Date: Thu, 25 Nov 2004 09:57:37 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 6 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the sixth chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day
slavery and gay sex.

Keywords:  authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining,
submission, gay, sex

This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful
for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage
now.

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com

w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories

  Chapter 6 -- The right of inquisition

  The original file of Xavier LaGrange alias Maurice Saliège was quite
well elaborated as a hoax file. As I read it, I had to smile at its
deviousness and cleverness. Everything was just slightly off, but not so
off that the slave would not be able to remember it. He had lived at Rue
de Lyon 45, but had said Rue de Lille 45. He had gone to school at St.
Marc, but had said St. Jean. Maurice had been an uncle of his mother's;
Saliège, the surname of a cousin.

  Xavier LaGrange had lied so much in the invention of his new identity
that the interrogators at the slave centre had not been willing to let
him off even on one single small lie or omission.

  `When did you first have sex with a woman?'

  `At fifteen, sir.'

  `And with a man?'

  `Never, sir.'

  `Not even in the showers with the paratroopers?'

  `That was ...en faisant du plat.... to make the pass, how you say?'

  `You did?'

  He shook his head, and said `No, sir.'

  The interrogators' notes commented on an erection of some eight or
nine inches and the piss slit of his cockhead was oozing clear precum.

  If Xavier hadn't horseplayed, he surely had wanted to.

  The questions went on and on. The answers again showing that the
originals were near to the truth, but never quite one hundred per cent. I
wondered whether this was a military technique on capture and
interrogation and I resolved to ask those who had military experience.

  The interrogators, whose initials, but not their names, were on the
file, reported Xavier LaGrange's statement of remorse when he wrote
verbatim in the file `Sir, I sorry I tell a lie. I not tell you a lie
again. Sorry.'

  The interrogators had put three `???' question marks after that
statement as if not knowing quite what to make of it and then another
comment at the end `30 strokes short cane' with two sets of initials.

  So much for honesty and acceptance of facts at face value!

  I left Xavier LaGrange to the tender mercies of his trainers. All his
data, as indeed all that of the other invader slaves, would be
double-checked for authenticity by Josh Green in the Grand Cayman and his
own investigators world-wide.

  While I am a man of my word, a Master must also be nobody's fool. Two
thirds of these new slaves had tried to fool me with their re-invented
identities, half-truths and downright lies.

  I asked Mustafa how they had got such an amount of truthful information
so quickly.

  `Very simply, Master. A pair of clips are put on the slave's nipples
and before each question, one of the clips is whipped with a small cord
whip, ever so lightly. When the question is answered the other nipple and
clip is struck. After some minutes, the slave has no time to think of a
reply before answering immediately. Even the hardiest and most resistant
of slaves is broken at the end of half an hour. They think they are
answering only one question on its own, when in fact, it is the entire
series of questions, asked out of order. I am in the process of
double-checking everything online, Master. All new data have been correct
so far.'

  At the end of the first fortnight of training, I had all forty two
slaves assembled, kneeling in the middle of the large training area of
the al-Qatim centre where so much punishment and even more training had
been delivered to them. It had been a mixed week according to all the
trainers. While the dossiers had been extensively re-written, some of the
slaves had not progressed in other areas of training at all, and would
endure more in-depth punishment on the flogging frames as several other
parts of the body were punished not just their backs and backsides.
However, I had one announcement which I wanted the Head of Training to
make.

  `Your owner is not pleased with your progress in being trained as his
slaves. He believes you need an incentive to perform better and an
incentive to avoid the very low standards which you have achieved this
past fortnight.'

  The head of training took what looked like a table-tennis ball which I
had given him from his pocket and held it up for all to see.

  `To show the absolute power your Master has over all of you, he
ordered the removal of your left ball before training began. At the end
of your training and you will not know how many more weeks it will last,
this group will be divided into three groups -- fourteen slaves in each
group.'

   He paused to let my words sink in, still holding aloft the
`table-tennis' ball.

  `At the end of your training the group which performs best will get an
artificial prosthetic implant, a ball like this one,' and he moved his
arm aloft to that they could see the prosthetic device clearly.

  `The second group which performs only okay will stay as you are now.
One ball only. Anyone in the third group which performs worst will be a
candidate for losing also his right ball, because it will be useless to
him. For slaves who turn out to be untrainable and worthless, I will
recommend to the Master that you be castrated fully' and he put the
white ball on the ground and raising his heel, he brought it down hard on
the ball.

