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  Fattouh added his own summary. “It is these simple people who are naïve. They are impressionable and listen to the extremists.”

  “Some may Mosbah, but not all of them. You see Aidan we live in a very strange state. We have to deal with the West because twenty five percent of the world’s oil reserves are here, yet at the same time we are expected not to want to get to know our ‘business partners’. I am sorry; please tell me if I am boring you.”

  Snow quickly swallowed his drink. “No, please go on. I know very little about your country.”

  “The oil will, some day run out and what then? Are we to sink back into the sand as before? I am a member of a consortium, a group that wishes to emulate the examples of Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Bahrain by bringing tourism into the Kingdom. By tourism I do not mean religious tourism such as the hajj pilgrims, I mean real Western style tourism.”

  Snow was now more interested. “How will you do that? The visa regime here is the toughest I’ve seen.”

  “True, I still have to sponsor Mosbah here, even though he has been a dear family friend since I was in my teens. There is a large gorge, a canyon much like that one in Arizona, a few hundred miles up the coast; I won’t bore you with exact details, which is isolated from all Saudi cities. Is has been the aim of my consortium to turn this into a self-contained holiday resort, a place where there is no chance that any Western tourist could ‘taint’ the Muslim faith. It would need its own airport and infrastructure but as the environment there is so unspoilt we believe that it would be a very profitable venture.”

  “What does the government think of your plans?”

  “They are in agreement, in principle but are as always beholden to the fundamentalists. And so, we go around and around in circles. Another drink?”

  Fattouh stood. “If you will excuse me, for a moment?”

  Hassan watched his elderly business partner leave the room before letting his face grow serious. “Aidan let me show you the garden?”

  Snow followed the Saudi through the patio doors and out onto a flagstone path. The sun had started to set and the air was still, save for the ‘swish swish’ of the lawn sprinklers.

  “Aidan, I have been asked by Jack Patchem to keep an ear to the ground.”

  Snow could not hide his surprise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Aidan Snow sent here by his controller Jack Patchem to learn more about a possible terrorist attack.” Hassan held up his hand. “Do not try to deny this, I am your contact. Jack and I are old Oxford chums. Did he tell you he ‘didn’t care’ for Arabs?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That is because we once quarrelled over the same women. I won but then he married her.” Hassan stared at the rapidly setting sun, as if to remember.

  Snow was now tense. “So what Intel do you have for me?”

  The Saudi turned to face Snow. “I too have been hearing more, shall we say, ‘mutterings’ than usual. There are always those who will make threats, but what I have been hearing is new. It is not clear, and I could not press my contacts further, but something is indeed planned for Riyadh.”

  “What?” Snow could feel his pulse quicken.

  “Some sort of an attack on Western targets and soon. My son has also heard as much from his friends.”

  “Do you have anything more specific or a timescale?”

  “I wish I knew more but I am afraid that this is all I have.” Hassan shrugged.

  Snow finished his whisky. “I need to speak to London.”

  “I understand. Please do come back and visit me again, I have enjoyed meeting you Aidan.” He extended his hand and shook Snow’s. “If I do learn anything new I shall immediately contact you.”

  “I am ready Mr Aidan.” Fattouh appeared from the side of the house, he had his car keys in his hand.

  London, United Kingdom

  In his study and aided by a glass of single malt, Patchem read again the update from Snow detailing his meeting with Hassan Al Rashid. It had been several years since Patchem had caught up with his Oxford pal. His mind drifted back to the rivalry that had once been between them, when they had both vied for Jacquelyn’s attention. Hassan not used to being ignored and Jack not used to losing. In the end of course it was Jacquelyn herself who had decided.

  Patchem often wondered if her Irish genes, fair skin and red hair had swung it in his favour. She was not fond of the sun, preferring a ‘deep book’ to a deep tan. Oxford seemed like a lifetime ago and indeed if he were to count the years it was. He was what now, fifty four? They had graduated thirty three years ago and he’d been with SIS for almost thirty. Patchem inadvertently caught his reflection in the study window and raised his glass as a toast to himself. Thirty years with Six and here he was, unable to relax on a Saturday.

