Order only: Mr Sabola

Well, I had my first meeting with Mr Sabola. It was almost something out of a spy novel.

Saturday, I showed up at the appointed place and time. Two of his men made themselves known to me (with a password I'd been given) and I went with them to their car. This was a town car with dark tinted windows, by the way. Inside, they asked for my wand, searched me for other weapons and then blindfolded me. They spoke Arabic to each other, but nothing to me the entire time we were driving.

My Arabic is rudimentary at best. (I can pretty much say please and thank you, ask for water or a loo and order a kebab.) Still, I'm fairly sure they were predicting whether I'd be leaving under my own power. Or perhaps they were planning to play football later that day. But I caught something that sounded like the word for camel spit, so whatever it was, it wasn't altogether complimentary.

We drove around for a while. I counted lefts and rights, but as I don't know Cairo well, it hardly mattered. I don't think we ever left the city, though, because one could still hear street noise and people whenever we stopped, and we stopped a good deal (for traffic, I expect).

They brought me out of the car, still blindfolded, through the foyer and into the courtyard of what must have been a large house. I was glad they removed my blindfold there, and not in the brightest sunlight! It was a beautiful spot, I have to admit. There was a fountain at one end that irrigated a whole lush garden all along the length and across the other side. Fig trees and palms provided ample shade. There was a table set for tea, as well, and one of the men gestured for me to sit. He served and it was clear that I was expected to drink what was on offer.

Fearing veritaserum or worse, I shook my head. 'I'll wait for my host, thank you,' I said. He didn't like that, but he couldn't very well argue with good manners. He and his partner took up stations under the eaves of the breezeways and we waited.

We waited long enough that had we been anywhere more temperate, the tea would have gone cold. Or perhaps there was a warming charm on it, but it was still quite hot when Mr Sabola arrived.

I'm not good at guessing ages in non-Caucasians, but he appeared to me to be about 45. He had darkish skin for an Egyptian and a mix of the features I'm used to seeing in Northern Africa with some of the mid-continental ones as well. He was wearing a richly embroidered caftan, but it wasn't flashy, although he did wear a number of rings and an earring. His hair was wrapped in a keffiyeh but the temples were shot with grey. He walked ... sort of like a cat, like he had to be ready to jump aside any moment.

'Sorry to have kept you waiting,' he said, and without any ceremony, poured for himself from the same pot and drank. I took a cautious sip.

'I like to know, before I do business, how guarded a man is,' he told me. 'You know better than to drink the first thing given to you. This is auspicious.' He spoke like an educated man, not like someone who had bootstrapped himself up through the gangs and the war-parties. I think he might have spent some time in South Africa, from the accent. But there was definitely something about him, like a coiled up spring ready to pop out at the first sign of trouble.

He asked a lot of questions: who referred me, how long had I been in the trade, what my goals were for Laszlo, why England, so on, so forth. Luckily there was no veritaserum in the tea, but most of my answers were honest, anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered. He asked which items we were most looking to provide, so of course I said any and all that aren't commonly available behind the wards.

'The wards, yes,' he said, sipping his tea. 'I do not understand why the English did this to themselves. But it is certainly better for my business and that of my colleagues.'

I could hardly correct him.

He explained a few things I already knew and some I didn't. He mentioned the commission he expected to collect for putting me in touch with his 'consortium,' as he called it - clearly an overture, not meant to be a serious number.

'Laszlo Limited is not a charity,' I said. 'We're in this for the same reason you are: To make money.'

'And you will make a little less money to pay my fees, but you shall have much more to sell than you would without paying them, is this not so?' he countered.

'Why go through a middleman at all?' I asked. 'Why not apply directly to the Protectorate for an imports license? Then you'd have all the money and the profit besides.'

It was a risky thing to say in more ways than one. I'm not familiar with spice merchants who employ armed guards or keep the locations of their homes so secret. If he threw me out, I'd have no way to find him again. Plus they had my wand, and I'd have bet an anti-Apparation spell over the place. I reasoned, though, that if he had a way into the Protectorate, he wouldn't have been interested in our attempts to contact him in the first place. And they didn't know that I could escape as Padfoot, if I had to do. I glanced as casually as I could to his guards, keeping an eye on him to see if he'd signal them.

'I have my reasons,' was all he said, and I knew I had him.

'Well, if those reasons are so important, then surely they are worth something to you. Something like fewer piastres in your pocket. Since you are already collecting your share in the markup on your own products, you must see that a lower commission on the others is a reasonable sacrifice.'

He returned with a reminder that he must take upon himself the negotiations with his associates, costing him time and trouble.

'Time and trouble you would take anyway, for your own interests,' I said, unimpressed. 'However, Laszlo is happy to assume personal responsibility for all negotiations; simply give us the contact information for your colleagues and we will broker with them directly,' I said quickly.

'Ah, but you will secure a better, fairer price if you deal with us all together, and that, you must do through me.' (I doubt that sincerely!)

Well, we went round and round for a while, haggling. Finally I got him to admit that he might be able to shave 3% off his commission.

'Three or thirteen, it's still too high,' I insisted. It took another half-hour to get him to a 5% reduction. I shrugged.

'I'll have to consult with my own partners to determine whether we can agree to the terms.' I rose. 'Unfortunately, I have another appointment. Perhaps we could continue our discussion at some other time, when I've had an opportunity to review your offer with my associates?'

'I am leaving Cairo tonight on business,' Sabola said. 'I will return in three days and contact you then.'

He nodded to his guards, who took me out the same way I'd come in. When we got back to the original rendezvous point, they returned my wand and pulled away.

I'm confident that in another couple sessions I'll wear him down to a reasonable commission. Then we'll get to the business of pricing the actual goods - inflated, I'm certain, to bring his commission back up to what he wanted in the first place. He's a good negotiator, possibly one of the best I've ever dealt with. The whole process may take quite a while.