Table of contents

Part I
1.1 The Grand Opening
1.2 A Call to Action
1.3 Flags of Fortune
1.4 Hotel Lobby

Part I
1.1 The Grand Opening

Audio diary entry - 8/9/2014

It was 5:30am when my alarm went off that wet September morning in Geneva. I slipped into my bathrobe and finally tackled what I’d been putting off for months: shaving off my beard, which recently had become so out of control that some haters started tweeting “Jihadi Gerald” memes. As the whiskers fell into the sink, memories rushed back. At the start of the year, I had retired after thirty years at the UN with deployments in the most challenging conflict zones. I had negotiated with dictators, oligarchs and warlords. None of it had actually improved matters in the slightest; but the talking had felt amazing.

Having retired, on the advice of my wife I flew to a silent retreat in Goa to unwind and plan my future. Repeated violations of the no-talking rule, however, meant that I was expelled after just three days. Slightly embarrassed but in good spirits, I spent the next four months hitchhiking down India’s east cost to Tamil Nadu. When I saw the countless fishing boats along the coast, I couldn’t help but recall the Sri Lankan civil war, in which the Tamil Tigers’ arms supply routes had relied on the self-same vessels. I’d been there as a junior UN officer. How quaint I must have looked in my Man from Del Monte outfit – like a time traveller who hadn't yet attended the seminar on post-colonial guilt.  

Reflecting on those early days, I mused that had I been given a free hand by New York I might almost have ended that conflict before it had even started. My mediation could have made a big difference; and even now I still had what it takes, Oh yes indeed! The thought matured over the next fortnight, during which I worked for room and board in the kitchen of a delightful German expat couple who offered yoga sessions with wandering cows on the beach. And then it hit me: before I could write my memoirs, I needed a grand finale: one last hurrah; something truly impactful to cap my journey. I knew what I had to do! I would start a peace NGO – one with a  humble and catchy name. Without hesitation, I settled on “The Peacemakers.”

Now clean-shaven, I donned my suit, sipped my morning matcha, and slid into my Tesla. It was the big day of The Peacemakers' office grand opening. Thanks to generous donations from old friends from Oxford and connections in politics and business, I’d been able to secure 4000m² of prime Geneva real estate, within sight of the Palais des Nations. I looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled contentedly. In the world’s crisis countries I’d encountered corruption and nepotism at every turn; it was wonderful to receive funds from people with no ulterior motives. I would not disappoint them.

However, The Peacemakers’ success would be difficult to gauge and hard even to see - a bit like that of the world’s spooks. As I pondered such matters, three questions came to mind: Did ex-UN officials get the appreciation they deserved? How was I going to meet the women’s quota on The Peacemakers’ advisory board while still accommodating my most important friends? And where the hell was I?! Lost in thought, I’d missed the exit and ended up in an industrial park.

I U-turned and headed back towards the city center. While waiting at a traffic light, I checked my intelligence asset (Twitter). “Fighting in Aleppo flares up, dozens of civilians killed”, the CNN headlines said. Then a WhatsApp message popped up from my old friend Jason Doll, US Presidential Advisor on Middle East Affairs. “Hi Gerald. POTUS wants something done on the Aleppo siege.. Let’s talk tomorrow.” This was fantastic news! For The Peacemakers’ debut, the only initiative I had lined up was a 24-month long consultative workshop project on “The Future of Multilateral Mediation in the Age of Climate Change.” I had the Finnish foreign ministry’s underspend to thank for that (and the favour the FM owed me after his Bangkok debacle), but the makings of a Nobel Peace Prize it was not. Saving Aleppo was much more up my alley. 

A few minutes later, I spotted the Palais des Nations, glinting in the rain - a beacon of bureaucratic hope. Our spanking new offices were just down the street. I parked and straightened my tie. The world hadn't yet seen the last of Gerald Baynes.

1.2 A Call to Action

When Gerald Baynes walked into the freshly painted, airy Peacemakers office the next day, he was greeted by the familiar smell of new carpet and optimism – along with a faint whiff of booze from the Grand Opening the previous night. Gerald had missed most of the party as he had to hide in the bathroom to avoid the Women in Peace (WiP) reps who wanted to confront him on his gender quotas. The party nevertheless seemed to have been a success. On his way to the conference room, he saw his PA Lisa busy with glass cleaner, removing buttprints from the copier.

Gerald took his place at the head of the conference table where his team was already awaiting him: a mixture of enthusiastic newcomers fresh off the think tank boat and the jaded old hands of the peace NGO game.

