard, but the characters of the Latin alphabet were printed in the corner of each key. He Googled me and Google obligingly displayed one of those info cards. The most prominent image was a picture of me in the backstage hospitality area at the Oscars, but there were also several thumbnails with screenshots from commercials I’d done. I was behind a piano on one, there was the Qatar Airways promotional shot I’d done with Kelly and a few of me in the Wehrmacht uniform. There was also a thumbnail of the Times Magazine cover of me cradling an unconscious Kevin Tarantella dressed up as a Jewish scholar. I don’t like that picture, because it shows me very much in distress.
Below the pictures was some information from my Wikipedia page. ‘Martin King, real name Martin van de Casteele, is a Dutch actor and entrepreneur.’ And then the usual biographical data, like my height, date of birth, birth place, my current spouse (the artist Melody Warder) and child: Edwin van de Casteele. I noticed Edwin’s name wasn’t underlined, but Mel’s was. I didn’t know she had a Wikipedia page by now! That girl has done well for herself, hasn’t she?
Then there was a section marked ‘films’, which listed Fatherland and the DVD’s of An Audience With Carstairs and the Dinner With Carstairs iTunes download. Which was a bit pathetic, really.
“GUARD! I NEED A GUARD IN HERE!” said Omar (in Arabic), and a bus of a man who was apparently part of MBS’s security detail came into the room. He took over from Omar, because apparently I was a flight risk even at 30,000 feet. Omar hobbled back to his seat.
It got worse. Next to the info card, which only took up a third of the results, were the first three links. Number one was from The Independent and read as follows: ‘Police: no reason to assume foul play in King disappearance.’ Number two was from the BBC: ‘Fans are looking for the next Dr. Who. Literally.’ Number three: ‘Did Martin King donate millions to refugee relief?’ That was from The Observer. Thanks guys, I was hoping to keep that quiet.
“Well ... It looks like we’ve found him,” said Omar. By now Asim was standing behind us. In fact, seven people crowded around that screen, until the guy who owned the laptop had the bright idea to throw the image to a beamer mounted on the ceiling. MBS rolled his seat to one side so he wouldn’t block the image being projected behind his back.
“It’s the beard, really. That’s why it took me so long,” he repeated.
Omar grabbed me by the collar of my jacket.
“You. Shave. NOW.”
“But ... I’m not him! I just look like him! That’s WHY I have the beard!”
“You didn’t have it when we met,” observed Asim, who didn’t know what to make of this.
“No, because I’d been painting my house and I managed to splatter green latex paint all over it when I dropped a can. I looked ridiculous, so I had to shave it off and start again.”
Omar spoke to the guard, who grabbed my arm and then dragged me out of the room. I didn’t struggle, but he still seemed to enjoy dragging me. Omar followed close behind and knocked on the next door along the corridor.
“Lexy? Cover yourself. We need the bathroom.”
“Come in?”
Next to the meeting room was a smaller room with three seats that could turn into beds, another sofa with seat belts, a coffee table and a small pantry behind a curtain. Alexandra had already been wearing her niqab, as a male attendant was currently serving her a meal. Technically he wasn’t supposed to even be alone in a room with her, but the rule is often waived for waitstaff and servants. The suite also had a private bathroom, which was quite a bit larger than what you get as an economy passenger. There was even a shower!
“Mr. Carstairs? What’s wrong?” asked Alexandra, sounding alarmed.
“It seems your dear teacher has a secret. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No, uncle. What secret?”
“I’ll tell you while he’s shaving. Mustafa, go in there with him. If he doesn’t shave his beard AND moustache, do it for him.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And while you have him, strip him naked and search his pockets.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“HEY, WHOA WHOA WHOA!”
Fortunately Mustafa wasn’t any more interested in standing around in a cramped bathroom with a naked man than I was in stripping off in male company, so he only made me take off my jacket and shirt, frisked me thoroughly and watched as I prepared to lather up.
“You should use a trimmer first,” he grunted.
“I don’t have a trimmer.”
He pointed at a cabinet door near my knees and I did in fact find a trimmer.
