Sipping his martini (never mind the rules against alcohol, he mused to himself; they are just boring) the elderly sheikh gazed out through the windows of his Islington townhouse. Glancing wryly at the banner headlines which announced his death, he recalled the very moment when he realised his time in Pakistan had to be ended, and he had to commence thinking about a place in which to end his days without the worry of discovery or pursuit. His body-double had been bought, and placed in the residence in that small town in Pakistan, and he had moved as instructed, in secrecy and at speed!
He remembered the series of traitorous soldiers and politicians who had been granted interviews whilst he was in control of the world’s best death machine, and he also recalled their words of friendship and encouragement; but they were all from Pakistan, and he had been warned that their friendship had both a price and a time limit. He had also searched back in his memory to the other one who had be-friended him, the slimy very-senior European man whose hand-shake was as false as his beamimg smile. The same one that his envoys had declared to be the single worst enemy of the country which now sheltered him.
The bearded Sheikh saw his new passport lying alongside the documentation which gave him absolute permission to remain within the country which had sheltered so many of his kith and kind in previous years, and mused that at least the rulers of this strange Nation, whose people never knew what had been arranged in their name, kept their promises and their word.
He raised his glass to the sunny windows, and murmured, “Thanks be to Allah; and also to my good friend, who now is also a millionaire!”