Cold Black Page 6

  Snow nodded.

  “Well, this person, the ‘innocent passer-by’ happened to be having an affair with Fox’s second wife.”

  “Quite a coincidence.”

  “That’s exactly what the CPS thought. However it has been decided, not made public yet, that he is not to be charged with attempted murder. It turns out that the Saudis have some friends in ‘very high’ places. These people ‘persuaded’ the Home Secretary to drop all charges against Fox.”

  It would be put down to the ‘special relationship between Saudi and the UK, which in reality had far more to do with ‘arms contracts’. Patchem had heard that Saudi Arabia had threatened to nullify the latest contract if Fox was prosecuted. Al Kabir was the Saudi signatory.

  “What’s more Fouad Al Kabir is to offer Fox a position in Riyadh, head of security to show his gratitude. What I want you to do is to ‘persuade’ Fox to take it.” Patchem pressed a button on his keyboard and an image was projected on the blank, light blue, wall behind Snow’s head. “Recognise him?”

  Snow swivelled in his chair and saw an image of dead body. The picture zoomed in and Snow recognised the man. A second image, this one a still from Snow’s mobile video footage taken in Harley Street, appeared next to the face.

  “The same person.”

  “I agree. He has yet to be identified, but this is one of the abductors that Fox neutralised. The attack on Durrani and the abduction are linked.”

  Snow frowned. “Are you saying that Dr Durrani had links or dealings with terrorists?”

  “Absolutely not. He had a higher security clearance than you. He’d worked for us for years and was fully vetted. He trained in the UK but was a Pashtun, originally from Quetta. His family came to the UK when the Soviets invaded neighbouring Afghanistan. Due to his contact with us, we monitored all his patients. We know that this included the Saudi Royal family. With regards to whoever undertook these two incidents, to be candid, we have no leads whatsoever. Furthermore the media and the PM are asking ‘why’. The last thing we need is someone putting the ‘desert’ wind up the Saudis.” Patchem half smiled at his play on words, it hid his sadness at the loss of a colleague. “If Fox takes this job then it would also get him well and truly away from the media. Whitehall are very keen to kill the story. Everything you need to know is in here. Any questions?”

  Snow shook his head as Patchem handed him a second file.

  “Good. Call me with your progress. You have three days.”

  Snow stood and left the office. He would have to be careful, Fox would be drawing much attention from the media and Snow did not want his face in print besides his old comrade’s.

  Shoreham by Sea, West Sussex

  A disgruntled DC Flynn had the Police driver drop Fox of at Cabot Square in London’s banking hub, ‘Docklands’. Fox easily found the only branch in London of his new Swiss banker and after passing their security process was allowed to withdraw cash against his generous payment by the Saudis. After buying wrapping paper, with which he covered his ‘sword’, Fox had then entered Canary Wharf tube station taking the Jubilee Line to Westminster where he changed to the Circle Line for Victoria.

  Now safely ensconced in his Southern Central train to Shoreham, he sat back and watched as the scenery outside the carriage changed from the bustle of London to Surrey suburbia then the green of the Sussex countryside. Finally reunited with his mobile he had made several calls home – none of which had been answered. Tracy’s mobile also did not respond. It was not that he wanted to talk to her but that he wanted to let her know he was on his way home. Having relished his walk from Shoreham station he stopped short on seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign in his front garden. He felt the anger bristle inside him but had to admire his wife’s spirit, she was wasting no time. The house was in her name, she had bought it, so she was going to sell it. He walked up Jim’s path and knocked on his front door.

  “Paddy.” His neighbour’s face registered shock but also relief. “You ok?”

  “Yes thanks Jim.” Fox nodded at the sign. “What’s all this about then?”

  “She’s left, gone to her sister’s place, but I didn’t tell you that. Sorry.” He looked at his feet.

  “Don’t be.”

  Jim swallowed. “You know I spoke to the papers? Someone had to say what kind of bloke you were.”

  This newspaper interview had angered Fox at first but no longer. As pensioners any extra cash would make their lives easier. “Jim you’ve got nothing to be sorry about mate, and if it earned you a few quid or paid for that cruise Maureen wanted then, well just buy me a pint sometime. Is Maureen in?”

  “She’s out doing a bit of shopping, didn’t want me to get under her feet at Tesco’s you know what women are like.”

