In the Palace of the Khans Read Online Free Page B

out and handed him his shoulder-bag.
    â€œThank you, Rick.”
    â€œVery good, sir.”
    Self-consciously Nigel climbed the five steps alone. Both sentries saluted as he reached the top. He knew the form from having seen his father go through this sort of thing, so he raised his hand in acknowledgment and was about to show them his pass when a man in a dark suit and purple tie came out of the doorway and walked up with his hand outstretched. Nigel tried to put his pass in it but the man took it with his other hand and then shook Nigel’s.
    â€œThe President is expecting you, Mr. Rizhouell,” he said in a high, anxious voice. “Avron Dikhtar. I am under-secretary to the President-Khan. I hope you have recovered from your journey.”
    He was a small man, pale faced, dark haired, already going a bit bald, though he can’t have been that old. Apart from the actual name his English was pretty good. He’d probably been practicing. So had Nigel.
    â€œI am honoured to be invited,” he said. “The flight was fine, thank you.”
    â€œWill you please to come this way.”
    There was no lobby. The doors led directly into an enormous hall, just as stunning as the outside. There the day had been bright and clear, but this was a different sort of brightness, a rich dazzle and glitter sparkling from ten thousand polished surfaces, softened here and there by huge, deep-coloured hangings, all lit by hidden lights. The middle section rose to the full height of the central dome, with lower sections on either side. The only daylight came from a row of windows ringing the base of the dome.
    Nigel would have liked to stop and look but Mr. Dikhtar led him briskly across the hall, up a few steps to a broad, stage-like dais and on up a magnificent staircase to a pillared gallery running round three sides of the central section of the hall. They turned left at the top and followed the gallery round to a door guarded by another two sentries.
    â€œI regret the necessity, Mr. Rizhouell,” said Mr. Dikhtar, “but it is a routine for all visitors to the private apartments. Please give me your bag and raise your arms above your head.”
    Nigel did as he was told, and the sentry leaned his gun against the doorpost and systematically ran his hands all over Nigel’s body. When he got to his belt he grunted and spoke.
    â€œYou are wearing a money belt, Mr. Rizhouell?” said Mr. Dikhtar.
    â€œEr … my proper one’s bust,” said Nigel.
    It was half true. The buckle had started to come unstitched, but it didn’t show. He’d bought the money belt in the airport because he thought it was a cool gadget, like his Swiss Army knife and his compass and his monocular for bird-watching and his travelling chess set. He was a sucker for that sort of thing.
    Mr. Dikhtar spoke to the guard, who grunted again and went on with the search, finishing by checking the soles of Nigel’s sneakers. He straightened, grinning, and rumpled Nigel’s hair in a fatherly fashion. Nigel’s face must have shown what he thought about it, because Mr Dikhtar spoke sharply to the guard before he handed him the bag.
    â€œEr … I’m afraid that’s got my Swiss Army knife in it,” said Nigel.
    Mr Dikhtar just nodded and waited. The guard checked the license on the back of the mobile and put it back. When he found the knife and the monocular and showed them to him he took the knife and put it in his pocket.
    â€œI will return it to you when you leave, Mr. Rizhouell,” he said. “You may keep the eye-glass.”
    The guard handed Nigel’s bag back and picked up his gun. The other guard opened the door.
    The hallway beyond it felt and smelt and looked like the lobby of the suite in the expensive modern hotel in Santiago where Nigel had once waited for his father to come out of a meeting. Even the wild-life pictures on the walls and the faint reek of cigar-smoke were