“Hmmph, that guy’s gotten too big for his boots.” Fairman started waving his hand. “He’s become some kind of celebrity journo…he’s on all these talk shows, on CNN and the Beeb, it’s bloody weird.”

“He has become a bit of an expert on the country, hasn’t he?” Omar said. “He’s more than qualified.”

“Yes I suppose, but he’s a changed man. That woman who tagged along with him to our wedding…well…anyhow. He’s in the big league now.” Fairman clicked his tongue.

Omar felt it on the tip of his tongue to say something about Nim, but he changed his mind. Nothing had happened, so there was in reality nothing to talk about. They finished their drinks in silence, as if pondering all the possibilities that Imran had in his grasp now.

“Are we good?” Fairman stood up. “Time to hit the road.”

“Yup, I’ll leave in a minute, you go ahead.” Omar poured himself another drink. “Last one, promise.”

“Good night. Say hi to the missus, and yes… I’ll have a word with Sumi.”

Fairman strode out and shut the door quietly. As his footsteps faded away, Omar swivelled his chair round to take in the view. He particularly liked it at night. From where they were, the skyline gleamed and glittered and the promise of a new country beckoned. But for Omar, it also spelt uncertainty. Malaysia had been governed by a ruthless and powerful man for 22 years. Things had a pattern, a place. Order had been created and carefully, albeit ruthlessly applied. People only knew fear, and fear had worked well. Too well. A new Prime Minister spoke of things unknown, but there was a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of a more effective democracy, and a chance of possible freedom.

“Freedom,” Omar muttered under his breath. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

He poured himself another whisky and as it swirled around in his mouth, he thought of the millions that they stood to gain from the Nigerians, the ongoing contracts in Vietnam and Kenya and he suddenly felt invincible. A hunger appeared like a simmering ball in the pit of his belly and that surge of promise beckoned, the world beckoned, the knowledge of profit beckoned. He, Omar Tunku Malik, was on a path that he never ever thought he would be on, and that, was the promise of freedom.

Marina called him Mr Ferrari; he was undoubtedly unhappily married and very, very rich. He was her most regular client and had almost single-handedly sponsored her new breast enlargements, and she knew that he cared for her. It was almost like love, she thought. He cares for me, he looks after me, he SMS-es me to make sure I eat every day, he wants to know who I fuck and how much I make, and he is okay with all of that.