  He read the report for a third time, as if something new would magically appear, but no. The report was professional but brief. It simply stated that Hassan had heard rumours about an attack and that was it. There were no confirmed targets to narrow down the list of British interests and alert them or dates. It was all innuendo. He poured another large measure into his glass. Something was going to happen, he was sure of it now if he could only find out what, where and when.

  British Embassy, Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  Now in the Saudi capital on the second leg of their trade mission, the group had started to bond and were looking forward to an evening of free drinks courtesy of HM Government. As the rest of the group joked about their Saudi experiences, Snow was on edge, supremely aware of Al Rashid’s ‘Intel’.

  The Hyatt hotel’s shuttle bus came to a halt outside the British Embassy and the members of the Trade East Association, Trade Mission debussed and passed through security. Snow had sat next to the driver at the front. After his near fatal car crash in Poland, over a decade before, he always tried to sit in what he felt was the safest place. At least this seat, unlike those behind, had a working seatbelt.

  The British Embassy in Saudi Arabia was situated in the ‘Diplomat Quarter’, a gated zone five miles from the centre of the Kingdom’s capital Riyadh. An area on a slight rise, overlooking the Wadi Hanifa in one direction and the emptiness of the desert in the other. The zone contained most of the foreign embassies to the Kingdom including the official residences of the ambassadors. All vehicles attempting to enter the area were checked by armed Royal Saudi Police officers whilst calls were made ahead to confirm their appointment with the relevant Embassy.

  Each embassy had their own compound within the zone, separate to the embassy, which housed diplomats and other personnel. The British Embassy was made up of two buildings which formed an L shape with a courtyard at the front and a swimming pool and tennis court at the rear. A high brick wall several feet thick surrounded the entire place. Even before the attacks of September the 11th all visitors were subjected to a metal detector and bag check. Now in the new era of Islamic terrorism, ‘the Insurgency’ as it was called, body searches were common.

  Snow had read that the American Embassy was even more secure with two rings of walls, a vehicle check point and armed US Marines. The Americans had vowed to ensure that the events of the 6th of December 2004, when militants stormed the US consulate in Jeddah killing five foreign employees, would never be allowed to be repeated. The consensus was that with the exception of US military bases the ‘diplomatic zone’ was the most secure place in the Kingdom.

  Tonight would be another test for Snow travelling as Aidan Mills. He felt confident enough to be able to discuss business with any interested parties and knew enough about the industry. This was important as the Embassy’s commercial attaché had invited several local opticians and retailers to meet him at this reception evening. Snow’s case containing his samples was scanned and he was nodded through. He followed the other missioners around the side of the main building, past the swimming pool and into the single floor conference and reception room. A table had been laid out for each member of the trade mission. Sn
ow found his had been placed in the corner, as per his request. He smiled to himself as he noticed the large free bar at the opposite end of the room. The Embassy may well be located in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, one of the world’s dry states but this was British soil and the Ambassador, as always, intended that everyone have a good time.

  A white jacketed Malaysian waiter approached Snow and took his order. In keeping with his cover of Aidan Mills Snow ordered a drink, but in keeping with Aidan Snow it was a large Cognac. As expected the Cognac was French, he much preferred Ukrainian. Within fifteen minutes the guests had started to arrive and, as expected they included not only invitees but most of the British ex-pats based in Riyadh. Snow shook his head as he saw the world’s most obvious alcoholic standing by the bar. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and had a large whiskey in his fat hand. His face was florid and his red neck tried to burst out over the top of his shirt collar, each and every button on his crimson shirt strained under his girth. Over the top of the shirt he wore the ex-pat uniform of blue blazer with Regimental crest of the chest pocket. As the waiter poured him another drink he pushed his bottle bottom thick glasses back up his crimson nose.

  “I’m surprised he’s still breathing.”

  Snow turned to see his neighbour, Lermitte the bio-fuel generator exporter laughing. “This is the third time I’ve been here in the past five years and every time; there he is standing at the bar.”

