Hidden Colours

Copyright

www.EvolvedPub.com

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HIDDEN COLOURS

Copyright © 2018 Nillu Nasser

Cover Art Copyright © 2018 Dale Robert Pease

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ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622537823

ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-782-2

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Editor: Jessica West

Interior Designer: Lane Diamond

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eBook License Notes:

You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

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Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

Books by Nillu Nasser

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All the Tomorrows

Hidden Colours

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www.NilluNasser.com

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What Others Are Saying about Nillu Nasser’s award winner, ALL THE TOMORROWS:

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Nillu Nasser is a gifted and a great entertainer. This novel is balanced and utterly engrossing. ~ Romuald Dzemo, Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews

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An involving story of the tides and trajectories of love. ~ Diane Donovan, Midwest Book Review

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Rich in engaging, realistic characters who grab readers’ hearts and minds and don’t let them go till all the story is told. And what a story it is! ~ Viga Boland, Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews

BONUS CONTENT

We’re pleased to offer you not one, but two Special Sneak Previews at the end of this book.

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In the first preview, you’ll enjoy the First 2 Chapters of the first book in Taya DeVere’s Borderline series, BETWEEN TWO DOORS.

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OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!

YOU’LL FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:

TAYA DEVERE’S Books at Evolved Publishing

In the second preview, you’ll enjoy the First 3 Chapters of the literary/women’s fiction PARTICIPANT by Carmen Kemp.

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OR GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!

YOU’LL FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:

CARMEN KEMP at Evolved Publishing

Dedication

For my parents,

who are born helpers.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Books by Nillu Nasser

BONUS CONTENT

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Book Club Guide

Acknowledgements

About the Author

What’s Next?

More from Nillu Nasser

More from Evolved Publishing

Special Sneak Preview: BETWEEN TWO DOORS by Taya DeVere

Special Sneak Preview: PARTICIPANT by Carmen Kemp

Chapter 1

Nestled in the far-east corner of Treptower Park, past the abandoned funfair with its rusting dodgems and the Ferris wheel overcome by climbing ivy, stood a midnight blue and bronze tent. It didn’t look like much—particularly tonight, when the inky sky blotted out the stars—but each evening at the stroke of seven, the circus came stutteringly to life.

From the moment the circus materialised, it transformed the landscape. Once in full flow, the emerald grasses vibrated with the rhythm of the house band. The winds carried peculiar scents far afield. Nostrils twitched when exotic odours replaced altogether familiar ones. Walking deep into the park, the waft of smoking sausages on summer barbecues or the tang of wet autumn earth disappeared, leaving only the scent of sawdust, sugared almonds and a fog of incense.

This was a circus for all seasons. Whether birds chirped in the park, great gusts of wind rocked the boughs, snow crunched underfoot, or thunder pulsed across the Berlin skies, the big top beckoned like a mirage. If curious individuals followed their feet towards the tent, they found sticky trestle tables outside it, where adults clinked glasses and children slurped pink concoctions through winding straws.

Here and there, between the patrons, clusters of performers lingered in full costume: young women in shimmering leotards with plumes of feathers attached to their rears; a clown with a magnificent bowtie that seemed to increase and decrease in size as you watched; stilt-walkers who roamed the lawn in between faded dinosaur figures and could be confused for great oaks. Neither the performers’ faces nor their accents stemmed from Europe. A strangeness pervaded this circus, an other-worldliness. The circus people gathered at the banks of the River Spree to play stones, a ritual to dispel their nerves. They disrupted the calm surface of the river with a flurry of ripples, and became animated at the sound of an eerie gong to summon them to their starting positions.

Tonight, a sparse crowd filled the tent amidst a jumble of fairy-lights, sawdust and clattering seats. Close to half of the stands stood empty. The immigrant circus, as it was known locally, was no longer Berlin’s newest curiosity, but no matter. The spectacle didn’t dim. Three girls in long flowing skirts paced through the tent, holding jasmine-scented incense sticks aloft, their hair in swinging pony-tails. Parents shushed their excitable, popcorn-popping children. A group of women celebrated a hen night and attracted the attention of four boozy men sitting in the row behind.

The microphone boomed as Emir the ringmaster, rotund and buoyant, his moustache thick like a bristle brush, entered the ring. He plumped out his ruffled shirt and tipped his tatty top hat. Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, welcome to the circus. We’ll dazzle you, we’ll enchant you, we’ll make you rub your eyes in wonder. You’ll be transformed by what you see. It’s showtime!

