In the rooftop beer garden of Ye Olde English Pub, Bragg sat alone at a big wooden table, under the waving fronds of a big, potted palm. Huge fans thudded overhead, slung off rough-hewn beams, serving up random icy gusts from the air conditioned interior. For all the chintzy décor and eye-wateringly surly service, the place yet possessed a sense of comfortable familiarity, home-away-from-home in a far-flung land, with cold beer and a view of the city, now coming alive with the night.
Hardly a prolific drinker, Bragg nevertheless felt he deserved this one, after a long, wearying day of defeats and frustrations. Including several hours' wait in an anteroom at the Justice Ministry, hoping to see General Musharraf, only to be sent packing, long after the General had cancelled the meeting. Blown off, and not in the nice way. A gesture common in these parts, Bragg knew, highlighting the visitor's importance. Namely zero.
Then a call from Tanya, describing her friend's visit, and Nikki's experience in Ab Aldafra during her tenure as a wife of the king. Bragg had met Nikita a couple of times, at the odd high-society soiree, but had never really warmed to the woman. A man of many affectations himself, he found her candid, breezy, girl-next-door facade hard to swallow. Yet, looking back, she was one hundred percent natural, and Bragg was forced to admit it was mostly sour grapes. She'd been gifted a fortune, or so he'd believed, while he'd had to slave for every dime. An accidental millionaire, wealth without worth. But she was no one's fool, and what she'd told Tanya was far from reassuring.
Shoulders hunched, elbows propped on the table, Bragg unfolded a dog-eared page, then wet his whistle and began to read.
It was copy of the letter given to Bragg by Brigadier Khamim, for presentation to His Excellency, General Fahad Musharraf, head of the Justice Ministry. Translated by Ali the driver, painstakingly rendered in perfect cursive, the fawning, gushing prose read thus;
'Most revered colleague, hero of the nation and brother in arms. Keeper of justice, favoured of His Majesty
I bid you greetings.
If it please you, esteemed brother, permit me to introduce to you Mr. Roger Bragg of Australia. Attorney at law, friend of our nation and honoured guest of his Majesty, long may he reign.
Mister Roger recently approached my humble self, desirous of information as to the whereabouts and disposition of a female employee. An Australian citizen, Miss Alana Sarah Blake.
Miss Alana is presently a guest of His Majesty, long may he prosper, having, with unnecessary force and extreme prejudice, transgressed numerous laws and committed diverse offences. To wit, illegal entry, insulting the crown, obstruct justice and resisting arrest. While I sympathise with Mister Roger and wish to do all in my power to have these matters resolved, it is beyond my humble remit to offer information, or divulge the whereabouts of his wayward employee. Thus, I recommend Mr. Roger to you, that you may wield your power and authority as you see fit, in the furtherance of this esteemed gentleman's request.
May your dealings with Mister Roger be mutually beneficial.
I am and have always been, and forever shall remain your loyal servant. May the Herald bless and keep you all of your days,
Humbly yours,
Khamim'
"Say, Buddy," a voice said, shattering Bragg's reverie. Quickly folding the letter, Bragg looked up to find a sweating, slightly portly balding man standing over him, a mug of frothing beer clutched in his hand. Dressed in a suit, he had removed his tie as a concession to the heat and the venue, and stood looking at Bragg with a wan smile. He nodded at the vacant bench across from Bragg. "Is this seat taken?"
Bragg looked around, searching desperately for some reason to decline, but in the end he simply replied, "No, sure. Please, sit down."
The newcomer straddled the seat then drew his leg over. "Name's Chuck." he announced, offering a soft, fat, well-manicured hand. They shook.
"Roger." Bragg replied, then looked reflexively at his watch, in case he might have forgotten some prior engagement.
Chuck thumbed over his shoulder with a grimace. "Too goddam smoky in there. With all those goddam hookahs."
"Hookers?" Bragg arched his eyebrows.
"Hookahs." Chuck said, and mimed sucking the business end of a shisha. "You know, those hash pipes. The bubble things."
"Not sure it's actually hashish." Bragg said with a lopsided smile. His lawyer senses were tingling. Doing his best to be disarming, he knew nonetheless he had a bunny.
"Whatever." Chuck said, waving the comment away. "It's like goddam downtown LA in there." Pausing, he downed a long draught of beer and sat back, licking his lips. Bragg looked around. There must have been a dozen other tables in the rooftop beer garden, most of them empty, but this character had chosen this one. Straight away, Bragg realised, here was a stranger in a strange land, far from home and out of his depth, desperate for something familiar- a pub, a beer, another white face, a language that was even vaguely American.
"Quite a place, aint' it?" Chuck mused.
"The pub?"
"Ab Aldafra. Been here before?"
"Once or twice. How about you?"
"First time." Chuck said then took another pull at his beer. "And the beer." he said, nodding at the draft Asahi. "Not as good as back home. Say. Have you seen all those dudes wearing dresses out there? Wandering around in public?"
"Dresses?"
"Long white dresses, I swear to God. Do ya reckon they're queers?"
Bragg shrugged, lost for words. He must have meant thawbs, also known as dishdashas, the national garb for men. As for their sexual proclivities, the American's mistaken hypothesis yet impinged on an unspoken truth.
"Seem to be everywhere." Chuck frowned. "And those ladies in their big black robes, with just an itty-bitty slit for the eyes. Do you think it's a cult?"
Bragg took a sip, gathering his wits, then blithely replied, "I haven't really noticed them."
Chuck stared at him in dismay. "Hell buddy, they're everywhere. A guy can't walk twenty feet without bumping into one."
"I don't get out much." Bragg admitted. "Usually got my head in the computer."
"Well," Chuck said then drained the rest of his beer, "you should check 'em out. It's crazy, man."
"I'll make a point of it." Bragg assured him.
"Seen any camels?"
"Camels?" Bragg frowned.
"Uh huh." Chuck said, "Limo driver told me. This is where they come from."
"Ab Aldafra?"
"Apparently." Chuck nodded. "Only it's not the season unfortunately, otherwise they're everywhere. But you never know."
"Camels." Bragg shook his head, "Well I'll be."
Chuck looked into his empty mug, then over his shoulder at the broad, open frontage, leading to the pub's dim interior. "Waiter!" he yelled, then let rip with a whistle. A moment later a young blonde woman scuffed to a halt beside them. "Get me a beer," Chuck said, "and some peanuts."
"Let me get it." Bragg said as Chuck flipped open his billfold.
"You sure?"
"Absolutely." Bragg nodded, delving into his own wallet and pulling out a couple of notes. "Make that two beers, thanks."