  There was a `pop' which resounded around the hall and one of the
slaves flopped forward in a dead faint. I think the message got through
all right and if anything had been lost in translation, those who had not
understood would soon enquire and find out from the others.

  When I have to visit outlying parts of the Palace ground I usually call
Bob Conrad to get me a sand buggy. On one particular day, I must have
been silent, because as we drove to the compounds at the Lemon Palace,
Bob observing my silence blurted out `Is everything okay, Boss?'

  Having Bob keep silent until spoken to is one of life's unfulfilled
tasks.

  `Yes, Bob, I hope so. I hope so. Do you know, I think, I'll demote
you again to slave?'

  `For talking out of turn, Boss?'

  `Oh, no, just to see your buns again. I miss seeing them each morning
when you serve my table.'

  `Boss, if that pleases you, I would love being an ordinary slave
again. You know I have never wanted to be an assistant Supervisor.'

  One of Bob Conrad's great qualities is that he always wants, and has a
genuine wish, to please me, day in day out. That is a great quality in a
good slave and in a slave's mentality. Not only that but he has a
backside that fell off some divine applecart on the day of his creation!

  `No, Bob, you are a fine Supervisor and you keep all the other serving
slaves in line, but we can compromise. From now on you drop your shorts
before coming to serve my table each morning....'

  I did not have time to finish, when Bob said `Boss, you have a deal.
No shorts for breakfast.'

  At the slave centre, there was, however, expectancy in the air as to
the promise and to the threat made at the end of the mercenaries' first
fortnight of training. I nodded to the assistant, who started to read out
a list of fourteen names. Each slave came forward when called and started
to make a line. When they stood nervously in two lines of seven, the
assistant announced, `as the Master promised, you will have an operation
tomorrow and be given a genital prosthesis.'

  The two lines of slaves were holding themselves in perfect 'display'
position, clearly making a commendable effort to perform as required. The
assistant then continued on, and started reading a second list of
fourteen slaves.

  The air of expectancy was worse than previously, because whereas before
the possibilities of disaster being previously one in three, now they
were one in two.

  The two lines of seven slaves each filled up quickly. These were the
slaves to whom nothing would be done genitally. Neither would they
receive the prosthetic ball to balance their real one, nor be the object
of further chastisement

  This now left fourteen slaves looking decidedly frightened. One of the
slaves went on his knees, so that his head was on the floor of the
centre. It was the most complete and utter obeisance, born more out of
despair than of the knowledge of not having completed the course
successfully. But it showed a total placing of self in the hands of the
Master.

  One by one the remaining slaves dropped to their knees likewise as the
realisation of their situation sank in.

  I walked down the line slowly.

  `On display' I said quietly and the slaves got to their feet and put
their hands behind their heads. I stopped by the first slave in the line.

  `Why are you in the this lower line-up? This is the one where all the
Overseers agree that you are the worst group.'

  He hesitated in replying and I said to him looking directly into his
eyes `I will be disappointed with anything less than the truth. I
despise a liar.'

  `Sir, I was not really trying, hoping to be able to make an escape.'

  His accent was American, soft, from the south.

  `No one has escaped from Dahra in living memory. That is the truth as
I know it. With satellite surveillance 24/7, as you say, that is now
doubly impossible in my ownership as you will soon find out.'

  I moved on.

  As I passed a slave half-way down the line, he spoke and said softly,
`Master, I will serve you. Please don't take my other ball. Please.'

  It would have been so easy to have reminded the slave he would be
punished for speaking when not spoken to first by his Master or to have
said `you should have tried harder', but there are some in life whose
span of achievements is limited to walking up and down a very limited
number of life's steps and who have to rely on mercy.

  I merely nodded to the slave and passed on. The whole spectrum of
nervousness could be physically felt among the slaves.

  All eyes were riveted on me when I spoke.

  `I have six water-wheels on my farms. A slave just walks around inside
them all the time, three hundred and sixty five days a year, pumping
water to my gardens. A slave does not need his balls to do that. Nor does
he need his eyes. He only needs a strong pair of legs. No eyes. No balls.
Just legs. That's what a Master can do with a slave who does not work
hard.'

  Although we were inside the training centre, the heat was considerable
and perspiration was running down the bodies of the slaves.

  `You will each now be flogged with a camel cane thirty times for not
progressing. I shall see you in one month again. If you have not improved
by then, I will waste no more time on your training.'