The performance commenced with a display from gleaming horses which galloped into the ring unaccompanied. The audience gasped when the three girls in their midst set aside the incense sticks and climbed onto the rafters. They leapt and, for a moment, appeared to pause in flight before landing on the bare-backed steeds, racing around the ring until beast and beauty became a whirr of hooves and skirts. Wild applause whipped through the big top.

There followed a giant man, more nimble than he looked, leading a troupe of goats in a merry dance, and the goats danced in pairs, courting each other, and seemed to waltz and tango, such was their magic. Next, a woman slid down aerial silks, bending her limbs at impossible angles with the gracefulness of a willow tree before cocooning herself and disappearing a breath later.

So, the evening hurtled forward at break-neck speed, the circus-goers cheering and quietening by turns as the artists turned their tricks into spectacle.

High above the unfolding acts, Yusuf shook with nerves, as he did every night.

Emir reclaimed the microphone, his voice a foghorn of exuberance. Next up, it’s the man—nay, the star—you’ve been waiting for! He can leap. He can somersault through the air. He can land like a cat. Our resident acrobat, Herr Yusuf Alam!

Not for the first time, Yusuf wondered whether the performers should change their names to be more palatable to this audience.

Less strange.

For Yusuf and the motley troupe who had become his family, the circus wasn’t merely a performance. The big top that flared above them might have been an inanimate object, but it symbolised the chance of a new life. After he’d fled Syria, he hadn’t thought he’d ever find another home, until the circus found him. The performers forged new ties because without each other, they had nobody. The circus had become a lifeboat, as if they were still making the treacherous journey across the globe away from disease, war and uncertainty. As if the twinkling lights of the tent amounted to the North Star.

If only the city kept her arms open.

He’d arrived in Berlin two years ago, an alien being adrift in a foreign landscape with its own stinking history of violence and hatred. Grief knotted with gratitude at the centre of his chest. Two years had passed since he’d seen his mother and filled his belly with her stewed curries that stained his fingers. Two years since war threw their lives off track and imposed its will on them as if they were nothing more than flies.

And here he comes! said Emir the ringmaster, drunk on energy.

Yusuf locked away the errant thoughts that flooded his mind and slipped into his acrobat’s skin. He smoothed down his costume and stepped out onto the beam, high above the spectators. The moment of jumping always overwhelmed him. Each time he jumped, his experience divided into two halves: the fear of falling and the joy of flying. Sometimes, when he leapt through the tent with his acrobat’s grace, the weightlessness of flight—for a nanosecond—removed the burden of his memories. Tonight, not even the thought of momentary release helped. He didn’t want to do this. He scanned the crowd. The faces of strangers blurred into a mist. His heart clamoured in his chest.

Will I ever be safe?

He wobbled. The roar of the wind at the top of the tent echoed in his ears as he regained his composure. He balanced, body taut. Better to pause and let the crowd imagine him falling for an instant. He blinked to shake the image from his own mind, his legs suddenly like jelly.

Yusuf leapt, and when he did, the spectators held their breath—a suspended moment, like after the shells landed in Syria. He somersaulted through the air, spinning like a top, and a shower of stardust raced after him, microscopic particles twinkling in his wake. He gave himself to the freedom of the fall, although he quivered with fear and his people were dying, still. When he landed, dust swept into the air, reminding him of the dry earth at home, which sometimes became wet with rains or blood.

The audience burst into applause.

Chapter 2

A billowing cloud of sawdust floated to the ground. Yusuf stood in the glare of the spotlight and bowed low to the stands to acknowledge the crowd’s rapturous reception, though he didn’t care for the wild applause. He longed for a greater connection than this, to be rooted in this country and bonded to its people, to shed the skin of his own ragged history. Pearls of sweat pooled between his shoulder blades. He bowed once more, lycra slick against his skin, to those who had no idea how lucky they were with their white faces, here in the most powerful country in Europe.

The house band swung into action in a rousing melody of Middle-East poetry meets Berlin hip-hop. Inside his body, cavernous parts echoed with the energy of the music, igniting a sense of urgency in him. Yusuf’s blood ran quicker with the beat and he darted to the edge of the arena. The tambourine, goblet drum and fiddle vied for attention with Najib’s beat-boxing, lips alive at the microphone, dead eyes above.

He sent a silent message to Najib. Focus.