“Good morning, Mr. Baynes,” chirped Sophie, a French ex-journalist who had once won an award for exposing corruption in Guinea before switching to corporate comms. Gerald had lured her away from the Crisis Task Force (CTF) with a lavish Geneva salary and an invented title (“Chief Communicator for Global Peacebuilding.”) Adil Shah, the head of CTF with a Twitter following of 160,000, had nearly choked on his desi chai when he heard about Gerald’s stunt.

“Good morning, Sophie, good morning everyone,” replied Gerald, noting a few eager nods from the fresh faces and some barely suppressed yawns from the old hands.

“This room, which I like to call the Room of Trust, will be the epicentre of a transformative era in conflict resolution. Play the slides, Lisa.” On the giant screen, images appeared of cavemen, ancient Greeks, Magna Carta, House of Commons, Churchill, the UN.

“Over the past 50,000 years, humanity has slowly but surely developed methods for settling violent conflict through dialogue and negotiation. This long journey of cultural evolution reached its peak in the rules-based order after WWII – a system that has, for all its flaws, brought unprecedented peace and stability to large parts of the globe. We are the guardians of this vital progress, and it is our job to disseminate these principles to regions where the old ways of settling conflict still hold sway. It’s not just a mission; it’s a responsibility to ensure that the hard-won lessons of history aren’t lost, but instead are shared with those who need them the most.”

“Great. Colonialism is back!” said Pieter enthusiastically, with a broad grin that made it clear he wasn’t joking. Pieter was the 25-year old son of a Dutch landmine clearance magnate whose donation to The Peacemakers had covered the office's custom-made Italian espresso machine and the weekly delivery of exotic orchids.

The room briefly fell silent. A few of the newcomers looked uncomfortable, while the seasoned team members exchanged wary glances, familiar with the provocative tendencies of project officers who saw themselves as globe-trotting secret agents.

Gerald’s expression remained neutral, though a slight tension crept into his voice. “Pieter, that’s not the approach we’re taking. This isn’t about domination or imposing our will. It’s about offering support and guidance where it’s needed, respecting the sovereignty and cultures of the regions we’re working in.”

Pieter leaned forward, his tone unapologetic. “We’re fooling ourselves if we think these places can sort themselves out. They need a strong hand, someone to show them how it’s done. The rules-based order worked because it was enforced, not because we asked nicely.”

Gerald’s voice hardened a bit. “The world is now a changed place. Gunboat diplomacy doesn't work anymore. We must be pragmatic, adaptable, and willing to engage with all parties, even those we might label as terrorists or rogue states. Remember our motto: anything is better than war.”

“Bravo!” said Sherin, a middle-aged Lebanese-American who had previously been at the Middle East Foundation (MEF) in D.C., now Supreme Adviser to Gerald. She clapped lightly, giving Pieter a pointed look that made him suddenly find great interest in his notepad.

Order restored, Gerald continued. “Now team, I have a surprise for you. The Peacemakers has been entrusted with an urgent mission: to break the siege on Aleppo and open a humanitarian corridor for 1.5 million trapped civilians.”

Cueing the map on the giant screen, he launched into his briefing like Eisenhower planning D-Day.

“Three months ago, rebels in the north of the country launched an offensive that left Assad government forces encircled in Aleppo. The last route into the city was cut off last week. Food and fuel are running dangerously low. The UN Special Envoy for Syria, Ahmad Barakat, has been trying desperately to achieve a ceasefire and deliver aid to the trapped civilians, but he’s got nowhere. He’s tried his best but let’s face it, the old codger’s toast.”

Ahmad Barakat, who had been Egypt’s foreign minister in the late 1990s, was a child of the good old days of bland diplomatic dinners and overly polite handshakes. None of that had prepared him for the shitshow that was the Syria crisis. Since the rebels had tightened the noose around Aleppo, Barakat had decided that the only solution was decisive US support for a new diplomatic peace initiative. To that end he had resorted to harassing Jason Doll with the persistence of a telemarketer.

Every hour, on the hour, he called, begging Doll to pressure all sides into attending UN-sponsored negotiations in Geneva. But Doll, too busy with the Iran nuclear talks and binge-watching House of Cards, had blocked the Special Envoy’s number. Barakat, however, was nothing if not resourceful and seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of SIM cards. When Barakat once again called him at three o’clock in the morning, Doll snapped, texted Gerald, and booked the next flight to Geneva.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for the first official Peacemakers team meeting, we have a special guest. It is my honour to welcome US Presidential Advisor on Middle East Affairs, Jason Doll,” Gerald announced, giving Lisa a signal. The door buzzed, and Jason Doll entered the room, looking as if he’d just woken from a power nap that wasn’t quite long enough.