  Back at the Palace, I took another swipe at the pile of correspondence
which my secretary had ready for me in several piles.

  `Come on, Ben, work to do. Prepare a letter for the lawyer, Karim
al-Kibbe, to say that the first part of the training of the new shipment
has been completed and the second part in the Seventh Desert will soon be
underway.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  I took up a pen and started to read and sign, to read and sign until I
got writer's cramp.

  In a large slave establishment such as mine, it is best not to give too
many commands. It confuses. Simplicity is the key. Few orders rather than
more are the order of the day, if you'll pardon the pun. Heads of Palace
run the inside of my homes. Heads of Stables run the farms and grounds,
and within each section well-trained slaves were in charge of each set of
duties for themselves and others.

  Some of my slaves have come from prisons in Europe where they would
have been incarcerated for life. While it might be wrong to say that I
did not take away anything from them but have given many a new reason to
live -- serving me as opposed to serving a prison régime, I did not
invent slavery for them. I have merely used it to my advantage.

  As I am a late-comer so to speak in the ownership of slaves, many of my
methods are unorthodox to the more tried and tested ways of Dahra and its
centuries old practices.

  Some of my Dahran neighbours never let their slaves talk except before
they are bedded down for the night. My slaves talk among themselves when
alone, and they talk to me only when addressed, with some notable
exceptions such as Bob Conrad, my head of table, and Roge Harte with his
Australian football programme, both of whom seem to talk all the time,
saying whatever comes into their minds.

  Of course, slaves can approach me, usually in the evening when I am
sitting on the veranda after dinner, or walking in the gardens, and they
wait until I tell them to talk. But, by and large, they are
well-mannered, fall into step, some paces back.

  While there is no compensation for the loss of freedom, the ultimate
human bodily loss, my slaves have been shown by me how to have new lives
with a clear purpose -- pleasing me as their owner. The loss of freedom
is not only a loss of the right to physical movement or of civic powers
and rights. Loss of freedom is also a loss of a state of mind and the
forced acquisition of another set of thought processes -- those of
pleasing a Master. And if the truth be told, now that I have substantial
numbers of slaves, I do enjoy their ownership, the power I have over
their lives, even to the number of times they can have sex, when and how
they are to be trained, to mention but a few items.

  My slaves also take great pride in being able to serve me better. One
simple example of this is Klaas Oostende, my Dutch masseur, who surprised
me by being in the slave line one evening after dinner as I listened to
what the twenty or so slaves needed or were requesting, usually a change
of partners or some such thing.

  I looked on Klaas as he knelt before me.

  `Klaas?'

  `Master, you have not come for a massage for the past five evenings.
I...'

  I cut him off. Klaas was worried that I had not appeared for a massage
at the pool for five days. It was nothing more than I had been very busy.
In fact, a massage would have done me the world of good there and then.

  Klaas, however, thought that something was wrong, that he was out of
favour, that I no longer wanted massages -- ergo his career would be
over.

  `I have just been very busy, Klaas'.

  He smiled at that piece of welcomed knowledge.

  `Master, I have learned a new massage for tired shoulders, and have
been practising it all week on those who come for a swim,' he said
almost pleadingly.

  I pulled his crew-cut head close and gave him a kiss on the forehead
for all the slaves to see.

  `Tomorrow, when I get back from work. A promise.'

  `Thank you, Master,' a much relieved slave masseur replied with a
smile. At times, it is very easy to please a slave and for a slave to
please a Master with a simple attitude of servitude.

  As I sat down at my desk, I noticed the tan folder. It is the colour of
folders from either of the two slave centres in Dahra. The tan folder had
been hand-delivered by special delivery. It surprised me as I had not
requested it. I noticed that it now bore an embossed seal in the bottom
right-hand corner of the House of Mustafa celebrating eight hundred and
fifty years in the slave business, `serving the servant needs of the
Sheikdom' as it was more discretely put.

  Mustafa ben-Mustafa was intending to have a celebration on the day of
his next auction some two weeks away to which I had been most politely
and cordially invited. The House of Mustafa had certainly come into the
modern age.

  While each of the fifty slaves being put on auction had their summaries
and photographs listed, he had his printer intersperse prints of dhows,
feluccas, a trireme, a kamal - an old astronomical observation device and
a pair of ancient looking oars. The caption read on each of these first
pages `The experience of centuries....'