Right now, it was showtime. This magical, fragile home of theirs couldn’t afford any complaints. The circus needed to excel. They needed all their concentration, all their tricks and spirit to outperform their competition and attract visitors.

Emir the ringmaster clapped his hands, and the lights blacked out. The tent fizzed with anticipation. The lights flared and in came the twins, sequinned from head to toe, riding bareback on their horses, dove-tailing, leaping, turning slow, sensual flips, though their father would have turned in his grave. Zul the Clown bumbled into the ring, feigning flatulence to the hilarity of the children, his polka-dotted flat cap turning on his head of its own accord. Next, a lute rang out through the air, sweet and clear, as Amena, Aya and Aischa returned. Resplendent in the new costumes they had sewn, they performed a folk dance with spinning skirts, casting threads of gold into the air. Meanwhile, Esme—pretty in a ruched moonlight gown, her hair shrouded by a headscarf—offered warm chunks of manoushi bread and baklawa to the audience.

Onwards continued the show, like clockwork.

The girls danced not five feet away from him, round and round, and their movements hypnotised. Yusuf’s eyes blurred and he retreated into a memory of his mother. He recalled the comfort of her calloused hand on his face, how it would linger there as if he were a child and not a grown man. How he missed her, even surrounded by his new family. His mother had wanted him to be a surgeon or a lawyer. She’d stayed in the land of their ancestors, too old and tired to make the journey, too reluctant to give up her past. She didn’t know how her remaining son contorted himself into shapes and spun through the air to please strangers. Even now, he could almost feel the vice-like grip of her fingers on his arms, the salty tears threading a pathway across the creases of her skin. Her parting words to him had been branded into his psyche.

Do what you must to survive, but never forget who we are.

He owed it to her to make a go of this life. All around him, his fellow performers dazzled with colour, song and razzmatazz, spirit and skill. He knew happiness here, especially with the circus in full motion, with his newly-made family in a flurry of activity around him and the satisfaction of a seamless show. Here, in the tents, the performers controlled their world.

Soon it would be time for the finale when the performers flooded the arena once more: the acrobats, clowns, stilt- and tightrope-walkers, leaping horses and dancing goats. The world would shrink to a point inside the big top, and all around there would be the energy of a dozen planets and colours stolen from Allah himself. It would feel like a wedding in Syria, when the village came together and his face hurt from smiling, his feet ached from all the dancing, and his cheeks flushed with heat. The finale was when the circus most felt like home, when they were together like they belonged. Misfits and broken people who had only become whole once they found their way together like magnets.

Suddenly, a shout pierced through the serenity of the lute.

An audience member called out, puncturing the dream-like trance of Amena, Aya and Aischa’s dance. Again it came, brash and unapologetic, a dose of reality crashing into the fantastical realm they had toiled to create. Anxiety bubbled in Yusuf’s stomach and his eyebrows snapped together as he strained to hear the precise words.

The man lurched forward in his seat, red-faced and drunk, although they didn’t serve alcohol here. Go on, you monkeys! Dance!

Yusuf’s skin prickled with fear. The disrespect shown to his friends—to them all—wounded him deeply, but they could neither censure nor retaliate, powerless as they were.

The man hadn’t yet finished, and the audience around him looked away, aghast. Dance, dance ‘til you drop, then we can put you back in your boats where you belong. Rats, the lot of you!

Yusuf itched with the need to restrain him, but how could he when bound by the rules of gratitude for being allowed to live in this country, and by the rules of hospitality to a paying member of the audience? He looked to Emir’s impassive face at the side of the ring. How far would they allow insults to go before taking action?

The girls continued dancing as if they were dolls, not real flesh capable of hurt. Esme—an Afghani girl, who was sweet on Yusuf—stood closer to the fray. The man’s shouts startled her and she dropped her tray of food over herself and into an audience member’s bag. Her moonlight dress dimmed, and she flushed and stooped to undo the damage, all the while whispering apologies to the woman she knelt before. The man crowed and settled back into his seat, pleased with himself.

A ruckus like this set them all on edge and chased the magic away. Bad enough that circus attendance had been dwindling. Worse, disturbances such as these had increased and had resulted in additional scrutiny from the Interior Ministry. With any luck, no one with any clout had been there to witness it. The Interior Minister’s aide, all corkscrew curls and a hooked nose, had been an increasingly regular visitor to the circus in recent months, and that in itself had raised concerns.

Yusuf swivelled and blinked to adjust to the glare of the lights.