  Snow left his table and joined Lermitte. “What does he do?”

  “He’s a civilian adviser to the Royal Saudi Air Force. Former Squadron Commander or something.”

  Snow shook his head in disbelief

  “I know”, continued Lermitte, “would you buy ‘a second hand plane’ from that man?”

  “Maybe they stick him on the runway at night as an emergency light?”

  Lermitte grinned. “A green solution?”

  Both men drank. “So truthfully, is there actually a market for your products in the World’s largest oil based economy?”

  Lermitte shrugged. “In theory yes, in my MD’s opinion yes, however in my personal opinion, no. Why on earth would a Saudi choose to run bio-fuel when for a fraction of the price he can support his own economy by running on cheap oil? And if you push them on the environmental issue they take it as a personal attack on their beloved Royal family.” He drained his glass.

  “So why come, it can’t be for the women or the booze.”

  “I’m a camel fancier.”

  Snow smiled, he liked Lermitte. They had the same sense of humour.

  “My MD wants to change the world, convert them all to bio-fuel. I think he feels it’s his duty to attack the evil empire – Saudi. So he keeps sending me here and I keep saying the same stuff to anyone who’ll care to listen. Fancy a brochure?”

  “I’ll pass on that. I run on hot air.”

  The ‘crimson’ ex-pat laughed loudly getting both men’s attention. A Saudi in full traditional dress was shaking his hand whilst waiting for his own glass to be refilled. Another Saudi was using his hands to make a bird shape in an attempt to tell a joke. Snow had seen some very bizarre things in his time but those present at this reception were the best yet.

  “Here comes Brown Owl!” Lermitte nodded at their approaching mission leader, who had been fussing over them ever since they checked in at Heathrow.

  “It’s a good turnout isn’t it?” Kennington said enthusiastically gesturing with his outstretched arm.

  “As good as, last time. I see some familiar faces.” Replied Lermitte.

  “Ah, yes. Well, these evenings do tend to become something of a social event.” He focussed on Snow, “Have you had any interest Aidan?”

  “My invitees don’t seem to be here yet.”

  “Well it is still early. Actually I’ve been meaning to ask you myself. Do you think I need a new pair of frames?” He removed his spectacles and held them up for inspection.

  Snow gave the mottled brown specs a professional once over. “How long have you had this prescription?”

  “Four years. Is that bad?”

  “Hm. It wouldn’t hurt to get a new eye examination and then if there is a change you could get some new frames for the new prescription. We have a lightweight, flexible titanium range now that is perfect for the frequent traveller like you.”

  “Really?” Kennington replaced his glasses. “That’s good. Maybe I’ll do that. Now I’ve just seen someone I need to talk to, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Loony.” Lermitte whispered as he watched Kennington enthusiastically greet a Saudi in Arabic.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You can’t be based here for ten years, as the Trade attaché like he was, and then want to return after retirement, unless you’ve got a screw lose.”

  “Or like Camels.” Snow added.

  Paddy Fox straightened his tie. Although he had been invited to the reception as an ex-pat, not a potential customer for any of the missioners he had surprisingly felt the need to wear a pair of chinos, shirt and tie. What had come over him recently, he didn’t know. He still however wore his desert boots, hidden beneath his turn-ups. The drive in from the compound had so far taken forty minutes through the outskirts of the city. The locals drove like mad men. On the highways they used the hard shoulder as an extra lane and tried to force their way through, if you were not driving fast enough for their liking. He shared the bus with Lordy and Frank; they were good for a laugh if in small measures.

  “Step on it mate, me Heineken’s getting cold” Lordy, ever the mouthy Londoner, leant forward instructing their driver.

  “Shut it Si, remember this is a Muslim country.” Frank was ever wary.

  “You’re right Franklin. In Allah’s name, hurry up me Heineken’s getting cold.”

  Their driver Hatim just smiled as usual, his English was not great and they could have been talking brain surgery for all he understood or even cared.