“OK folks, let’s get to business,” said Doll, while Sophie discreetly typed on her phone. “And no photos or Twitter tags,” he added. Sophie put her phone away.

“I come with the full authority of the President. Your mission is to initiate a discreet dialogue with Syrian rebels with the goal of opening a humanitarian corridor for the civilians trapped in Aleppo. The aim is to get this Aleppo siege off the front pages, and fast. A quick negotiation followed by a few aid trucks rolling in – that should do the trick. Now, Barakat over at the UN is all about his peace talks in Geneva, but let’s be real, that’s just smoke and mirrors. We’re focused on the ground realities: locally negotiated deals that de-escalate violence and save lives. Nothing more, nothing less. And one more thing: you must be discreet. No leaks, no loose talk – nothing. This is top secret.”

“Noted Jason”, responded Gerald, “and thanks for letting me eye through the classified NSC file on Syria. Fascinating stuff! Now Jason assures me that the man we need to talk to is this.” Gerald gave Lisa another signal, and the giant screen displayed a mustachioed man in his early forties, dressed in camouflage and a shemagh and brandishing an AK-47.

“This is Khalid Rashdan, aka Abu Faisal. Leader of the Syrian Liberation Army, a very moderate rebel group that controls the southern route into Aleppo. He’s our man, as it were – a bit rough around the edges, but essentially a good egg. We need to talk to him and get him to cooperate with us,” Gerald declared.

Noticing the raised eyebrows around the room, Gerald continued with a benign smile: “I know, I know, he might look like he just stepped out of a Mexican crime drama, but think of it like it’s trying to convince someone to switch internet providers: lots of bluffing, a few creative spins, and the looming threat of having something essential cut off.”

Gerald turned to Sophie: “Please tweet that you are excited about the new Peacemakers project, hope you can share more about it soon, and don’t forget to tag Adil Shah – he loves feeling left out. Pieter: I want an actor mapping by 1500. And drop the hard man act – you're not Bond. Sherin: draft me a strategy document with all the trendy buzzwords – ‘synergies’, ‘resilience’, ‘locally-owned’, you know the drill. Lisa: book the best hotel you can find in Istanbul and make sure it has a private pool and regular spinning classes. Pack your bags, everyone, we’re off to Syria!”

1.3 Flags of Fortune

As Khalid Rashdan rode his white Arab stallion through the olive groves of his native village of Tal Ghazal, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, things were finally going his way. He’d certainly come far from driving lorries to Saudi Arabia and living in a two-room mud hut. Operating out of the hills of the southern Aleppo countryside, in early 2012 he had led a band of 50 poorly-armed rebels that had chased the mukhabarat out of the area. Now, he led a 3,000-strong militia, the Syrian Liberation Army (SLA), that just last week had routed government troops in the southern outskirts of Aleppo and was now in control of the main M5 highway into the city. Assad’s men were trapped, along with 1.5 million civilians. This success was partly thanks to the generous supply of TOW anti-tank missiles from the CIA, which had pegged Rashdan (or as he preferred “Abu Faisal”) as a salt-of-the-earth moderate rebel deserving of Western military support.

On social media, activists speculated whether the Americans saw in him a democratic diamond in the rough, just needing a bit of polishing. It wasn’t entirely off the mark: in his chats with CIA agents he had developed a habit of quoting Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King. Most recently, he had set his ringtone to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.”, and now made a point of receiving calls during meetings and allowing the anthem to blare long enough to remind everyone just who was backing him.

Control of the M5 highway meant that Abu Faisal had truly hit the jackpot. While the Northern Alliance rebel coalition, of which he was a key leader, had meticulously planned a tight siege to force a swift Assad surrender, Abu Faisal  had brokered a lucrative side hustle: smuggling fuel and cigarettes to the enemy. Their T-55s were still smouldering when Abu Faisal sealed the deal with a shadowy middleman. During three years of conflict, Aleppo had developed a burgeoning black market controlled by Assad army officers who paid the likes of Abu Faisal double the normal rate for allowing a few trucks to slip through the net now and then. Now, with a fresh supply of American missiles and cash flowing in from his smuggling operations, he rode back to his villa complex at a leisurely pace, casually pondering whether his militia’s flag could use a snazzier colour scheme.

