Cold Black. Alex Shaw
time. Something is happening, Aidan. GCHQ has picked up increased chatter referring to some sort of attack and soon. MI5 have been going through possible targets but as yet with no success. According to my counterpart at Five, it’s like looking for a grain of salt in the desert.’
‘So why is Six interested?’
‘We’re interested because most of the chatter is emanating from Saudi Arabia. This impacts us because, in addition to my role at the “Russian Desk”, I’ve just been assigned caretaker of the “Arab Desk” until the boss appoints a permanent replacement.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I don’t need your congratulations, I need your help.’ Patchem paused as they exited a roundabout. ‘Look, I’m a Russian specialist; our Director General knows this but she insisted. Aidan, to be candid, I know bugger all about the Middle East, that’s why I need operatives I can rely on. I brought you into Six because I was impressed by what you did in Kyiv and how you did it.’
‘Thanks, Jack, but I’m no Middle East expert either.’
‘The “Arab Desk” is in a mess and I don’t know who I can trust there.’ Patchem had yet to fully assess the desk staff. ‘I need my own team.’
They arrived at Snow’s flat. ‘So what’s my assignment?’
‘There isn’t one, yet.’
Patchem brought the Lexus to a halt. There was a silence. He stared into the distance.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Durrani was a friend.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What? Oh, I see. Yes. It’s been a trying day.’
‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Thanks for listening.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Want, yes. Allowed, no. Jacquelyn is expecting me home.’
Riyadh. Saudi Arabia
There was a strange noise in the air and a familiar smell in his nostrils he couldn’t quite place. Burning oil! The Saudi whipped off his thin bedsheet and rushed to the window.
Flames were leaping from his garage; worse still, they were moving towards his Rolls Royce Phantom! Struck dumb, he was unable to call out to his security guard as the flickering flames reflected hypnotically off his bedroom window. He opened completely the French windows and nervously moved onto the balcony, the heat like an oven on his face.
Finding his voice, Al Kabir yelled for his guard. Two shadows darted beyond the perimeter wall towards a pick-up truck. Without lights, the truck moved away into the darkness of the desert. There was a rushing sound and suddenly an explosion from the garage, quickly followed by another. A wall of flames raced towards Al Kabir’s newest car. His hands gripped the railings on his balcony but before he could move or utter another word the Rolls Royce was engulfed.
Fouad Al Kabir awoke from his mid-morning snooze with a start. It hadn’t been a dream. The fire had caused over a million dollars’ worth of damage. In addition to the Phantom, two much more expensive vintage Rolls Royces had been destroyed. The oldest had wooden wheels and had belonged to his grandfather. He stood. They were irreplaceable; this was why Prince Fouad Al Kabir was so angered and saddened. He had already ordered a new Phantom, but the others! Fouad kicked the remaining wall to the garage in despair. This was terrible on a personal level but an outrage on a national level. He, Prince Fouad Al Kabir of the House of Saud, had been attacked! It was unprecedented. He wasn’t fearful – the concept had never entered his head – but he was upset.
Twenty more members of the Saudi Arabian Royal Guard Regiment, the unit with the task of protecting the Royal House of Saud, now patrolled his ‘palace’. His brother had said he’d been foolish to stay at his small place in the desert, but security wasn’t a concept Fouad could fully understand. He was royalty, so why should he be in any danger? Unlike his brothers – especially Umar – Fouad didn’t like to leave the Kingdom. He was happy to stay within its borders and play at being a businessman and scholar…
There was a buzzing from under his robes. Puzzled, he retrieved his Vertu and answered. ‘Yes?’
‘Your Highness, peace be upon you. I hope you are well?’ the voice asked in classical Arabic.
‘And you. Who is this?’ Fouad noted the number was withheld.
‘I am a humble servant of God.’ The voice had a lyricism.
‘As I am. And?’ Every Muslim was a servant of God; the caller was stating the obvious.
‘He instructed me to burn your English cars.’
‘What?’ Fouad couldn’t have heard correctly. ‘You burnt my cars?’
‘That is correct, Your Highness.’
Fouad was incensed. ‘Then you will be punished.’
‘If it is “His” will.’ The caller paused; he could hear the prince breathing heavily on the other end. ‘Burning your precious cars was a way to get your attention. Now, do I have it?’
Fouad held onto a palm tree to steady himself. He couldn’t understand what was happening. ‘What do you want?’
‘You sit on the board of directors of Saudico, the world’s largest supplier of oil.’ The caller paused again.
Fouad didn’t know how to react; here was a stranger, speaking to him in a very impertinent manner. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘You must order the company to immediately cease supplying oil to the infidels.’
Fouad paused then started to laugh heartily. ‘If you were not going to die for destroying royal property, I would find you a very funny man.’
The caller grew angry. ‘Do not mock me, you fool.’
‘What!’ Fouad ended the call. He had never been so insulted in all his life.
Fouad walked towards the terrace and snapped his fingers as a signal that he wanted a cold drink. Could he have the call traced? He would ask the police chief. Just as he was about to sit, the phone vibrated again.
‘Yes?’
‘That was unwise, to end the call in such a way.’
Fouad’s thumb hovered over the cancel button. ‘Any leniency I may have shown towards you has just been withdrawn. You will be executed for both your actions and your remarks.’ That would surely make this unknown person repent.
The caller was again calm. ‘Stop supplying oil to the West or your daughter will be the one to be executed.’
Fouad dropped his glass. It smashed on the tiled floor. Immediately a servant hurried to clean it up, but the prince pushed him away. ‘What did you say?’
‘Princess Jinan…’
‘Don’t you dare mention her name…’ He was redder than he had ever been before.
‘Princess Jinan is no longer at her school. We have her.’
Fouad felt dizzy. He spluttered with rage and waved his arms to attract the attention of his guards. ‘You lie.’
The line went dead; the caller had disconnected at his end. The prince’s brain tried to process the information. He had several people to call but didn’t know who to contact first. The commander of the guards arrived and bowed.
‘Call your men who protect my daughter! Immediately!’
The man bowed again and vanished into the house. Fouad dialled his brother’s number from memory and held the phone to his ear. As he did so the military officer reappeared holding a different handset.
‘Your Highness.’
Fouad