  Fox looked out of the window at the half built houses and the desert. He was happy in the desert but not here, Saudi Arabia. Even though his employer was a hospitable Royal, Fox found the Kingdom in general hostile to westerners. The sense of antipathy had grown considerable since his last time in the country. Still he didn’t have much to complain about. He had left his recent troubles behind him thanks to the Al Kabir family who had made them disappear and given him his new job. In a small way he almost felt bad ‘spying on them’ for the SIS. As of yet however, he hadn’t heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. If the SIS thought he was going to crack a new terror cell they were barking up the wrong palm tree.

  Fox’s mind drifted back to his wife and despite the heat he felt a shiver run down his back. He had loved her and she had betrayed him with, of all people, his boss. Fox relived the millisecond it had taken him to decide to shoot her lover. The moment he had pulled the trigger, sending a piece of white hot lead into the suited lothario. He had killed numerous men on behalf of HM Government but that shot had been solely for him. It was a pity it hadn’t been fatal. He missed Tracy. The way she spoke, her flat northern vowels, the sound of her voice had made the old soldier’s stomach flutter and then there was her body. She had the most fantastic pair of tits he had seen and a tight round bum. He smiled despite himself as he saw flashes of her naked, a mirage reflected off of the desert sand.

  It had all started to go wrong when Tracy had been promoted above him at work; she started to travel more leaving him to fend for himself. He had not minded at first, actually looking forward to having some time by himself to work on his old Porsche, but then the meetings had gotten more numerous and he noticed a change in the way she spoke to him, like she was better than him, like she was his boss. Fox had taken this with humour, a trait learnt dealing with the very green ‘Ruperts’ he had met in the Army.

  Then there had been his redundancy, engineered he now believed by Sawyer and for her, his ‘loving’ wife, he became beneath contempt. A useless, old man. Fox balled his fist and pressed it hard again
st the window, now seeing his own reflection, he looked like a demon. He had to cut away from the pain of losing her. He had to become strong again, for Fox to move on his mind had to believe that she was dead and not out there somewhere without him. He closed his eyes. She was dead.

  “You asleep old man?” Lordy slapped Fox on the back.

  “Just day dreaming.” Fox snapped back to the present.

  “What, about men in dresses?” The Londoner laughed.

  “Yeah, can’t get my hands on any real women out here.” Fox became the jovial ex-pat again. “I thought I’d try my hand at ‘shirt lifting’.”

  The mini bus slowed and was waved into the security zone. The driver and the guards exchanged nods. Hatim was well known to the police, having served the Royal Family for several years as a driver and sometime messenger.

  “Might be some nurses there tonight.” Lordy announced, “Eh Frank, what d’ya rekon?”

  The Jordy whistled. “I do rekon. Got some tasty bits, at that King Khalid Hospital.”

  “Not blokes, you nonce” All nurses at state run hospitals were male. “The birds, that take care of the embassy.”

  As was usual most of the banter was concerned with the pursuit of women and the lack thereof. In Saudi this tended to focus on the complete lack of any women. At ex-pat events any single white female suddenly took on near mythical status and attracted a hungry pack of ex-pats.

  “There is that one bird that answers the phones.” Frank replied.

  “What, Maureen?”

  “Yeah, I rekon she’s got a few miles left in her.”

  “She’s almost sixty mate. Too old even for Gandalf here.”

  Fox shook his head; he really had missed male company since getting married. “I like older women; they can’t run away as fast.”

  Lermitte passed Snow another drink. Snow had switched to sipping lager as his head had started to buzz from the combined effect of heat and cognac. He had to stay semi-sharp for the handover. The room was now almost full, as locals and ex-pats alike mingled. Snow had just finished talking to the owner of the Al-Sarakat Optical Group. Sammi, the CEO, had boasted at the number of brands they represented and was eager to represent ‘View Bright’. He had arrived with an exclusivity contract and had pretended to be shocked when Snow had said that he would have to read it first. The fact was that Sammi was a collector of brands. He gained exclusivity and then under the restrictive Saudi laws would only sell the products of those who paid him the most. Once in effect, the contract was iron clad and extremely difficult to break unless one party paid the other off against future earnings and the subsequent loss of.