“As I write
this page it is 6 days since I saw The Son,” I emailed to my Chairman. He would
know what I meant.
When he was in England, The Son,
Sheikh Ibn ben Mohammed, could have passed for a well-tanned Englishman, in his
Saville Row suit, bowler hat and English manners. Six days ago he had been my
dinner guest at the Savoy Grill. And, because he was drinking my wine we were
on Ben and Jerry terms. To have
discussed business during a meal would have been unmannerly.
As we sipped his port he wanted my
guidance on the matter of casinos and nightclubs and “Where are the prettiest
women for the right price?”
“I thought you’d been here often
enough to know,” I said. He lit his
cigar. The head waiter whispered into
his ear and, with reluctance, we went out for a walk in the Embankment Gardens.
At last it was time for business. “I
am not authorized to sign the contract with your company,” he said. “My father,
Crown Prince Frazel, has the final decision. We must meet again in Dihary. I
will fly back tomorrow and request an audience for Monday next. Will ten
o’clock suit you?”
“Can I be sure that your father will keep the
appointment?”
He smiled. “Of course, Jerry. I will
call him now – if you will excuse me,” he said as he took out his cell phone.
On
Sunday afternoon I touched down at the peaceful Dihary Airport. From my suite I
phoned Mohammed to invite him for a non-alcoholic drink. “I cannot come now, Mr
Conway,” he said “but my father will see us at ten tomorrow as arranged. Please
be punctual.” The Sheikh was in his
formal mode.
The next morning I arrived in good
time. A receptionist in a burkha took me to a waiting area and offered me
coffee, cakes and a pile of English papers.
At ten nobody had called for me, I
checked with the burkha. “Later, but soon,” she said.
I returned to my computer, keeping in
touch with my London Office. At one
o’clock the burkha came to me. “You are
invited to lunch. Follow me please.” She led me to a table by the window so
that I could admire my most recent project; a ninety storey tower. Our
next building would bring even more glory to the Kingdom.
Meanwhile the Siduas have their own
concept of time. As buyers they always
keep the seller waiting. I finished a leisurely meal and returned to my
computer. At 4 o’clock Burkha came over to me and said, “Sheikh Mohammed and
Crown Prince Frazel will see you in the morning at 10am.” No apology.
Nobody came from Tuesday to Friday,
when the secretary told me, “Monday morning at 10…please.” Was there a smile in
those dark eyes?
All this time I had no word from Ben,
sorry, Mohammed. I had called his mobile
– no connection- and his office was clearly instructed not to put me
through. Had we lost the contract? My
Chairman was getting restive when he skyped me.
“Don’t worry Sir George. They need
this deal more than we do. All they’re doing is showing a bit of Muslim
contempt for the infidel. I’m patient
because I’ll get it in the end,” I said.
On
the second Monday morning I decided to give them some of their own
medicine. I arrived at 11 and was asked
to wait. I settled down to coffee and The Times.
At 12.45 Sheikh Mohammed came in,
wearing a djellaba and head-dress. We
certainly were not on Ben and Gerry
terms.
“Good morning, Mr. Conway. The Crown
Prince is ready to meet you and discuss the contract. We will go to the palace
at 2 o’clock. You will be my guest for lunch.”
Afterwards we drove to the palace. It
was 2.45 but Mohammed was unconcerned.
“My father will be here soon,” he
said.
“Perhaps,” I said as his entourage
came into the room and a different burkha lady brought in more coffee. The old
man stopped before me and bowed formally.
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