"The line went silent for a few seconds only, then a pleasant, but unmistakably English young male voice said, "Thank you for ringing, Mr. Parker-Wilkinson, how soon could you come here to see me?" Who is that?" asked Thomas, now very suspicious."I am known here as His Magnificence, the Emir Mahmoud Abdullah, but in England I was called David Ransome. You are undoubtedly thinking that this is some undergraduate joke. Speak to Dr. Alan Jones at the University and ask him what happened to David Ransome, then telephone the Embassy again and we will take it from there."The line went dead and Thomas leant back and thought, hard.A few enquiries established that Dr. Alan Jones was Reader in Topology, a fairly senior post at the University. A telephone call to him established beyond doubt the authenticity of "David Ransome" as the Emir of Kobekistan and so a further call was made to the Embassy in London in an attempt to arrange a visit to the Emir, whom Thomas assumed to be in London.He was. They were both economists. Well, Tulsa was studying Philosophy and Economics, Terence (she never called him Terry), had a first in Economics and a PhD in “Economics and the Inuit Response to Post-Recession Shrinkage” and was now in his second year as a post-doc/lecturer. It was one of those vague posts that Oxford and Cambridge excelled at – was it a University, College or Department appointment? Who could say? But until he had tenure, he had to be nice to everyone.And he was, he was nice, respected, keen. He loved his subject, and he loved his life. He caught the 4pm train. Now he was sitting on an old hand-me-down train (the regions getting the trains that London threw out), shaking along a line that hadn’t been improved since Brunel built it, to visit his primary school for a reunion. He’d been to a secondary reunion a couple of years ago. It had been good to meet old friends and compare notes, and come away quietly smug that, even if he wasn’t earning as much as Jaz and Ahmed, he.
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