The 13th Tablet

He turned to his secretary, ‘Would you be so kind to book a table at the Olive Leaf for Miss Osman and myself?’ She nodded and walked away to call the hotel’s famed restaurant.

‘I’ve just arrived from California. It’s awfully cold here, don’t you think?’

‘Yes it is. Do you come here often on business?’

‘Sometimes. Mind you, it can’t be much of change for you, coming from New York. I spent one winter in the big apple, and decided never again!’

‘I agree, but I’ve actually just arrived from Iraq, not from the US.’

Wheatley seemed quite taken aback ‘How on earth did you get through customs?’

She smiled, ‘I travelled via Jordan.’

‘What an intrepid and charming young woman! You must tell me all about it over lunch.’

He turned to his secretary who confirmed with a nod that the table was booked.

The restaurant was a welcoming modern space, with an offwhite ceiling, panoramic sea views and leafy plants encased in large terracotta pots. Mina and Wheatley were seated at a table near one of the wide bays, from where she could admire the open sea.

Surveying the room, Wheatley said: ‘The carpet is quite tacky and the furniture is a little too modern for my own taste, but the food is quite acceptable.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Mina, feeling completely out of her depth.

He ordered a bottle of champagne and they drank to her success.

‘Mr Wheatley, I would like to thank you for funding my research.’

‘De rien. Mina, if I may call you Mina?’

‘Of course.’

‘If the rich men of this world do not fund those who further our knowledge of the past, our outlook on the future would be a mixture of gloominess and ignorance.’

He looked at her, smiling. The background music changed to the French song La Boheme by Charles Aznavour. He looked at her and asked if she spoke French. She understood a little.

He quoted the first lines of the song, ‘Je me souviens d’un temps que les moins de vingt ans ne peuvent pas connaitre.’ What a wonderful song. I remember the days when I studied in Paris. I was young and wanted to conquer the world.’

‘And have you?’ she asked, mischievously.

‘Not yet, not yet, but I’ll get there.’ Hs eyes flickered coldly for a moment.

‘You seem quite young, Mr Wheatley, to be the C.E.O. of such a huge corporation,’ she said smiling at him.

‘Please, call me Oberon,’ he said, smiling back at her.

After a while Mina excused herself and felt his lingering look on her tight skirt and toned legs as she brushed past him. Ten minutes later, as she walked back from the powder room, she felt slightly guilty, as if she was cheating on Jack. ‘How stupid,’ she thought, unconsciously running her fingers through her hair as she approached Oberon. He smiled at her and she smiled back, undeniably charmed by this powerful man’s manners and culture.

He asked her more questions about her work, and her thoughts about the current war in Iraq. She tried to answer as naturally as she could but was thinking, ‘He’s almost too smooth.’ After the delicious lunch of a delicate porcini risotto followed by grilled sole with creamy pommes dauphinoise, he invited her for drinks on his yacht that evening. It would be a fun and select party. Could she arrive slightly earlier, maybe 8 o’clock, so they could discuss her work a little further before the other guests arrived? Mina accepted the invitation gladly and Wheatley took his leave. A waiter opened the door to the terrace for Mina, who felt like walking in the fresh outdoor air before returning to her room. She was on top of the world.

‘Sir, you should have worked for the CIA’ said Natasha to Oberon.

‘Who says I haven’t?’

She looked at him, taken aback. He let her hang for a while and then laughed out loud.

‘You should have seen your face my dear. It was quite amusing. Had I worked for the CIA, operations would have run a little more smoothly I believe, and would have had some chance of success.’

‘If you are referring to Mosul, Sir, I can assure you it won’t happen again.’

‘I know it won’t.’

She tried not to think about what he meant by that.

‘Back to the yacht. Let’s get out of this godawful place.’

Mina was lying on her bed, balancing her shoe off the tip of her toes. She picked up her phone and dialled Liat’s mobile number.

‘I did it!’ she said.

‘I knew you would.’

‘It was quite amazing. Well, the C.E.O of the Wheatley Forecast Corporation, Mr Oberon Wheatley himself came by and then invited me for lunch.’

‘Oh my god! You lucky bitch!’

‘Language Liat, language. Oberon is quite the gentleman, and would, I’m sure, be utterly shocked by your poor choice of words!’

‘Oberon, is it?’

‘Yes, Oberon.’

‘Is he hot?’ asked Liat, matter-of-factly.

‘Yes, he certainly is. In his mid-forties, dazzling charm and richer than Rockefeller.’

‘And…?’

‘And he invited me for a party this evening on his yacht in the marina.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Well believe it, but I need your help,’ pleaded Mina.

‘What? You need me to lace you into your finest negligee before you meet him?’