Hannibal Fogg and the Supreme Secret of Man by Tahir Shah

Author:Tahir Shah
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Secretum Mundi
Published: 2018-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Seventy-eight

COMTE OSCAR DE MALLOIS and his pair of albino Pekinese resided in a magnificent first-floor apartment on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. With splendid views out towards the Grand Palais, the building, number 29, had originally been constructed for Napoleon III’s mistress — an English woman named Harriet.

The salon was well proportioned. Laid in Versailles parquet, the floor was adorned with exquisite Turkoman rugs. Set at opposing ends of the room, magnificent trompe l’oeil mirrors reflected each other above fireplaces of white veined carrara.

The Comte was taking a little Earl Grey from a blue Limoges cup when the doorbell sounded. Impeccable in a chequered sports jacket, a cravat and corduroy trousers, he had dressed for the winter rain.

He glanced at his watch.

Eleven-fifteen.

Must be the Englishman — the one who had telephoned the day before.

Pressing the entry buzzer, he waited for the antique wrought iron lift to ascend from the ground floor. A few moments passed and the journalist appeared.

Comte de Mallois introduced himself, shook his guest by the hand and apologised for the din the dogs were making.

‘They’re a damned nuisance,’ he said.

‘Thank you so much for receiving me at short notice,’ Matheson spluttered. ‘I promise not to take up too much of your time.’

The Comte motioned to the salon.

‘Earl Grey?’ he asked.

Thanking him, Matheson struggled with small talk — the weather, Hausmann architecture, lapdogs and Oriental rugs.

Only when his host seemed satisfied with pleasantries did he pull out a notepad, and enquire about Hannibal Fogg.

The Comte smoothed down an eyebrow with a moistened fingertip.

‘What do you know of him?’

‘That he was an explorer; that he was disgraced.’

De Mallois offered his guest a second cup of Earl Grey, inhaling the tea’s bergamot oil aroma as he poured.

‘Hannibal Fogg was far more than that,’ he replied. ‘He was a genius in the true sense of the word, a polymath, a man of astonishing ability. A confidant to world leaders, a member of secret societies, a brilliant linguist, swordsman, and lover to the most beautiful woman of his time.’

‘A lover?’ echoed Matheson.

‘Indeed. To the one and only woman in his life. His true love.’

‘Who was she?’

‘Her name was Alina Pasternak,’ said the Comte. ‘Born a princess, she was enslaved, until rescued by Fogg.’

‘Where?’

‘On the Volga.’

‘When?’

‘Early last century. I’ve heard it said Fogg paid a king’s ransom for her.’

The journalist looked up from his notepad.

‘Is that true?’

‘I suspect it is.’

‘I believe you,’ said Matheson awkwardly.

In a delicate movement, the Comte cocked his head quizzically to one side.

‘Might I ask you, sir, why you are interested in the life of Hannibal Fogg?’

Touching the chewed end of a disposable biro to his lips, the journalist cleared his throat.

‘Researching a series I’m doing,’ he said. ‘“Forgotten Victorian Explorers”.’

Comte de Mallois got up from his chair. Striding over to the tall windows, he looked out at the chestnut trees.

‘I am a student of history,’ he said, shooing the Pekinese from his heels, ‘but never have I encountered a man who excelled such as Fogg.’

‘Excelled in what?’

‘In absolutely everything.’

‘I’ve read he was a spy.

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