  However, the latter pages were full of photographs of computers and
servers, a satellite--no less--in orbit over the Gulf region, another of
the ArabSat series which monitors the GPS bracelet on every slave's
right ankle, a security procedure now being copied on criminals in
various developed countries.

  Here the caption continued `... and the technology of today.'

  It was an elegant publication of an old profession and given the manner
of its hand-delivery, it was an invitation difficult to eschew.

  It is nice to be pleasantly surprised and surprised I was half way
through June. My future home, the Lemon Palace was being built for me by
David Tuttle, nephew of my sister and Scottish brother-in-law. He was a
fine lad and one who I had in my bed to my great delight, a graduate
engineer out of Edinburgh who had arrived the previous August to take
over the management of the construction of the Palace out of the hands of
architects Annan and Annan, who, though both local and internationally
renowned, were finding that a construction such as mine at a mere twenty
or so million euro needed only the attentions of an office junior or two.
David Tuttle had put a stop to that and had at the same time lit a fire
under their collective architectural backsides.

  It is strange how you live when a second home is being built for you.
You are interested, yet it is at a distance from you emotionally until it
is complete and rounded off. I had tried unsuccessfully to buy art for it
and after half a dozen pieces decided to leave such either to David or
for a later date.

  I also felt that I would have enough staff for it, so had not been on
any slave-buying spree. It is quite amazing how in less than fifty months
your entire perspective on the ownership of other human beings can
change.

  One evening after dinner, David Tuttle who had been quiet for the most
part of it, among the various guests present and the usual medical
colleagues from the Lime Palace itself, startled us all by saying over
dessert, `Sir Jonathan, the Lemon Palace will be finished in about two
weeks time.'

  That was a conversation stopper. All eyes turned towards him and then
towards me.

  `David, this project according to the architects was a year and a half
long one. It is just a year since the foundations were laid, and you are
here, barely ten months since your arrival last August'

  `Let us say, Sir Jonathan, that the architects finally saw reason and
I must say that my two assistants, Zoran Stepkov and Jan Korda, are the
most marvellously organised of people you could ask for.'

  I did not want to correct David in front of the others by his referring
to slaves as `people'. But he is young yet and does not know all of
Dahra's set ways.

  `So, when?'

  `As I say, Sir Jonathan, two weeks and you can have a Palace warming
any time you like.'

  That brought a round of applause from the guests and I felt that a
young engineer was lapping up well-merited praise and congratulations.

  By accident more than by coincidence, Aziz al-Aziz was also dining with
us that evening and that bit of news brought a gleam to his eyes.

  `Aziz?'

  `Jonathan, this is the best of news. Yes, indeed, you must celebrate
it. Indeed, I would be honoured to organise such an event.'

  Now that was a show-stopper as they say in the hospitality business.
Again, there was a round of applause. Almost cynically I was thinking
that some people do love a party. I was going to cry off and decline the
offer, but suddenly, I felt in the mood.

  `Aziz, please organise an official celebration of my new Palace in the
true style of Dahra. I will tell, Pete Downings, my Head of Household
there, that what you want is what you get.'

  `We shall work glove in hand as you say in English, Jonathan.'

  `Ah, yes indeed, Aziz! Hand in glove, I think.'

  Aziz was beaming.

  `Jonathan, I remember the parties at the Aloe Palace as a child. Now
they were parties! Three, four days at a time. A birthday celebration
once went on for a week. This must be a party to show off not just an
important new building, it must be a party to show off the Master of the
estates here, Sir Jonathan Martin, Knight of the Realm.'

  I put it down to the after dinner drinks that the table toasted `Sir
Jonathan Martin, Knight of the Realm'.

  Aziz was on a natural high as he too raised his fruit juice in toast.

  The dinner broke up soon afterwards and as is my wont, I decided to
catch up on any paperwork left undone in the study.

  Normally, Ben Trant has me cornered as soon as I have taken my evening
swim and we get through a volume of stuff, which he then puts in order,
types up and readies for dispatch the following morning while I have
dinner.

  There was a large slice of lemon-cheesecake on the table left over
after the dinner. I took the plate, got a spare fork and went with the
cheesecake into the study. Both Ben Trant and his assistant and lover,
Gianni Centini, were there waiting for me. Ben bowed as he is accustomed
to doing. As Gianni had not seen me during the day, he made a full
obeisance, his forehead touching the floor before getting up and standing
`at rest' beside Ben also standing in the prescribed fashion.

