Chapter 8: The Golden Palace

Derek had been in Kobekistan about six weeks, and was beginning to feel fairly confident about the work he had been asked to do. Basically it consisted of translating everything that was being done into proper English rather than the somewhat fractured English of the Kobekistani staff. The accounting procedures, he was pleased to see, turned out to be very similar to those in England. He was also surprised to see that the legendary Middle Eastern baksheesh did not seem to be a custom in the city of Kobek.

Derek was in the Golden Palace for a meeting with Hajji Darwish Dosmukhamedov, the de facto Minister of Finance and Trade, though he was nominally only an advisor to the Emir. The two had developed an excellent working relationship which showed signs of warming to something approximating friendship; at least coffee had become the first order of every meeting, and business was always postponed until the proper enquiries had been made as to their mutual health and well-being.

They were just finishing their third, or was it fourth, tiny cups of the local very strong sweet coffee when a middle aged Kobekistani wearing a Western suit came into the room and Hajji Darwish Dosmukhamedov did his best to make full obeisance. Derek, not having any idea who this man was, followed suit, on the basis that it was better safe than sorry, and this man must be important to cause an old man of at least eighty to kneel.

~Foak, said the newcomer and the two men rose to their feet, or rather Derek rose to his feet, then helped Hajji Darwish Dosmukhamedov to struggle to upright.

"You are unusual," said the newcomer, "Few westerners understand Arabic."

"Master," said Hajji Darwish Dosmukhamedov, "May I present Derek Pullman, of the His Britannic Majesty's Government."

It was when he said this that the penny dropped for Derek. There was only one man whom the Hajji would address as Master.

Derek bowed, and said, ~May Your Majesties live for ever.~

"Somewhat less than perfect Arabic, or at least, less than perfect protocol," the Emir remarked in English, "Never mind but I am not a Majesty, I am a Magnificence; and, unlike His Majesty King George VII, I am not plural, even in formal documents."

There was a short silence as Derek wondered whether he should answer, and if so, what on earth to say, then the Emir said to the Hajji, "I meant to ask you about the Tirfil business, but it can wait," and he swept out of the room.

"That was His Magnificence Mahmoud Abdullah, may he live for ever, our Emir for the last twenty-five years," said the old man, "As you can see, he still rushes about, and concerns himself with everything. The matter of Tirfil is totally unimportant compared to our Railway Project."

Just then the telephone rang and the Hajji answered it.

He listened for some moments and then said, ~As the Master wishes, and replaced the receiver.

"Well, I have to deal with Tirfil first, so our business will have to wait. I suppose we'll have to start again tomorrow afternoon," the old man said grumpily, "And he wants to have dinner with you, tonight. If you arrive at eight someone will show you where," he said to Derek.

When he got back to the Embassy, he asked the Ambassador what he should do.

"Do? You do what you are told, boy," snapped the Ambassador, "If the Emir wants you for dinner, he gets you for dinner."

Derek had visions of a large casserole full of Englishman.

Sir Ian continued, "Black tie. Don't be late. The delay of a day on the work is unimportant compared with such an invitation. Don't forget, you are there in a private capacity. Do not commit the Government to anything. Try to use the correct knife and fork. Never touch food with your left hand. Pass the port to the left. I assume you are house trained?"

"I hope so, sir," said Derek as it began to dawn on him that he had better mind his p's and q's at this dinner; he had never dined with royalty before.