Damn.

His heartbeat accelerated and his palms grew sweaty. There sat Rex Silberling himself: Interior Minister, the Chancellor’s right-hand man, and architect of the circus. Tonight, his aide flapped next to Silberling as he sat still and grim-faced in his house seat, power rolling off him in waves. She motioned to Silberling’s security men not to intervene in the disturbance: the drunk man had already settled down.

Yusuf sighed. Politics turned on a pin. They couldn’t risk displeasing Silberling, lest he withdraw his patronage. Lest he decided to invest his energies elsewhere.

His mind spun through a reel of the latest indignities the circus had suffered: their own waste found strewn in the tent; the horses released from their paddock at night; crude images of buxom girls in compromising positions graffitied on the sweets wagon; the laughter of teenagers running away in glee.

But his circus family—refugees all—had survived worse. The band’s energy leapt a notch, and the plaintive sound of the sousaphone jolted Yusuf into action. Never mind the disrupter in the crowd or the frowning presence of Silberling. It was time to take to the stage. In they all ran, beasts and performers alike, springing, turning, waving to the crowd, singing for their supper. Silberling, too, became merely one of the audience as the performers threw batons into the air and the goats danced and skirts became a whirr of colour. The girls threw small squares of tissue paper into the stands, which, in the blink of an eye, transformed into sapphire butterflies flecked with copper. The men blew into their cupped hands and bubbles emerged and floated away, growing ever larger, until they popped over the heads of the audience in a burst of raindrops.

Isn’t this just fantastic? said Emir into the microphone in the midst of them all, his shirt straining across his belly as he hopped in excitement from one leg to another.

The final moment approached, in which Emir pulled a lever that released a flurry of multi-coloured foils over the audience, never failing to make the children squeal with delight, a parting surprise the girls would later painstakingly gather up for tomorrow’s performance.

He pulled the lever, but it stuck fast. Emir tugged it again to unleash the nets at the top of the tent. An avalanche of paper balls covered in stark print came turning through the air. Emir’s mouth gaped and he cried out, dismayed at the unwelcome surprise. Not one of them had noticed the change in the contents of the nets that morning. They’d been secure in the knowledge that all had been prepared for tonight’s show.

The performers stuttered to a halt.

The band momentarily lost its rhythm.

Silberling’s security men emerged from the shadows.

The audience clutched at the dirty projectiles as they tumbled through the air and onto laps. Silberling, too, unfolded his spidery legs and reached for a paper ball, as if it were a fortune cookie to be read. He unravelled it, eyes hooded as he read the page, mouth curled in displeasure.

Yusuf’s ribcage contracted, as if the air had suddenly become thinner. He didn’t need to read the words—the sabotage spoke for itself—but he couldn’t help himself. He grasped a ball, unpeeled it, and read:

Dirty rat.

And another.

Thieves. We don’t want you here.

Around him, the performers stood still, faces painted in alarm. Emir, ever ready with cheer, appeared dumbstruck. With every moment, the buoyancy in the tent fizzled out. Circuses were stitched together from fantasy and could not survive the intrusion of the real world, the shades of grey and black and blue that track human existence.

Follow my lead! said Yusuf to Zul the Clown.

They ran around the arena, and the rest soon caught on, scooping up the offensive words, teasing the children, offering a peck on the cheek here, a handshake buzzer there, doing their best to ignore the expletives nestled on the page, the clues that to some they were not equal to the shit on their shoes.

Inside, a leaden darkness settled over Yusuf, despite the cheer he showed in the tent.

As the audience emptied the stands and the final sounds of the band died out, Emir excused himself, and his moustache drooped. You understand, son. My heart can’t take such shocks.

It’ll be okay, Emir. Leyla will make you one of her world-famous soups for supper and all will be well.

You may be right. The older man pushed through the heavy curtains of the tent, looking all of his fifty-seven years.

Yusuf turned and found himself face-to-face with Silberling.

Goodnight, Herr Alam, said the gravel-voiced minister. His stare, predatory and cold, sent a jolt of electricity through Yusuf. You understand, these little disturbances cannot go on?

Yusuf’s throat thickened. How could it be that Silberling offered neither praise for the revelries nor solace for the night’s injustice? The man remained as cold as a fish. Far be it for him to explain something so obvious to a superior.

I’m sorry, said Yusuf with a stutter. Even this foreign tongue that he’d taken pains to learn came to him less easily when he stood before Silberling, as if by the very virtue of being himself Silberling made others smaller. I’ll pass that on to Emir. We’ll do better next time.

