In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [93]
“I know that scene.” Camelia remembered being outbid on the purchase of his house in Queens by a guy who just kept upping the ante another thou’ and then another thou’, until finally Camelia had called enough. It was just the same with Khalid al Sharif, only the stakes were higher. Business was business, he guessed.
A colleague drove the unmarked black Vauxhall auto through the maze of central London traffic. Bedazzled, Camelia closed his eyes; he thought he would never get used to driving on the left. Plus, he’d had a sleepless night and jet lag had tamped down his brain cells. Never in his career had he felt less ready for an interrogation. Especially one with a difficult, temperamental, and very rich suspect.
The house, on posh Bishops Avenue, in the smart suburb of Hampstead, was very grand. It took ten minutes of back-and-forth with the two burly bodyguards, complete with snarling German shepherds, with the guards on the intercom to the house and Camelia puffing urgently on a Winston and Macpherson becoming steelier and steelier in a very polite British way, before they were finally admitted.
The marble front hall soared forty feet, supported at intervals by fluted onyx columns, all the way up to an enameled blue dome laced with sparkling stars.
A male servant in a white robe held at the waist by a blue-tasseled sash showed them into the main salon.
Khalid al Sharif was seated by the window, alone on the gold silk banquette that ran the entire length and breadth of the room, piled high with jewel-toned cushions. Small crystal tables, placed here and there in front of it, held silver and gold dishes containing fresh dates, assorted nuts, and sugared almonds. The domed ceiling was again painted blue, with a tiny window at its apex, rich Oriental rugs covered the marble floor, and a vase of perfect Casablanca lilies on an immense circular table cast their intoxicating sweet scent into the room.
It was a movie set, Camelia thought, stunned. The sultan’s palace via Cleopatra. He had never known that people lived like this, even rich people. But this was really rich. This was staggeringlyrich.
“Mind-boggling,” Macpherson muttered as they waited for Sharif to greet them.
Sharif did not get up. Nor did he offer them refreshment. “I did not invite you gentlemen here,” he said, picking a stem of fresh dates from the silver dish in front of him. “And I cannot think what it is you need to question me about. But you can make sure my ambassador will make a serious complaint to the Prime Minister.” He plucked a date from the stem and bit into it, staring balefully at them with big brown eyes.
He was a handsome guy, Camelia thought. In his late forties, with a lean bronze face, a mustache, and dark hair partially hidden under a red-and-white headcloth. He could see that he was fit, too, under that white robe he wore. His feet were bare and Camelia noted that his toenails had a sheen of clear nail polish.
Sharif spat the date pit into his hand and deposited it in a bowl. He plucked another date from the stem, saying nothing.
Camelia glanced at Macpherson and Macpherson nodded, giving him the lead.
“Mr. Sharif, sir, there is no need for alarm, and I apologize if you thought so.” Camelia was sweating with the effort at diplomacy. He was more used to scraping bodies off the streets after a shoot-out; he didn’t know from this sophisticated man-of-the-world crap. “We simply need an answer to one question.”
Sharif’s brows rose and he spat out another date pit.
“The question is,” Camelia filled in the long silence, “who else is in the bidding war on the Fifth Avenue air space, besides Ed Vincent?”
Sharif did not look at him, when finally he spoke. “I was, of course, sorry to learn of Mr. Vincent’s unfortunate . . . incident. However,