Chapter 13: The Kalinin of Kushtia

As far as trying out the account management idea was concerned, Clegg was as good as his word. He set up a meeting for me only a few days later.

"So, I understand from Mr Clegg, that your new approach is to meet the specific needs of your clients rather than just picking up whatever you find lying around." The robed man in my office had an Asiatic appearance but spoke English without any trace of an accent. Clegg had said he was the Kalinin of Kushtia an old school friend, though he didn't say from what school.

"You sound sceptical, your highness," I responded. "I'm sure it was never Mr Clegg's approach to simply collect stock on an ad-hoc basis but, yes, we are interested in developing the way we do business."

He shrugged. "We shall see. I have a problem. Mr Clegg tells me he can solve it. He has always managed to meet his commitments in the past."

I was standing. He was seated. I've never been much of a fan of royalty but when they're the customer they get all the politeness they want as far as I'm concerned. Mind you if someone had asked me who (or even what) the Kalinin of Kushtia was, I couldn't have told them. Couldn't have told them where Kushtia was, either. It turns out Kushtia is a narrow strip of a country that runs along the northern edge of the Hindu Kush. The Kalinin is the hereditary ruler.

The Kalinin went on. "Let me tell you my problem," he said. "It is conventional in my country when a prince comes of age that his father provides him with the pick of the women of the village to become the start of his harem. Naturally we wish to continue the tradition even though we are here in your country, in exile."

"Naturally," I replied.

"But here in the west there is little understanding of our customs. I fear that our traditions are not accepted. The ways of our culture are not always honoured here. I believe that I must exercise some care in the way that these things are handled."

"I am sure you are right."

"So, we wish you to arrange this. Mr Clegg tells me that your goal is to meet your customer's needs. My son has made a list of those women he desires. I wish to satisfy him as far as is possible. Perhaps I could have your views?"

I looked at the list he was holding out to me.

1. Girls Aloud (especially : Nicola)

2. The Spice Girls (especially : Geri)

3. The Pussy Cat Dolls (especially : Carmit)

4. Nicole Kidman

5. Lindsay Lohan

"I think I'm beginning to detect a trend here..." I said, noting the enthusiasm for pop singers and for redheads. I wondered what he would think if he ever chanced on Sarah, Harry's PA.

1. The Sugababes

2. Destiny's Child

"Oh, OK, not quite single minded. Look, your highness, I think that, even with our resources, we are going to have to reset some expectations."

1. Hooters waitress

2. NFL Cheerleader

"How old is your son?" I asked noting that at least the last two might be achievable.

"Twenty five, that is the age for the taking of wives," his father replied. He saw my raised eyebrows. "But in some ways he seems much younger. Even so, you do understand — this is the tradition — that he should have the best that is available; that his father should provide the best for his son's harem women. That, after all, reflects on me."

"Of course your highness but I am sure that you see what a challenge this list is. If we were to succeed in acquiring some of these then I fear that a great deal of unwelcome attention might be attracted. If it were to ever be traced back to yourselves then it could make it difficult for you to remain here. Our asylum laws are flexible but there are some things that even the British Government's Home Secretary may take exception to."

"Indeed, we must operate with a certain discretion. However, Mr Clegg has great faith in your ability to solve problems. I will allow you to surprise me." He got to his feet, smiled and swept out. It was my first real job for Clegg and I wasn't optimistic.

I needed to talk to Research, I thought. I really needed some ideas on how we could set about this. Then I had a bit of luck. I was walking through Southwark past a run down pub when I heard the strains of "Wannabe" drifting out. A chalked sign on a board beside the door said, "Live Music — All Spice — 2nite."

I went in.

It was a pretty seedy venue. I bought myself a pint. The beer wasn't any better than the rest of the pub but the stage in the room at the back held five reasonably convincing look-alikes, a Spice Girls tribute band, thrashing their way through the Girl Power repertoire. Ginger and Posh were the closest to the real thing for looks, which suited me. They probably sang better than the originals had. The rest of the pub's clientele didn't seem to be taking much notice.