Mightier Than the Sword

Seb signed where the finger rested and received a temporary membership card. “The main gaming room is at the top of the stairs on your left, sir.”

Seb walked up the sweeping marble staircase, admiring the dazzling chandelier, the oil paintings, and the thick plush carpet. Millionaires must be made to feel at home, he concluded, otherwise they wouldn’t be willing to part with their money.

He entered the gaming room but didn’t look around, as he wanted the onlookers to believe this was his natural habitat. He strolled across to the bar and climbed onto a leather stool.

“What can I get you, sir?” asked the barman.

“A Campari and soda,” said Seb, as this clearly wasn’t a club that served draft ale.

When the drink was placed in front of him, he took out his wallet and placed a pound on the bar.

“There’s no charge, sir.”

Establishments that don’t charge for drinks have to be making up for the loss in some other ways, thought Seb, leaving the note where it lay. “Thank you, sir,” said the barman, as Seb swiveled around and slowly took in the “some other ways.”

Two roulette tables stood next to each other on the far side of the room, and from the large pile of chips in front of each of the players, and their expressionless faces, Seb assumed they were regulars. Hadn’t anyone explained to them that they were paying for the marble staircase, the oil paintings, the chandelier, and the free drinks? His eyes moved on to the blackjack tables. At least there the odds were slightly better, because if you could count the court cards, it was even possible to beat the house—but only once, because after that, you’d never be allowed to darken the club’s doors again. Casinos like winners, but not consistent ones.

His gaze moved on to two men playing backgammon. One was sipping a black coffee, the other a brandy. Seb turned back to the barman. “Is that Hakim Bishara playing backgammon?”

The barman looked up. “Yes, it is, sir.”

Seb took a closer look at the short, pursy, red-cheeked man who looked as if he had to make regular visits to his tailor. He was bald, and his double chin suggested a greater interest in food and drink than weight training or running. A tall, lithe blonde stood by his side, a hand resting on his shoulder. Seb suspected she was less attracted by the deep lines on his forehead than by the thick wallet in his inside pocket. He wasn’t surprised that he kept being rejected by the English establishment. His younger opponent looked like a lamb about to be devoured by a python.

Seb turned back to the barman. “How do I get a game with Bishara?”

“It’s not that difficult if you’ve got a hundred pounds to throw away.”

“He plays for money?”

“No, for amusement.”

“But the hundred pounds?”

“It’s an admission fee that you donate to his favorite charity.”

“Any tips?”

“Yes, sir, you’d be better off giving me fifty quid and going home.”

“But what if I beat him?”

“Then I’ll give you fifty quid and I’ll go home. Mind you, you’ll enjoy his company for the few minutes the game lasts. And if you were to win, he’ll donate a thousand pounds to the charity of your choice. He’s a real gentleman.”

Despite appearances, thought Seb as he ordered a second drink. He occasionally glanced around at the backgammon table, but it was another twenty minutes before the barman whispered, “He’s free now, sir, waiting for his next victim.”

Seb swung around to see the stout man heave himself out of his chair and begin to walk away with the young woman on his arm.

“But I thought…” He looked more closely at the lamb that had devoured the python. He could hear Cedric saying, “What did you learn from that, young man?” Bishara looked around forty, perhaps a little older, but his tanned good looks and athletic build suggested that he wouldn’t have to continually empty his wallet to attract a beautiful woman. He had thick, wavy black hair and dark penetrating eyes. Had he been penniless, you might have thought he was an out-of-work actor.

Seb slipped off the stool and walked slowly toward him, hoping he looked relaxed and in control, because he wasn’t.

“Good evening, Mr. Bishara, I wondered if you were free for a game?”

“Not free,” he said, giving Seb a warm smile. “In fact, rather expensive.”

“Yes, the barman warned me about your terms. But I still want to play you.”

“Good, then have a seat.” Bishara rolled one die out onto the board.

Seb was painfully aware after the first half a dozen moves that this man was quite simply in another class. It only took a few minutes before Bishara began removing his counters from the board.

“Tell me, Mr.…”

“Clifton, Sebastian Clifton.”

Bishara reset the board. “As you are clearly not even a respectable pub player, you must have had a good reason for wanting to give away a hundred pounds.”

“Yes, I did,” said Seb, taking out his check book. “I needed an excuse to meet you.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Because we have several things in common, one in particular.”

“Clearly not backgammon.”

“True,” said Seb. “Who should I make the check out to?”