  I pulled over a chair with my free hand, and sat down on it.

  `The cheesecake was particularly good tonight. Lemon. Kneel you two.'

  The two slaves knelt down, their legs wide apart, their genitals
hanging loose and low between their legs.

  `Lemon, Gianni. How do you say that in Italian?'

  `Citrone, Master,' and his eyes followed the fork cutting into the
moist dessert.

  `Ah, yes, melt-in-the-mouth chittrone,' I garbled in my best
imitation Tuscan accent.

  Ben's eyes were now also on the dessert. I put a bit on the fork and
extended it to Gianni's lips which opened. When the fork went inside,
his eyes closed and he took the offering from the extended fork. The
Master was feeding a favourite slave.

  `Is it lemon enough, Gianni?' I enquired.

   Gianni took it as if it were manna, nectar and ambrosia all wrapped
into one.

  `Delizioso, Master, delizioso.'

  I handed Ben the plate with a smile and Gianni the fork and pulled up
the chair to my desk to go over the various letters ready for signing.

  There was also lying on the desk a tan folder, similar to the one which
both slave centres in Dahra issue. To receive two tan folders in one week
was exceptional. The centres do not compete for attention on that scale.

  `When did this arrive, Ben?' I asked curious.

  `It was hand delivered during dinner, Master. I merely took it out of
its large envelope in readiness for you.'

  `You have looked at it?'

  `Yes, Master, briefly. I could see it was from Ahmed al-Atti. It has
the crest of the al-Qatim slave centre on it and there is a covering note
inside. It is for your information, but as it was not urgent, I did not
interrupt the dinner.'

  `Yes, indeed, Ben. Quite right,' and I smiled at another favourite
slave as Ben shared another bit of the cheesecake on the fork with his
gay lover.

  The letter was simple and to the point. The al-Qatim computer had
thrown up two cross references on two slaves in some new batches that had
come in. I looked at the first and saw the family resemblance. I looked
at the second and laughed aloud. One of the advantages of being rich is
that you can indulge a whim. Ben had stopped feeding Gianni a piece of
the cheesecake in mid-air when I had laughed.

  `Master?' Ben asked puzzled.

  `Nothing, Ben, two cross references that the computer at al-Qatim has
thrown up. Send a note to Ahmed al-Atti that I shall go to see him on
Thursday sometime after lunch depending on the traffic down to
al-Qatim.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `And Ben...'

  `Yes, Master?'

  `Gianni has just eaten the last bit of cheesecake.'

  The general manager at Deckams in Dahra, the bank where I work, is
Gustav Ahlson, an unflappable Swede in his late forties, who has the bank
running as smoothly as a Saab engine. As his demeanour and mien rarely
change, he can be read quite easily.

  So when I walked into the executive canteen for my elevens as I usually
do when not overloaded, Gustav was there at a window table, stirring his
coffee and miles away in thought. He did not even hear me approach or
sitting down opposite him.

  He gave a start as he realised he had company.

  'Jonathan, sorry. I was engrossed in thought.'

  I smiled at him and waited. I know him well. He would marshal his
thoughts and then speak. As I say, I knew him well, and so he did.

  'I am thinking about yesterday evening. I had noticed that some of the
rooms on the top floor of the Aloe Palace needed to be re-painted, as in
Fiona and Pete's previous decorating they had not completed that floor
fully. I told Olaf last night over dinner, as Head of Household, to get
it organised. A discussion followed among the others who said that the
fittings of the bedrooms on the first floor should be attended to first.
I stayed silent during all of this after my initial instruction. I was,
in fact, internally seething. It was put to a vote, as we have done in
the past, and all of my compatriots, with the exception of Jon Lundt who
waited to see how I was going to vote, voted for their own proposal. It
was 21 to 2. Jon and I being the two. When silence descended after the
vote had been taken, I said to those at table, `You have forgotten your
status as my slaves here in Dahra. You have forgotten who I am and how I
purchased you and now own you body and soul.' I left the dinner table and
for the first time in over twenty years, I slept alone. The silence in my
wake was tangible.'

  Gustav was clearly upset at what had happened. I knew that the Swedes
had strange ways of going about things. It simply had never occurred to
me that any of them would vote against their own Master. And there, aha!,
was the nub of the problem. They continued to regard the mild-manner
Gustav as a Swede and not as their Master.

  'How are you going to solve your problem?'