“Thanks. You’re alright, Mustafa.”
“Just shave,” he said, thumbing through my passport. And so I did. To be honest, it was a blessed relief to get rid of all that facial hair. I’d gotten used to it, but it required a lot more upkeep than a simple shave every other day. Too much preening and pruning for my taste. Sadly, my chin emerged a shade or two whiter than the rest of my face, as if I’d been on a SARS holiday. Somehow I’d still managed to get a tan. Still, I was sure that would disappear in a day or two. I had no idea what was in store for me, but as long as the plane wasn’t turning around to Saudi Arabia I wasn’t all that worried. Besides, I’d been to prison. It’s doable.
It took fifteen minutes, all told, before I emerged from the bathroom. Omar, Asim and the princess were waiting for me, all holding iPads. Their jaws dropped when they looked at my face.
“I don’t believe it...” said Asim.
“He looks almost identical!” exclaimed Alexandra, who seemed delighted.
“What, almost?! It’s HIM!” objected Omar.
“No ... Look, Carstairs is a bit fatter. See? The chin?”
Omar squinted.
“Maybe. But it’s the same guy.”
“Your Royal Highnesses, I assure you...”
“Carstairs!” said Asim, getting up from the sofa. “Why did you never tell me this? You look like a movie star! That’s so cool! We could have had such fun!”
“Cousin, are you mad?! This is not Mr. Carstairs! This is that actor!” bellowed Omar.
A chime rang and MBS’s voice rang out through the plane.
“Is he done yet? We want to see.”
And so I was taken back to the conference room. Alexandra was ordered to stay in her room, much to her dismay. It seemed that quite a bit of Googling had been going on in my absence. I was made to sit in the seat nearest the door, next to MBS. Omar sat opposite me, and Asim told a civil servant to move to another seat as he sat down next to me.
“Okay, so what is going on?” asked MBS. “Who is this man?”
“Sorry, can we all speak English? As this is about me, I’d like to be able to follow it.”
Omar sighed.
“This is an actor called Martin King. And he has been living in MY house, teaching MY niece. Because my cousin Asim wanted a British butler and couldn’t find a real one, I suppose.”
“Omar, that’s not true. This is Mr. Carstairs! He saved our lives on that plane! That’s when we met. He was Mr. Carstairs then, and he has a real passport! That’s a real passport, right?”
He directed that last question to Mustafa, who seemed to be the passport expert on board.
“Yes, Your Highness, that passport is genuine. And I searched him, as you ordered. There is only his phone. It is unlocked. There are very few numbers in it. All Saudi mobile numbers or Riyadh numbers, plus some texts to Prince Asim, and some family pictures.”
“Show me,” ordered MBS. He inspected my phone, with Omar looking over his shoulder. I had deleted the last message from Caroline, and I always deleted texts from John Stein right away. A forensic expert might be able to retrieve them, though. MBS looked at the pictures. Surprisingly, Omar seemed to know who was in them!
“That’s his wife. She died. His nephews. Niece. His house.”
I saw pictures of Kelly’s mother, my pretend wife, plus pictures of young children I had never met in real life. Kelly’s mother and I had even had a bit of a photo session together, eating birthday cake and, thanks to the magic of Photoshop, walking through Paris together. I have no idea what bullshit story Kate told her, but she seemed to think it was all hilarious. In one picture we ate birthday cake from the same fork, our noses almost touching. It was supposed to be lovey dovey, but everyone around us laughed so hard at the sight of us we both couldn’t keep a straight face either, which made the picture even better.
“So these are fake?” asked MBS. Omar blinked twice. That hadn’t occurred to him. He then asked ME!
“Are they?”
“NO! That’s my late wife, Gertrude! I lost her in 2012.”
I think. Or was in 2011?
“And that’s my nephew Roderick, and my niece Julia. They live in Scotland. I had more pictures of them, but something went wrong with my phone. And I lost pictures of my brother Mark and my sister, Karen. Mark lives in New Zealand, with our mother.”
And he looks a lot like Peter Fox. I wonder where that picture went.
“When were you born?” asked MBS, studying my passport.
