He left the club, hailed a cab and headed home, cold in his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Caspar and Darius Egan had gone to considerable trouble for Piers’ Saudi friends, setting aside a lavishly furnished suite of rooms on the first floor of Blunt’s for the occasion. In one room a blue-baize-covered poker table had been set up for the game, and in an adjoining room champagne was cooling in silver buckets, alongside a selection of spirits, beer, and an array of glasses. Platters of cold food had been laid out – crayfish in aspic, blinis, smoked salmon, caviar in bowls of ice – with warming stands ready for hot food to be served later. Next door was a large sitting room, whose windows overlooked rain-soaked Mount Street, lit by discreetly placed lamps, and furnished with deep leather sofas and low tables, with a large plasma television screen on one wall. Off this room was a bedroom with an en suite bathroom in between.
When Anthony and Gabrielle arrived, Darius, Piers and Julia were already there in the sitting room with the three guests of honour. Darius’s Russian girlfriend, Galina, had brought along a trio of other Russian girls – Valeriya, Dina and Katia. All were dressed in tight-fitting short dresses and eight-inch hooker heels, and all wore expressions of ineffable boredom.
Everything about the young Saudis suggested wealth, but of a crude, unsubtle kind. They wore bespoke suits that were a little too sharp, silk shirts, and handmade Italian shoes, and sported Rolex Oyster watches and a profuse amount of gold jewellery. The air was heavy with the smell of Clive Christian No. 1 cologne. Darius introduced them. Farid Al-Rahman was a tall, well-built man in his mid twenties, with a patchy beard on a strong jaw, and a smile made disarming by the smoked glasses he wore, which hid the expression of his eyes. His younger brother, Hakim Al-Rahman, was a corpulent youth who looked barely out of his teens. He didn’t get up to shake hands, but stayed lounging on the white leather sofa, grunting a greeting and extending a flabby hand studded with heavy gold and diamond rings. The third, Gabir Al-Wadhi, was a wiry man with a heavy short beard and bright eyes that glittered under heavy brows. He seemed the senior of the trio, and introduced himself as the cousin of the other two. He excused Hakim by saying, ‘He has taken a holiday from his manners as well as his morals.’ He threw the boy a chiding glance. ‘Hey, Hakim?’
Hakim ginned and shrugged, and took another swig of his drink.
Darius turned to Gabrielle. ‘Glass of champagne?’
‘Lovely,’ murmured Gabrielle, and sat down on a sofa opposite the Russian girls.
Darius, Piers and Anthony wandered into the adjoining room.
‘What would you like?’ Piers asked Anthony.
‘Just a beer, thanks.’ Piers uncapped a Becks and handed it to him. ‘What was all that about taking a holiday from his morals?’
‘Normal rules don’t apply, is what he means. Back home, these boys can’t drink or gamble, and they don’t get much of a chance to sow their wild oats. Whereas over here – well, let’s just say they like to take advantage of our ludicrously low moral standards.’
At that moment Anthony heard a familiar voice behind him, and turned to see Ed piling into the suite with a number of assorted male and female friends. He was as ebullient as ever, pulling off his scarf and unbuttoning his overcoat, and exclaiming about the filthy weather outside.
‘Anthony! I heard they’d roped you into this evening’s shenanigans. You must be bloody mad. Brought a few friends along to witness the carnage. Now, lead me to the champagne!’
Anthony felt reassured by Edward’s presence; somehow it lessened the tension. He wanted to have a good feeling about this game, but it was difficult. He didn’t care for the Saudis, and deep down, he didn’t care for the Egans. Still, he was committed now.
Gradually the other players trickled in, with girlfriends in tow. Two of them Anthony already knew as regular frequenters of the casino – Tom Finnegan, a wealthy young Irishman and crony of Piers, and a German by the name of Klaus Bauer. The other two players were Piers, and a middle-aged Cypriot by the name of Markou, who was a business acquaintance of Caspar Egan’s.
After drinks and some friendly chit-chat, they got down to the serious business of the evening.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said Caspar, ‘the buy-in is twenty thousand, as agreed. Total pot of eighty thousand. If everyone would like to take their seats?’
Anthony drew Darius aside. ‘You said the buy-in was five thousand.’
‘Did I? Well, we’ve had to up the stakes a bit. Five thousand is small change to our Saudi friends. Even twenty isn’t particularly interesting, but I promised them there would be some pretty girls coming along to liven things up if the poker got dull. Which is where Galina’s friends come in.’ He gave Anthony a dry look. ‘If you want out, just say so.’