Twelve Red Herrings Read online

  The captain realized he was wasting his time and could bluff no longer. He gathered up the passports as slowly as he could and allowed al-Takriti to lead him back into the hall. As they entered the room, the Pan Am crew members who were scattered around the benches suddenly rose from their places and began walking about, continually changing direction, while at the same time talking at the top of their voices.

  “Tell them to sit down,” hissed al-Takriti, as the crew zigzagged backward and forward across the hall.

  “What’s that you’re saying?” asked the captain, cupping his ear.

  “Tell them to sit down!” shouted al-Takriti.

  The captain gave a halfhearted order, and within a few moments everyone was seated. But they still continued talking at the top of their voices.

  “And tell them to shut up!”

  The captain moved slowly round the room, asking his crew one by one to lower their voices.

  Al-Takriti’s eyes raked the benches of the transit hall, as the captain glanced out onto the tarmac and watched the French aircraft taxiing toward the far runway.

  Al-Takriti began counting, and was annoyed to discover that there were only fourteen Pan Am crew members in the hall. He stared angrily around the room, and quickly checked once again.

  “All fourteen seem to be present,” said the captain after he had finished handing back the passports to his crew.

  “Where is the man who was sitting next to you?” al-Takriti demanded, jabbing a finger at the captain.

  “You mean my first officer?”

  “No. The one who looked like an Arab.”

  “There are no Arabs on my crew,” the captain assured him.

  Al-Takriti strode over to the senior flight attendant. “He was sitting next to you. His upper lip had makeup on it that was beginning to run.”

  “The captain of the French plane was sitting next to me,” the senior flight attendant said. She immediately realized her mistake.

  Saad al-Takriti turned and looked out of the window to see the Air France plane at the end of the runway preparing for takeoff. He jabbed a button on his hand phone as the thrust of the jet engines started up, and barked out some orders in his native tongue. The captain didn’t need to speak Arabic to get the gist of what he was saying.

  By now the American crew were all staring at the French aircraft, willing it to move, while al-Takriti’s voice was rising with every word he uttered.

  The Air France 747 eased forward and slowly began to gather momentum. Saad al-Takriti cursed loudly, then ran out of the building and jumped into a waiting jeep. He pointed toward the plane and ordered the driver to chase after it. The jeep shot off, accelerating as it weaved its way in and out of the parked aircraft. By the time it reached the runway it must have been doing ninety miles an hour, and for the next hundred yards it sped along parallel to the French aircraft, with al-Takriti standing on the front seat, clinging onto the windscreen and waving his fist at the cockpit.

  The French captain acknowledged him with a crisp salute, and as the 747’s wheels lifted off, a loud cheer went up in the transit lounge.

  The American captain smiled and turned to his chief flight attendant. “That only proves my theory that the French will go to any lengths to get an extra passenger.”

  Hamid Zebari landed in New Delhi six hours later and immediately phoned his wife to let her know what had happened. Early the next morning Pan Am flew him back to New York—first class. When Hamid emerged from the airport terminal, his wife jumped out of the car and threw her arms around him.

  Nadim wound the window down and declared, “You were wrong, Papa. A fortnight turns out to be fifteen days.” Hamid grinned at his son, but his daughter burst into tears, and not because their car had come to a sudden halt. It was just that she was horrified to see her mother hugging a strange man.

  CHUNNEL VISION

  Whenever I’m in New York, I always try to have dinner with an old friend of mine called Duncan McPherson. We are opposites, and so naturally we attract. In fact, Duncan and I have only one thing in common: we are both writers. But even then there’s a difference, because Duncan specializes in screenplays, which he writes in the intervals between his occasional articles for Newsweek and The New Yorker, whereas I prefer novels and short stories.

  One of the other differences between us is the fact that I have been married to the same woman for twenty-eight years, while Duncan seems to have a different girlfriend every time I visit New York—not bad going, as I average at least a couple of trips a year. The girls are always attractive, lively and bright, and there are various levels of intensity—depending on what stage the relationship is at. In the past I’ve been around at the beginning (very physical) and in the middle (starting to cool off), but this trip was to be the first time I experienced an ending.

  I phoned Duncan from my hotel on Fifth Avenue to let him know I was in town to promote my new novel, and he immediately asked me over for dinner the following evening. I assumed, as in the past, that it would be at his apartment. Another opposite: unlike me, he’s a quite superlative cook.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” he said. “I’ve come up with an idea for a novel at last, and I want to try the plot out on you.”

  “Delighted,” I replied. “Look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow night. And may I ask …” I hesitated.

  “Christabel,” he said.

  “Christabel …” I repeated, trying to recall if I had ever met her.

  “But there’s no need for you to remember anything about her,” he added. “Because she’s about to be given the heave-ho, to use one of your English expressions. I’ve just met a new one—Karen. She’s absolutely sensational. You’ll adore her.”

  I didn’t feel this was the appropriate moment to point out to Duncan that I had adored them all. I merely asked which one was likely to be joining us for dinner.

  “Depends if Christabel has finished packing,” Duncan replied. “If she has, it will be Karen. We haven’t slept together yet, and I’d been planning on that for tomorrow night. But as you’re in town, it will have to be postponed.”

  I laughed. “I could wait,” I assured him. “After all, I’m here for at least a week.”

  “No, no. In any case, I must tell you about my idea for a novel. That’s far more important. So why don’t you come to my place tomorrow evening. Shall we say around seven-thirty?”

  Before I left the hotel, I wrapped up a copy of my latest book and wrote “Hope you enjoy it” on the outside.

  Duncan lives in one of those apartment blocks on 72nd and Park, and though I’ve been there many times, it always takes me a few minutes to locate the entrance to the building. And, like Duncan’s girlfriends, the doorman seems to change with every trip.

  The new doorman grunted when I gave my name, and directed me to the elevator on the far side of the hall. I slid the grille doors across and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. It was one of those top floors that could not be described as a penthouse even by the most imaginative of realtors.

  I pulled back the doors and stepped out onto the landing, rehearsing the appropriate smiles for Christabel (goodbye) and Karen (hello). As I walked toward Duncan’s front door, I could hear raised voices—a very British expression, born of understatement; let’s be frank and admit that they were screaming at each other at the tops of their voices. I concluded that this had to be the end of Christabel rather than the beginning of Karen.

  I was already a few minutes late, so there was no turning back. I pressed the doorbell, and to my relief the voices immediately fell silent. Duncan opened the door, and although his cheeks were scarlet with rage, he still managed a casual grin. Which reminds me that I forgot to tell you about a few more opposites—the damn man has a mop of boyish dark curly hair, the rugged features of his Irish ancestors, and the build of a champion tennis player.

  “Come on in,” he said. “This is Christabel, by the way—if you hadn’t already guessed.”