The Power of Five Oblivion

found its way beneath the silk that covered her arms and brushed against her skin. There were more men here, all of them Arabs: a concierge dressed in black tie and dark glasses, and three or four others wearing traditional white robes and headdresses. They were chatting among themselves as if they were old friends who had chanced to meet, but even here, Scarlett sensed a certain falseness. They were nervous. They needed to win in order to eat and drink. This was no pleasant social occasion. They were all at the mercy of the sheikh, who would be watching over them as they played.
    They turned and walked towards a pair of swing doors set between two sculptures … palm trees, heavy and golden. One of the doormen noticed Richard and nodded in welcome. There was a metal detector at the door and they all passed through it. To one side, a woman in a tight-fitting, sparkly dress was being patted down by a blank-faced security guard. A huge, bearded man in Arab dress walked past, cradling a tiny chihuahua dog with a heavy platinum collar. Richard and Scarlett glanced at each other. They didn’t need to say anything. This place was weird.
    But they needed the plane. And if they were going to fly, they needed its pilot. There was no other way. They walked through the metal detector and went in.
    They were in a large, thickly carpeted room, with a ceiling illuminated by hundreds of tiny lights that had been set out at random, like stars. There were no windows, no exit signs – so that once they were in, they might imagine that there was no longer any way out. The air had a cold, antiseptic feel, like the inside of a fridge. About a hundred people had gathered here, a few of them in Arab dress but the majority in expensive Western suits – Armani, Prada, Paul Smith, Versace. Despite the low lighting, Scarlett had never seen more sunglasses. It was almost impossible to look at anyone without seeing reflections of herself. There were women too, whispering together, drinking brightly coloured cocktails. And everyone, the men and the women, were smothered in watches and jewellery, the different coloured stones glittering as they moved around the room.
    In the middle of the casino, standing back to back, there were two lines of fruit machines. Huge mirrors on the walls reflected the blinking lights, the promises of pay-outs, the endlessly spinning reels. The players, perched on high stools, many of them smoking cigarettes, fed their silver coins into the slot, one after another, barely reacting whether they won or lost. Scarlett saw poker and blackjack being played, with croupiers, in white shirts and multicoloured waistcoats, dealing the cards out onto tables covered with green baize. There were two roulette wheels and a long table where a crowd had gathered to watch the throw of the dice. The atmosphere was hushed, expectant. But nobody really looked as if they were glad to be there.
    And then two doors – wood-panelled with gold handles – crashed open and for a moment the games were forgotten as all eyes turned and Sheikh Rasheed Al Tamim made his entrance. It had to be him. He commanded the room before he had taken a step into it.
    He was also wearing Western clothes; a silvery silk suit and a black shirt open at the collar to reveal the gold chain around his neck. There were gold rings on three of his fingers and a gold Rolex on his wrist. He himself was a thin, weedy man – and yet everything about him seemed designed to conceal it. He was wearing designer sunglasses, real gold, with large frames, and much of his face was covered with a black growth that wasn’t quite thick enough to be a beard and a moustache. He was surrounded by bodyguards in shiny suits. There were three of them, with bald heads and watchful eyes. A single woman came behind. His wife? She also seemed unhappy to be here. She was wearing a sober black dress with a scarf over her head, tied under her chin. Her eyes were downcast.
    The sheikh looked around the room as if this was the first time he had ever been here and was surprised to find that anyone else had come. “Hello, hello, hello!” he called out. His voice was high-pitched, almost girlish. Richard and Scarlett looked at each other. It was obvious at once that the sheikh had been drinking. He was swaying on his feet and his face was fixed with a stupid grin. “Are we all having a good time?”
    Everyone in the room applauded. Waiters hurried forward carrying glasses of champagne. There was