“October 1st, 1977. Bury St. Edmunds.”
“Okay. And what DAY was that?”
That’s clever. It doesn’t say that in a passport, but practically everybody knows on which weekday they were born. I didn’t, in this case. But there’s a trick for that, which requires a bit of maths. I won’t go through the entire thing here, but it involves converting the months and years into code numbers. The year 2000 is 0, 2001 is 1, etc. Leap years mess this up, but 1977 isn’t a leap year. It also falls before 2000, but we fix that at the end. So let’s start with the month codes: for January through to December they are: 6, 2, 2, 5, 0, 3, 5, 1, 4, 6, 2, 4. These seem arbitrary, but there are mnemonics: why is December a four? Because XMAS. Four letters. Why is January a six? It’s WINTER, six letters. October is 6 because of the extremely lame mnemonic SIX or treat! (Trick or treat. Halloween. Get it? I didn’t either when I learned this back in The Netherlands. FIVERworks for July also meant nothing to me. We only do fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Which we call Old Year’s Eve.)
Right, so we have codes for the months. Six is for October. The day is the 1st, at least for my fictitious birthday. No code is required for the days. To get a weekday code for a year in the 20th century (1900-1999) we work it out for the 21st century and add a day. But what’s the numerical code for 2077? Well, for that I need the code of the nearest leap year before the year in question, which is 2076. I know this because it is divisible by four but not by 1000. The code for 2076 is 4. Why? Well, for years between 2056 to 2080, we can subtract 56 from the year. That would be 2020. The code for 2020 is 4 (mnemonic: 2+0+2+0) and so it’s the same for 2076. Now add 1 (because we were talking about 2077, not 2076), that’s 5. Good, now I have all the elements I need for the formula, which is: Month Code (6) + Date (1) + Year Code (5) = Day of Week Code. Which would be 12, but as weeks repeat every 7 days I subtract 7 and get ... You can do this... 5! Well done you. Same as the year code, that’s just a coincidence. The day codes are simple: Sunday is 0, count up, Saturday is 6. So October 1st, 2077 will be a Friday. I said we’d add one for the 20th century, so my fake birthday would be on a...
“Saturday,” I said, after about five seconds.
“You had to think really long about that!”
“It was long ago. Nobody actually remembers that, do they? I had to dig deep.”
“Can someone check that?” asked MBS.
“It’s correct,” confirmed one of the civil servants. “Saturday.”
MBS shrugged.
“It’s still not saying much.”
“Ask him why it says here that Martin King is mostly known for playing a butler called Carstairs.” said one of the civil servants, who turned his laptop towards us so we could see his screen.
“WHERE DOES IT SAY THAT?!” thundered Omar, who seemed to have missed that part so far. I guess he had been reading about Fatherland during my shave.
“On his Wikipedia page. And in this article. And this ... no the fifth link.”
“Reginald...” said Asim, now sounding very disappointed.
“Look, it’s a very common name! There’s even a village in Scotland called Carstairs. And in Canada.”
“And is everyone a BUTLER there?!”
“Let me see this...” said Asim. The civil servant slid his laptop towards him. Asim read it out to all of us.
“Martin King, born in 1975 as Martin van de Casteele in Leiden, The Netherlands, is a Dutch film actor, voice actor and entrepreneur. He is primarily known for his character Carstairs, a haughty butler who has dedicated his life to a young girl, performed by Kelly Newman under her own name. Newman and King are close friends in real life, but the character makes occasional appearances with other public figures, notably Graham McAfee and Emma Lestrade. Carstairs was a spokesperson and mascot for telecom operator Three between 2013 and 2015. King also appears in a welcome video for British Airways on all flights arriving in the greater London Area and voices the Caravaggio exhibit at the British Museum in English, German and his native Dutch. In 2014 King made his film debut as Colonel Meisl in Kevin Tarantella’s war drama Fatherland. For this he has received several nominations. King has also appeared on stage in ‘I Married A Murderer’ and occasionally performs one-offs at the Barbican centre. He is married to the French artist Melody Warder, with whom he has a son, Edwin van de Casteele. They live in Ealing, London.”