As he dismounted and opened the front door of his villa, he was met with chaos. 

“Khalid, is that you? Follow my voice!” Aziza, his wife shouted from somewhere behind a mountain of cardboard boxes that obstructed the entrance to the freshly marbled courtyard. Abu Faisal successfully traversed the boxes that were piled ceiling high, reaching the other side a bit out of breath.

“It’s your cousin and his stupid business idea,” Aziza shouted. “He’s convinced our idiot son Awad to join him as a partner!”  

At that precise moment a white Hyundai van pulled up in the driveway, blasting an Abu Faisal propaganda song to the tune of Warni Warni. Out jumped Hamdo, Abu Faisal’s ever-scheming 20-year old cousin. More boxes were hastily unloaded into the hallway, piling up like a makeshift barricade. 

Abu Faisal was having none of it. 

“I told you I’m not bankrolling this shit! These flags are all worthless junk!” he shouted, jabbing his finger into Hamdo’s chest.

“Relax, cousin, it’s just temporary until we find a proper warehouse. Awad and I are going to make millions!” Hamdo grinned, completely unfazed.

“Why has Allah burdened me with such kin?” Abu Faisal groaned, throwing up his hands in exasperation. 

Hamdo, unbothered, laughed and wandered off towards the kitchen, following the irresistible aroma. 

“What’s cooking? I’m starving,” he asked, already halfway there. 

Abu Faisal was beyond annoyed. For more than two weeks his cousin had been relentlessly pitching for start-up capital for an eco-friendly business: turning old flags into furniture. By this stage of the war in Syria there were over 1,000 militias, and every day new groups formed and others merged; and all wanted flags emblazoned with their latest emblems. The local printing shops were running 24/7 to keep up with the demand.

This flag frenzy brought an unforeseen problem: a growing mountain of discarded nylon flags from groups that had either rebranded or vanished altogether. It was a bizarre form of battlefield litter that no one had anticipated. Hamdo, ever the opportunist, saw a goldmine in the chaos. He wanted to collect the old flags and recycle them into sustainable upholstered furniture. As he put it, "Why let a perfectly good symbol of revolution go to waste when it can be repurposed into a comfy armchair?"

Admitting tactical defeat, Abu Faisal slunk over to the pool where he usually had his morning coffee and clarified butter on toast. The sound of chirping birds and the rays of the glorious morning were his only solace.

“Is everything else okay?” Abu Faisal asked his wife, trying to focus on anything other than Hamdo’s business idea.

“Yes… just remember Awad’s 18th birthday. Have you picked out a car yet?”

“Our son’s getting a Toyota Hilux,” Abu Faisal answered promptly.

“One of your trucks? You know he wants a BMW coupé,” Aziza replied with a hint of exasperation. 

“Look around, love, does this look like Dubai? You can always rely on a Hilux – it’s been the number one choice in Warlord Weekly for five years running now!”

As if on cue, the morning serenity of Tal Ghazal was abruptly shattered by the unmistakable vocals of Springsteen blaring from Abu Faisal’s phone. It was Fadi al-Najar, a well-known media fixer in northern Syria. Fadi was instantly recognisable as a seasoned pro by his trademark ponytail and hipster beard – the kind of look that screamed “trust me, I’ve got connections.” 

“Abu Faisal, our fearless leader, it’s good to hear your voice,” said Fadi in the well-honed cadence of a salesman.

“For the thousandth time, I’m not interested in a VICE documentary,” Abu Faisal interrupted, already anticipating the pitch.

“Actually, that’s not why I’m calling. It’s a Track II initiative this time. There’s this British guy, Gerald Baynes, ex-UN. Rumour is he’s working for the Americans, trying to organise secret negotiations about Aleppo. Something about a humanitarian corridor, blah, blah. Anyway, he wants to come to Syria to meet you. You in?”

Abu Faisal paused, but his mind was racing. On the one hand, the Americans opening a humanitarian corridor could seriously disrupt his smuggling operations and undermine the Northern Alliance’s chances of capturing the city quickly. For the revolution to succeed, Aleppo had to fall into their hands. 

On the other hand, he was getting a lot of arms from the US, and he was one of their top contenders in the race for Supreme Leader of the Syrian Revolution – a title yet to be bestowed but that meant the world to Abu Faisal. Besides, after weeks of hard fighting, he felt he was due some R&R.

“Alright, I’m in. I’ll meet with this Gerald, but on one condition: the meeting takes place not in Syria but in Istanbul. At the Imperial Hotel.”