Silberling wrinkled his nose, and Yusuf became aware of the mild stench of bodily exertions and stale popcorn underneath the cloud of incense and sawdust. With a nod, the minister took his leave, striding into the night accompanied by his team to where his state car awaited him.

He’d met men like Silberling before. Hadn’t his father been such a man, before it all came crashing down? Can’t they be found on every street, in every country, there where the wine flows, backs are patted and decisions are made? Some wore suits, others wore kurta, some carried guns, and some a briefcase, but the undercurrent of energy remained the same, and the hunger in the eyes.

There, in the majestic tent full of possibility, oceans away from the troubles of his past, amidst the sweat and the sawdust, despite their talent and commitment, Yusuf knew the circus and its people to be pawns in a game of power and perceptions. Yusuf couldn’t trust Silberling even though the circus, in essence, belonged to him. Without the circus, Yusuf would have been lost, and Silberling could so easily take it all away.

Chapter 3

Rex Silberling liked to think of himself as a knight in shining armour. The Chancellor appointed him as Federal Interior Minister in the aftermath of her decision to provide a million Syrians with refuge from the war. Rex admired her bravery but the swell in anti-immigrant sentiment—particularly after the sexual assaults in Cologne—didn’t surprise him. No one liked to think their country had changed overnight; change could come too quickly.

Then Rex had a brainwave that propelled him into one of the highest offices of state: the immigrant circus. His idea took on shape and colour, like an origami bird. Not that Rex was an idealist. No, he harboured no such illusions. He was a pragmatist. Germany couldn’t afford a repeat of its history; it had taken decades to move beyond the shadow of Nazism, and the country couldn’t fall prey to the nationalist surges across the globe. As the grand dame of Europe, Germany had a duty to lead or risked being toppled from her throne.

What better way to ease tensions between the local population and refugees than by encouraging interactions in a frivolous setting while also enabling a livelihood, sense of community and a path to citizenship? It didn’t worry him that those absurd left-wing rags complained the immigrant circus reeked of exploitation. They always cried foul over something or other. This was about results, not sensitivities. A brave new world.

Rex knew his strengths. He could sell oil to the Saudis. He grew the idea of the immigrant circus in gleaming boardrooms in which powerful, elegantly-suited men nodded sagely while secretaries tended to their every need. The Chancellor was taken with it. What an initiative! The immigrant circus would be a flagship integration project across Europe. It wasn’t without risks, of course. But were it to go well, they might win over those pesky nationalists. Rex had an uncanny ability of transplanting himself in other men’s minds, of understanding even the basest notions. If the Chancellor was willing to settle a large group of immigrants just a stone’s throw away from the Bundestag, the foul-smelling, uneducated lot couldn’t be that bad, could they?

Once the circus had the right backing, it took flight and transformed into a real life breathing organism, its tents erect and bold at the heart of Berlin. The performers happily accepted their roles, awash with shame and gratitude. The circus tent’s blue and bronze fabric stood stark against the sky, a beacon to visitors across the city, like a minaret functions on more exotic soil. Rex pushed away his nagging concern at any similarities with the human zoos of the nineteenth century, where crowds had ogled black people, bearded ladies and conjoined twins.

He really did have a lot to unpack with his therapist the next time he saw her.

Still, as his political mentor used to say, good things don’t last, and in politics, two years is a long time. Marvellous though the idea had been, Rex had a panther’s instincts. He sensed it might be time to gift his patronage to another project, and tonight had proved his point. The immigrant circus was no longer the newest attraction in town and even Berliners, those most cosmopolitan of all the German people, had grown tired of it. Their curiosity had dwindled into apathy. The past six months had been marked by fewer ticket sales, grumbling neighbours, and an uptick in the number of assaults on the circus performers.

The orbs of hate that had fallen from the rafters at the circus indicated a pattern Rex couldn’t ignore. He knew when to cut his losses. The nationalists had grown in strength, and had surprising staying power. They’d be bolstered by similar movements dotted across the globe. Their list of grievances demanded that their needs were placed above those of migrants. Such were their numbers that they could fell governments. Or worse. Even in the West, he’d seen how politicians and journalists had paid for their ideas with their lives.

No one had ever accused Rex of bravery.

He wouldn’t die for his ideals.