Everyone stared at me. It’s not bad, as biographies go.
“There are subheadings. Career. Bankruptcy. Behaviour on set. Disappearance,” added Asim, almost whispering by now. Omar on the other hand was nearly ecstatic.
“DISAPPEARANCE. Read that one!”
Asim clicked, read ahead a few lines and then said:
“On July 13th, 2015 Peter Capaldi, the actor who currently plays Dr. Who, announced his retirement from the role in 2016. A poll held by the BBC showed that almost three million fans would like to see King take on the part next. This echoes sentiments of a previous poll held on Facebook, in which a fan asked his followers who should steer the Tardis next and listed King as one of five options, the others being David Mitchell, Lenny Henry, Idris Elba and John Finnemore. King was favoured by a wide margin, which prompted the BBC to repeat the poll with twenty additional options including Jude Law and Jodie Whittaker. Again, King won by a landslide with many voters adding that Kelly Newman should be cast as the Doctor’s new assistant. As the news media approached King for comment, it was found that he had all but disappeared from public view after his wedding. The notorious ... it says ‘citation needed’ ... notorious talent agency of Keller & Fox, has stated that King has placed his career on hold to focus on his family and...”
Asim looked up and turned to me.
“Keller & Fox? Like Miss Keller? Your boss? The lady I met on the plane? Who dressed like a stewardess?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “That’s the one.”
Asim’s face sank like a little boy who has accidentally dug up his pet turtle in the garden.
“So ... it’s true? You are Martin King?”
By now I’d had enough time to build up some negative energy, and I launched into a story I had once prepared with Caroline Keller. Prepared meaning: discussed for about five minutes.
“NO!” I screeched. “NO NO NO! Look, that Martin King fellow has been a pain up my backside ever since he showed up in London. I’d been working for Caroline Keller for a few years, as her business advisor. One day she introduces me to Martin King, who NOBODY had heard of by the way, and said: ‘Look Carstairs, I found your twin! We’ve just signed him to the agency.’ And, you know, there’s a passing resemblance, which is not funny when it’s actually about YOU. So I shake hands with him, we talk for all of ten minutes and I forget all about him. UNTIL that ... man ... does an add for Three, the phone people, and ... and ... IMITATES ME! The voice, the mannerisms ... Everything! He’s DUTCH, you know! They don’t even HAVE butlers there!”
“So you’ve met him?” asked MBS.
“YES. He also showed up at a company event a few days later. Little did I know he was studying me or I’d have punched his lights out. Do you know what they asked me to do when he was in Hollywood doing that movie? To be his stunt double! That’s right! He was too precious to be doing any stunts, but if Carstairs shatters his spine that’s no big loss to anyone, apparently! Do you know I can’t really go shopping any more? I have stuff delivered now, because every time I make it to Morrisons people think I’m HIM! I either get mobbed, old people nearly have a stroke or they ask me about Kelly. He has RUINED my life and now I’ve moved five thousand miles to get away from him AND HE’S ONLY DOING IT AGAIN!”
I petered out and sank down in my seat. Burying my head in my hands was perhaps a bit too much, but I could certainly do some glowering. I can glower with the best of ‘em, you know.
MBS found this all very amusing, and said as much:
“This is fantastic! I was not looking forward to another long flight, but now we have a mystery to solve! Isn’t this great?”
Omar was doing his best to stay calm.
“No, Your Royal Highness, it is not. This man lives in my house. He teaches my niece. He has a medallion. And he’s been here for months! If he is actually an impostor, we have a serious problem.”
Asim objected.
“He is not an impostor! I met him on an aeroplane! I offered him a job! He lived in my house and I saw him every day. We are FRIENDS!”
“You are far too trusting, Asim. Clearly he is preparing for a role. That’s why he was on his way to the airport without telling us. He had enough of it, and was going back home.”
“Wait, wait...” said MBS. “So if he is an actor, how did he get a real passport? And did he somehow manage to poison two pilots just so he’d meet Asim? And what part is he preparing for? I hear all he does is drink tea and read books in his room. Do you have to sneak into a palace to do that?”