Fadi immediately caught the drift. “Ok… how many people are we talking about?”

“6-7,” Abu Faisal replied casually.

“Sure, that sounds reasonable.”

“I meant 15, sorry, slip of the tongue,” Abu Faisal quickly corrected himself.

“Are you sure that’s a good ide—”

“It’s 15 or nothing,” Abu Faisal declared.

“Alright then, I’ll let you know as soon as possible. And good luck to you and Hamdo with the Revolution Couch! Sounds like a great idea; I’ll pre-order one.”

“How do you know about this?!” Abu Faisal demanded.

“There’s a new Facebook page for the company. Your son Awad tagged everyone and said you endorsed the product.”

Abu Faisal hung up. 

Later that afternoon, at the nearby Syrian Liberation Army HQ, the creatives were hard at work. In the basement, Musa, another of Abu Faisal’s cousins, was busy recording yet another propaganda song, this one catchily entitled: “Abu Faisal Will Chop Assad’s Head Off.” Musa, the musically gifted one in the family, had previously set up southern Aleppo countryside’s first heavy metal band, Scimitars of Doom, and was dressed in his usual tight black jeans and leather jacket, despite the sweltering heat.

Abu Faisal flung open the door and swaggered in. “I’ve got good news, you bunch of lazy slackers!”

“Please, not another song idea! We’ve already produced six songs about you in the last month. This is getting weird, man,” Musa groaned.

The room, filled with eight young males – all related to Abu Faisal by blood and all former members of the underground heavy metal scene – nodded in unison, their collective exhaling of sheesha smoke obstructing visibility long enough to hide the beer cans.    

“Well, yes, I do have another song idea, but we’ll save that for later. We’ve got something bigger on the horizon. We’ve been invited to a top-notch political meeting in Istanbul, something about saving Aleppo. And we’re staying at the Imperial Hotel!”

“The one with the infinity pool?!” Musa’s eyes lit up.

“Sure is,” confirmed Abu Faisal, grinning. 

Another cousin, lounging in the back in a wife-beater vest and a permanent scowl, chimed in. “What do they want with Aleppo? Let them choke on their own medicine, those Assadist pigs!”

“Victory is near,” muttered another guy, half-heartedly, from behind a cloud of smoke.

“Victory will be ours, don’t you worry about that. But for now, pack your swimming trunks – we’re heading for Istanbul!” 

1.4 Hotel Lobby

Audio diary entry – Istanbul, 18/09/2014

My suite on the 18th floor of the Imperial Hotel is absurdly magnificent. It’s bigger than some of the apartments I’ve lived in – marble floors, silk drapes, chandeliers, the whole grand vizier treatment. Ottoman revival is in full swing here, and apparently not just in the décor. I’m meeting my old pal Dr. Orhan Demir for drinks later, and he’s convinced that Erdogan’s trying to piece the Empire back together, starting with Syria. I just hope it doesn’t throw a wrench in my own little mission.

Speaking of which, the flight to Istanbul got off to a disappointing start when no one from the team agreed to wear the “Mission: Possible” t-shirts I had printed especially for the occasion. That aside, Turkish Airlines Business Class didn’t disappoint: a kebab dish “first served at the court of Suleiman the Magnificent” washed down with endless glasses of a local red that wasn’t half bad. Meanwhile, back in cattle class things got interesting when a certain someone decided to draw a moustache on a sleeping Pieter. I’m filing that under ‘team-building.’

I tried to get some sleep myself on the flight, but every time I closed my eyes, I had nightmares of Adil Shah grinning like a Cheshire cat, telling me that I don’t have what it takes to be in the A-league of private diplomacy. Honestly, how hard can it be to convince a Syrian peasant warlord to let a few aid trucks through to some poor starving civilians in Aleppo? I mean, Lawrence managed to talk that Anthony Quinn chap into attacking Aqaba, for heaven’s sake. I’m just after a corridor! If I can’t pull that off, I may as well head home and start penning my memoir, Not Talking to Terrorists.

Still, I can’t become complacent. Tripping up at the first hurdle would mean professional disgrace and likely banishment to a Gulf think tank for the rest of my days. 

Right, time for a stroll through the hotel’s Topkapi-themed gardens before I hit the bar. Must channel my inner Gerald of Arabia. 