  'I will speak to Olaf and Björn tonight. They must see that it was I
who bought the Aloe Palace to be a home for me and a home for them as
well.'

  Privately I thought that if Gustav's slaves thought they were some sort
of democratic commune, it was his own fault for letting it get this far.
However, different folks have different strokes. Surely, I also thought,
if Gustav and Björn had been lovers for all these years, they should be
able to reach a viable compromise.

  I backtracked in my mind to Gustav Ahlson's situation of almost a
quarter of a century where he had been buying up the Swedish slaves that
had come on the Dahran market. His own very altruistic and practical
government had requested him to pose as the official buyer of their own
citizens should the same ever get to the slave markets of al-Qatim and
al-Mera.

  Something had happened in the previous two years for no further Swedish
slaves came on the market. It was clear to a blind man that the Swedish
government had made some alternative arrangement to ensure that Swedes
never got on the sales- and auction-room daises of the markets to have
their foreskins pulled back and their back passages inspected by those
who loved the blond neo-Vikings of that Nordic kingdom, and who, on each
occasion over the past quarter of a century, had been pipped at the
auction post by Gustav buying up his countrymen.

  Gustav became very uptight at one stage in the past when he realised
this and would not even talk to me about it. Perhaps he realised that he
had been left out of a discussion to which he had been central for the
best part of his working life. Simply omitted. Not even called by his
Government or embassy to be offered an explanation. Taken for granted.

  Gustav was my neighbour and my friend. If he wanted to run his
household in a certain manner, it was not for me to interfere. I did,
however, instruct my Head of Stables Yuriy Obov to leave the Swedes to
their own devices when performing their field duties, so as to avoid
conflicts between Gustav's slaves and my own.

  To take Gustav's mind off his personal and Palace matters and to also
give Colin Bowman, my other junior Partner at the Bank, a break from two
large bond issues we had been handling, I insisted that both fly the New
Concorde with me to the London board meeting of the Bank on the third
Monday of June.

  London was delightful as it only can be in that month. The Board
meeting was not eventful in itself apart from one side issue. As we
walked in towards the Boardroom, I spotted Tommy Elford, our Partner in
Tokyo. He looked ghastly, a greyish colour and his pallor was simply
unhealthy.

  `Tommy, how are you?'

  It is the stupid question we ask; even when we see our friends are
unwell. The floor, on which the Boardroom is situated, has these nooks in
the walls where busts of famous bankers are placed. We stood beside one
of the Deckams who had financed both sides of the Peninsular War.

  Tommy Elford opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. My eyes
narrowed and I looked at him more closely.

  `Tommy, how are you? Are you all right?'

  He sort of gasped out, `Jonathan, I am bankrupt. I am going to have to
speak with Charlie.'

  Charlie Deckham is our esteemed Chairman.

  `What happened? And how much?'

  `A Russian deal. It was no different from half-a-dozen others and it
went belly up. I'm down six million dollars. There is no way I can cover
it.'

  It was the measure of the man that he would not try to cover up his
failure and that he would take his punishment like a man. He had been
briefly my predecessor in Dahra, but the fates and a wife who did not
like the Middle East had determined otherwise. So in a reshuffling of
personnel, he had been transferred to Tokyo and I got Dahra. He had also
tipped me off to the nickel discovery, which had been a great source of
my initial wealth and that had cemented my friendship with the al-Akhri
family.

  `This was a private deal, not a Bank one?'

  `A private one.'

  `Then, Tommy, let's go into the meeting together and when it is over,
we'll go downstairs and I'll transfer eight million to your personal
account.'

  Tommy started to say something, but I held up a finger.

  `Not a word, Tommy, not now; not at the meeting and certainly not to
Charlie afterwards.'

  `Jonathan, I don't know what to say but thank you. I came today to
hand in my resignation. I even thought of suicide, but with Janet and the
kids, I just could not bring myself to do it.'

  `Tommy, not a word! We'll look after this privately.'

  The Partners -- that's what the Directors of our Bank are called -
were now going in. I guided Tommy in by the elbow and sat him between
Gustav and myself. The meeting was a half-year review. Results were good
and the second half sounded promising. I saw Charlie Deckham looking at
me twice. I saw him glance at Tommy Elford. He misses nothing that
Chairman of ours.

  After the meeting concluded, I went to one of the side phones and made
a booking for an hour later for a private dining room at Il Quaglino
where the prices are in direct inverse proportion to the size of the
portions on your plate.