Omar clenched his teeth, seemed to be counting to five and then said:
“It’s HIM. He doesn’t LOOK like Martin King, he IS Martin King. You all have eyes, don’t you? I only have ONE eye right now but even I can tell you it’s exactly the same man! Look!”
He pointed to the nearest laptop.
MBS shrugged.
“He certainly looks very similar. But, you know ... Don’t they all? I mean, white westerners? They all dress the same, they all look the same. Especially when they go bald. If I go to the Aramco engineering department right now, I can find five more like him.”
“Not EXACTLY like him, though. Look! His eyes! His nose!”
One of the delegates was still Googling me.
“Did you really parachute into the Oscars?” he asked, offhandedly.
“I did not, as I am NOT MARTIN KING. And I’m pretty sure that was faked.”
Plenty of conspiracy theorists do. Or did, for a week or two. Everything in Hollywood is fake, or so people assume. It probably didn’t get the page views they were hoping for, so they moved on.
“Show me that!” demanded MBS, almost giggling. The man turned his screen around and used two keystrokes to magnify the font. MBS scanned the text.
“So Martin King is a parachute jumper ... Do we have a parachute here? We can throw him out. If he survives, he’s lying to us. Haaaaaa! Hahahaahaaaaa!”
The delegates laughed as well.
“We are no longer flying over Saudi soil and the cabin is pressurized,” growled Omar, with what seemed to be a tinge of regret. Dumping me right now would probably make his day. But MBS had a different plan:
“Okay, we are going to figure this out. We can do it as a trial! Omar, you are the prosecution. Find as much evidence as you can that this is Martin King. Asim, you are the defence attorney. You and Martin have to counter every accusation. I will be the judge. These men can be the jury.”
“How am I going to defend myself here?” I asked. “We’re airborne! I can’t just pop into the basement for a copy of my birth certificate, can I?”
MBS shrugged.
“We will have an internet connection for most of the way. Call whoever you like.”
Asim sprang up.
“Carstairs, call Miss Keller!”
“Who?” asked MBS.
“Caroline Keller. She works for the agency.”
Caroline owns the agency, but Saudi men simply can’t imagine women being in charge of anything, much less having ownership.
Omar, clearly not in the mood to handle this the way MBS suggested, also got up.
“YES, THAT IS MY POINT. He works for a talent agency. He didn’t even bother to make up a fake employer, but claims he met his so-called doppelgänger at Keller & Fox. They represent actors!”
“That’s why they found King,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Talent agencies get hundreds of headshots every week.”
“What? Headshots?” asked MBS, clearly thinking of something else.
“Portfolio pictures. Actors send them out all the time. That’s how they found King. He went bankrupt, fled to the UK to avoid tax prosecution and decided to try his luck as an actor. That’s how Keller & Fox found him.”
“Why would they want him if they already had you?” asked MBS, loving every second.
“I don’t know! I can’t act, that might be a reason. Also, I don’t want to. Have you ever met an actor? They’re horrible people! Completely self-absorbed, yet devoid of any kind of personality. I’m pretty sure that’s why he imitated me. At least I’m a fully accomplished individual. He’s just a void. A void on legs.”
I was cut off by MBS.
“Yah yah yah. Can we call this lady? Who is she again?”
“Miss Caroline Keller is the OWNER of Keller & Fox. I used to work for her, and she was there on the plane I helped land.”
“Landed. I helped,” said Asim. “Yes, I am sure Miss Keller can explain everything!”
“Would that help?” asked MBS, looking at Omar.
“We are going to call a woman we don’t know?!”
“Yes. Well, he is. And he knows her.”
“And how do we know she isn’t also going to lie to us? I would be more impressed if he could get Martin King on the line. Or on FaceTime.”
“I don’t know how to reach him,” I said, trying to look disappointed. “But I may be able to get hold of Ms. Keller.”
“Wonderful!” said MBS, rubbing his hands. “Let me know when you do. I’m getting something to eat. We are adjourned until after my lunch. Ha!”
He rapped the table with his knuckles and stepped out. Well, at least he wasn’t setting up a pretend Sharia court. I’d be dead already.