Gerald emerged from the lift with an air of optimism, the kind that comes from being twenty-four hours away from a possible triumph with everything still feeling like it's going according to plan. He strode across the lobby in his beige linen suit and loafers making straight for the gardens, but then something – or rather, someone – caught his eye.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Seated on a golden armchair with his shiny bald patch gleaming like a familiar warning sign was none other than Adil Shah. Gerald watched in disbelief as Adil chatted up the eye rolling blonde Turkish reporter from CNN Türk who was interviewing him, casually handing her his business card while smiling and saying something about a “large portfolio.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Gerald's mind, each more paranoid than the last. Was Adil here to spy on him? To sabotage his meeting with Abu Faisal? Had he been set up? Or had Adil guessed his email password again? 

Gerald’s instincts took over, and, as they often did in moments of stress, they led him in the only direction that made sense: a hasty retreat to the toilets.

He stood before the mirror, leaning on the sink, staring at his reflection. His usually well-composed face looked panicked. But then suddenly, in one of the cubicles, someone was singing Nelly Furtado’s Maneater in an unmistakable Liverpudlian accent.

“Matt, Matt Bannister? Is that you?”

“No señor,” came the reply in poorly imitated Spanish.

“Come out, Matt!”

A flush later, the cubicle door swung open, and out stepped the 6’2 ex-SAS man, cool as ever, smoothing down his shiny lilac shirt. 

“You alright?” Matt greeted Gerald, grinning as he wandered over to the sinks. “Didn’t expect to see you here, but then again, you and your little bathroom retreats are becoming a bit of a trademark, eh?” He gave Gerald a friendly pat on the back before leaning into the mirror, fixing his hair with a dab of gel. 

Matt Bannister had been Gerald’s security man at the UN, where he earned a reputation for being hard as nails but also a hopeless romantic. It was his discovery of Abu Nuwas' poetry while on tour in Iraq that proved life-changing. It sparked a passionate attachment to the Orient, which blossomed into an unexpected side gig: the anonymous webmaster of an online guide to gay hammams in the Middle East. It was a “hobby” he perhaps took a little too seriously; and one that was not without its dramas. In 2010 Matt had been so heartbroken after getting stood up in Erbil that Gerald had to delay his flight to comfort him with ice cream and a rewatch of Dirty Dancing, which, even though none of them spoke the language, Matt insisted on watching in French. 

Matt’s physique and skillset nevertheless made him the ideal choice to even the odds against Abu Faisal’s 15-strong rebel entourage arriving the following day. Gerald had summoned him to Istanbul for just this reason. Now, seeing him in the flesh, he drew new confidence.

“Matt,” Gerald began, “I know you're on the pull tonight, but I’m going to need your backup. Right now.”

Gerald and Matt marched across the hotel lobby, the latter the very picture of “looking well ‘ard.”

Adil Shah was still seated on the golden armchair, swirling a G&T, as the TV crew were packing away the cameras. When he spotted Gerald, a knowing smirk spread across his lips. He raised his glass in a lazy salute. 

“Gerald Baynes, as I live and breathe,” he drawled.

“Fancy seeing you here, Shah. What’s your business?”

“Well, Turkish evening news asked for an interview about happenings in one of the stans, you know the game.”

“Sure, sure,” said Gerald, whose last TV interview was four years ago and still had a pitiful 48 clicks on YouTube. “And you’re staying at the Imperial by sheer coincidence, I assume?”

“Well, it’s lovely, isn’t it? The view from the 19th floor is gorgeous. Besides, Crisis Task Force is making great strides. I just got in from D.C.; now I’ve got a slew of high-level meetings lined up. Wish there were more than 24 hours in a day. Remind me, what’s the Peacebuilders working on again?”

“It's the Peacemakers. And we’re discreet about what we do. It's on page 2 of the Track II manual if you care to check.” 

Adil appeared completely uninterested in what Gerald was saying, casually disregarding Matt's staredown as well. 

“I was just in Berlin last week to talk to the Foreign Office about a new strategy for integrating the Taliban into peace talks. They love what we’re doing. Same goes for the French and Norwegians…”

“Sounds like you’ve been quite the busy bee, fluttering around with your little Task Force.”  

Adil took another sip of his G&T and leaned back with a sly smile. “Not sure if you’re keeping up with Syria, but Aleppo looks bleak.”

A brief pause followed, during which Matt stopped glaring at Adil and glanced toward his visibly flustered boss.

Gerald snapped. “Cut the crap, Shah! I know what yo—” 

“Mr. Baynes is late for a meeting,” Matt interrupted expertly, “we really must be getting on. Enjoy your gin Mr. Shah.” 

Read the next instalment in the December issue.