He’d built his reputation on sensing the mood of the nation. It would be easy enough to convince the regional governing bodies that this little experiment had run its course. The voting public’s attention and compassion had moved onto other concerns, judging by the recent swing in polls.

He stood, and his dog Jessy cocked her ears, alert to his every movement. She padded beside him, and he placed a gentle hand on her collar to restrain her from slipping through the door he opened.

Corinne, come, he said, calling his aide. We have work to do.

His aide swept up her papers and hurried inside. Her corkscrew curls formed a particularly unruly frame around her face this morning.

Rex nudged Jessy’s rump towards the desk and shut the door. Yes, it might be time to polish his environmental credentials. After all, voters only had the capacity to care so much.

The next evening, as the moon rose behind a bank of clouds, Rex strode into Mutter Hoppe, a brasserie in Berlin Mitte. He liked the hearty, old-fashioned food here, and he could count on it to be quiet enough for business meetings. As usual, Frauke, the waitress with a barrel-like waist, met him at the door to lead him to his reserved table. The dark wooden booths were perfect for what he had in mind: privacy and, if he spread himself out widely, a little discomfort for his guest. A useful combination for getting what he wanted while staying out of earshot of any passersby. It wouldn’t do to be recognised or overheard.

When he saw Marina Schmidt already seated, Rex smiled. Arriving second signalled his importance. Ever dependable Corinne, hovering outside with his dog, had done her work well.

Frau Schmidt. He nodded, and held out his hand for a cursory handshake.

She fumbled in her purse for a moment then her clammy palm met his cool one.

Was she frightened by his person or his role as Interior Minister?

Herr Silberling. You’re taller in person than you appear on television.

Rex waved a hand dismissively. There could be no illusions that the two of them were equals. Appearances can be deceiving, my dear. The endearment dripped off his tongue. She might be editor of Berliner Allgemeine Zeitung, a newspaper boasting the city’s highest circulation, but she was still a little girl in comparison to him.

He slid into the booth and splayed his legs, one on either side of hers, and placed his folder of documents on the table. You refused my invitation to the circus tonight.

I would have loved to come, Minister, but I hadn’t yet given the green light on tomorrow’s edition. I hope you didn’t mind.

Her hair brushed against his hand. He blinked, surprised once again at how power brought out an awkward coquettishness. He was emotionally loyal to his wife, but the odd dalliance with the opposite sex re-established his prowess as a man. It’d been years since a woman had given him the brush off. It almost made him wish for a challenge. He harboured no vanities that Marina was attracted to him—in fact, Marina and her girlfriend were one of the most committed relationships on the Berlin high society scene—but there could be no doubt she hankered after his favour.

Little wonder, when her newspaper leaked revenue. The losses it had accrued could hardly be sustainable.

He fixed his china blue eyes on her. Have you visited the circus before?

She shook her head.

A shame. It really is very good.

He’d expected as much. If Corinne’s research stood up to scrutiny—and she hadn’t failed him yet—Marina Schmidt’s reluctance to visit the circus aligned with her views. Funny how predictable people were when you learned to look for the signs. A horse-rider, whose bank account told of regular donations to animal rights charities, Marina had an instinctive dislike of the circus, and she had a gaping financial hole to plug. There was no doubt: Rex needed to control the press and Marina Schmidt was the right woman for the job.

Frauke returned with menus.

A bottle of your finest Côtes du Rhône, thank you. Rex waved her away and turned his attention back to Marina. You’ve heard of the trouble, though?

Marina frowned. Grumblings, perhaps. The usual stuff. Foreigners taking away our money, the state spending millions on them, thieving. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Crime is on the rise. This week, the circus was targeted again. The police tell me it’s only a matter of time before the situation escalates. It’s not what I want.

What can I do for you, Minister?

Follow the story. He arranged his features into a friendly expression. Can the circus be saved?

Frauke returned with the wine and poured it, offering it to Rex to taste. He swirled it in his glass to check its viscosity, breathing it its aroma, before sipping some and letting it linger on his palate. He nodded his approval at Frauke, and they waited while she finished her task.

When she had gone, Marina’s astute eyes searched his face. The question is more, do you want to save it, Minister?

She was smarter than he’d given her credit for. He knew the limits of his own department’s energies. Should he throw more resources at the circus in the face of growing opposition, or abandon it and shore up his support? His resolve grew. Better to control the narrative and the outcome. Marina formed an integral part of his plan to accelerate the inevitable decline of the circus and close it down before the next election round.