And so it happened that I called Keller & Fox via Skype, on Omar’s account. I didn’t get Kate on the line, because I didn’t call the monitoring room. Instead, I called Winston on his direct line and prayed to Kate that he wouldn’t fuck this up.
“IT, this is Winston.”
“Winston, this is Reginald Carstairs, how are you?”
Winston was quiet for far too long.
“Sorry? Who is this?”
“Reginald Carstairs. Come on, it hasn’t been THAT long. Look, can you put me through to Alice post haste? I’m on a private jet and burning through Skype credit.”
“Regin ... Okay. Sure. Hang on.”
That got me through to Alice, Caroline’s private secretary. I gave her Omar’s Skype handle and asked her to contact Caroline. Alice knows exactly what’s going on at all times and wouldn’t ask me any dumb questions.
“Is she in?” I asked. I’d be VERY surprised if she was, but I had to ask.
“No, she’s on a business trip. In fact, she may be offline right now. Airborne.”
“Well, so am I. I need her to confirm that...”
Omar’s hand shot out and pressed the key combo that muted the microphone. It’s Shift-D, which I’d never have guessed. But then I hadn’t used Skype in over a decade.
“No no no, don’t give out any clues. Understand? Or else...”
I nodded. He unmuted me.
“You still there, Mr. Carstairs?”
“Yes, I am. Just ... ask her to call, with some urgency.”
“I will, Mr. Carstairs. It may take a little while, though.”
“Thank you, Alice.”
As soon as she hung up, Omar grunted. The guard who had been keeping an eye on me seemed to know exactly what that meant: remove me from the conference room and handcuff me to one of the seats near the galley.
I sat there for twenty minutes, next to my guard. The steward didn’t blink an eye and offered us both a drink and a meal.
“I wouldn’t mind lunch,” I said. The guard, clearly a soldier from some sort of elite unit, unlocked one of my restraints and said, in very serviceable English:
“Nothing warm. And if you throw anything at me or anyone else, I will put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Do you believe me?”
“Every word. Diet Coke and the chicken sandwich, please.”
I couldn’t fault Caroline’s timing: I was just cleaning my hands with the moist towelette when Asim emerged from the conference room and beckoned us in. I heard the familiar Skype song, which clearly hadn’t changed recently. The Skype logo was visible on the big screen behind MBS, but the call went through Omar’s laptop so Caroline’s view would be through the webcam in its bezel.
“Well, pick up then!” I said, because obviously I was nervous.
Asim clicked on the icon as I sat down. An airplane cabin is not the best place for a normal conversation, never mind a Skype call via a satellite internet connection. I was worried this would be a disaster.
“Headphones? Does anyone have headphones?” I asked. Someone helpfully tossed me a set of wired EarPods.
“No!” said Omar. “We won’t be able to hear her.”
I saw myself in the webcam, flanked by a guard and Asim. Omar shooed them both away.
“No hints, Mr. KING.”
Skype always produces the most fascinating beeps, boops, warbles and screeches before it finally manages to connect. It was Caroline, visible both on my screen and on the large display at the head of the table. Behind her was a large leather backrest of a seat. I also saw part of the oval window to her right. Our plane was considerably larger than hers. She looked immaculate. I’d have bet my life on that.
“Hello? Ah ... there you are, Reggie. Lost the beard, I see. Now what’s this all about?”
“Miss Keller, I’m so glad to see you. My apologies for the intrusion. Are you ... airborne?”
“I am indeed. As are you, by the sound of it. I can barely make out what you’re saying.”
“Again, apologies.”
“Stop apologizing. I’m calling you at a rate of thirty Pounds per Megabyte. Get on with it.”
Caroline was pretending to be angry with me. That seemed like a smart move. I rolled with it.
“As you may or may not know I am currently in Saudi Arabia, engaged with the Royal Family. They have discovered my similarity to Martin King and now they think I am him. An impostor. Or rather, an interloper.”
Caroline shrugged.
“You shouldn’t have shaved off your beard, then.”
“They made me do that just now, because they wanted to see the resemblance!”
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