   As I turned round to find Tommy, I found Charlie Deckham at my elbow.

  `You didn't say a word today, Jonathan, nor indeed did Tommy, who may
I say, does not look well at all. Dahra is doing fine. Tokyo is doing
fine. So, I am presuming that there is a private matter that has Tommy
looking the way he is.'

  `Charlie, Tommy is fine and will be much better within the hour. He
lost six Big Macs on a private deal. I shall cover it. It could have
happened to anyone of us. We are not going in to lunch with the Board,
Charlie. I have a booking elsewhere and now I just want to go downstairs
to the main hall and arrange a transfer.'

  `I am glad for Tommy's sake,' Charlie replied. `He has the branch
performing to perfection.'

  Though the private dining-room at one of London's more prestigious
eateries was perfect for dining, Tommy was not. He looked at the menu and
said, `Jonathan, I just cannot eat.'

  I beckoned one of the two hovering waiters over and said `Two bowls of
the consommé and some sparkling water. Then leave us. I shall ring if we
need you for anything else.'

  I noticed that the waiter was lip-reading as he had discrete
transparent ear-plugs in either ear. It was the restaurant's way of
saying that no one eavesdropped on customers.

  The soup was served. The water was poured.

  Tommy played with his soup, like a cat with a mouse.

  `Tommy, stop that. Take a spoonful. It is good.'

  `I haven't eaten since Friday,' and he sighed as he sipped the edge
of a spoonful of the soup. `It is good.'

  `Tommy, relax. The funds are now in your account as we speak. It is
behind you. Forget about it.'

  `Jonathan, I can't pay you back. I mean I won't be able to pay you
back for a while.'

  `I don't expect you to. It is a gift from one friend to another.
Please don't ever mention it again.'

  `It was supposed to be foolproof.'

  He was, I gathered, referring to the deal.

  `They all are, Tommy. They always are.'

  `I just did not see it coming. I think I was set up. Jonathan, I just
can't thank you enough. I keep seeing the faces of Janet and the kids.'

  `Good, get them something nice from London. Get Janet something from
Aspreys.'

  `Jonathan, I will be on a budget for a while. There will be no
Aspreys.'

  `You weren't listening, Tommy, I transferred euro to your account.
With the conversion rate to the dollar, you will cover your loss and have
at least four Big Macs to tide you over until bonus time. You can afford
something nice for Janet and it will show that all is well with you.'

  `Why, Jonathan? Why this generosity?'

  `Tommy, your transfer to Tokyo was the cause and beginning of my real
wealth. It is I who have to be grateful to you. I walked into a situation
that has made me rich. You say you have been set up. I think in one of my
ventures that I have been set up as well, but in a different way. But
that's a long story.'

  `I have heard rumours, Jonathan, about you. You are supposed to have
two Palaces in the desert, something about very profitable investments
and that the Sheik considers himself under an obligation to you; that you
dedicated a book on cacti to him or some such thing.'

  `Yes, two nice Palaces and some gardens of which I am very proud,
Tommy. Yes, the book is true; some investments of my investments have
worked out well. I don't think the Sheik is under any obligation to me.
Professionally perhaps to the Bank, as Deckams now handle a quarter of
the Sheikdom's investment portfolio.'

  `Does sainthood run in the family?'

  It was the first bit of levity of the normal ebullient Tommy Elford
that I knew.

  `No, definitely not, and when you visit Dahra next, I will show you a
thousand reasons why that is out of the question.'

  He looked at me uncomprehendingly. I did not elaborate. I tried to get
him to take some of the monkfish on the menu as it would sit easily on
his stomach, but he declined saying that he did not want to press his
luck. He put his head in his hands and with them in front of his face, he
started to sob. It is always hard to see a man cry, but I let him cry and
about a minute later, he used the crisp white linen napkin to dry his
face and his eyes.

  `Jigsaws,' I said.

  Tommy looked at me.

  `Get your two children jigsaws. I am told they are all the rage at
present among children of all ages.'

  He started to laugh and I joined in smiling. I hoped that he would soon
get back to his normal good spirits.

  The bill for the private lunch was four hundred pounds sterling. I
thought that must be an all-time record for two bowls of soup, two bread
rolls and some water, but if it was instrumental in bringing back my
friend Tommy Elford's good spirits, then it was well worth it.

End of Chapter 6

To be continued