  Jim had not meant to be ironic. “I do indeed. How is she?”

  “Fine. She was a bit shaken at first but then she started telling all her friends about it, I think she’ll be telling that story for years!” Jim smiled, “She got her best china out for that girl. And then when we found out who she was! Well talk about all her dreams coming true – meeting Royalty and that.”

  Fox shook his head. “As long as you are both alright?”

  Jim nodded. “Paddy, there were a lot of paparazzi hanging around. One asked me to give him a call if you came back.”

  Fox reached into his pocket. “How much did he offer you? I’ll match it.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. There’s been a couple of them hanging about. I just wanted to warn you.”

  “Thanks.” The last thing Fox wanted was his face in the papers.

  “That bloke, the one you...”

  “Shot?”

  “I’m sorry. I saw him before but I didn’t feel I could tell you. Not my place.”

  Fox tapped the old man on the shoulder. “Not my place either, by the look of it.”

  Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt

  “Sharm el-Sheikh is known as The City of Peace referring to the large number of international peace conferences that have been held here.” The fat man’s voice carried on the breeze from the next boat. He continued reading from his guide book, “Sharm el-Sheikh remained under Israeli control until the Sinai Peninsula was returned to Egypt in 1982 after the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty of 1979. A prosperous Israeli Settlement had been created there in the 1970s under the name "Ophira", derived from Biblical Ophir. Some of the buildings erected at the time are still in evidence.”

  “Is that where we’re going this afternoon dad?”

  The boy, the Chechen guessed, was seven and still at the age where he hung on his father’s every word, even if he did not understand.

  “No, we’re going out on this boat to see the fishies.”

  “Can we eat them?”

  “Some of them, but some could eat us!”

  The boy laughed. “Dad, that’s silly.”

  The Chechen drank his ice tea and looked back at the shore. The cornice was crowded with cafés. Tourists took up tables, chatting loudly, eating ice creams and getting sun burnt. In the sea, power cruisers and yachts mixed with day launches, glass bottomed tourist barges and fishing charters. It was the perfect place to have a meeting without being noticed. The neighbouring boat moved off taking the British holiday makers out of earshot.

  “I am listening.” Khalid said quietly.

  The Chechen smiled, although what he was about to say was not a joke. “We are in a position to be able to help each other. There are many true believers in your country who fear that the Kingdom is too lenient on the infidels, that the Kingdom is governed by those who seek to line their own pockets.”

  “This is the view of a growing number, it is not a secret.”

  “But what is a secret is that amongst these true believers there are those who are ready to take direct action.”

  There was a pause as the Saudi sipped from his glass, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. “There are such people.”

  “I would like to help them.”

  The b
luntness of the Chechen’s reply caused the normally composed Arab to frown. He had never met this man before; the meeting had been set up using a Soviet era KGB sleeper channel. A channel, that Khalid thought he would never have to answer again. “You are a believer, a true believer?”

  The reply was in Arabic. “I am Chechen.” It was a lie, but he had learnt his Arabic in Chechnya. “I know first-hand what it feels like to have one’s own beliefs subjugated by an occupying infidel force. I represent a powerful group who will no longer stand by and watch our Muslim brothers in the Kingdom mocked by their own rulers.”

  “And what could you offer, my brother?” The Saudi did not switch his Oxford English for Arabic.

  “If certain targets were to be presented, I would be able to assist in both the funding and equipping of any attack.”

  “Training?”

  “Special Forces training, my Brother.”

  There was a pause as the wash of a jet ski caused the launch to rock. Khalid looked the man in the eye. “This is an interesting proposal.”

  “One that you should accept.”

  “How is it that you come to know of my beliefs?” Khalid was still not completely trusting of this Chechen. He could have accessed his handlers file to entrap him, part of the Christian crusaders war against the true believers.

  “Alexander Williamovich wanted me to say ‘my love for my country is as pure as the Vodka that has replaced the love of my wife.”

  Khalid grunted, reassured. The odd sentence was the code that this man had indeed come from or had the blessing of his former Soviet handler. An amateurish and clichéd device that for that very reason was effective.

  “How is the vodka soaked fool?”

  “Dead. He was murdered by the very Russian’s he served. Did you know that his grandfather was also Chechen?”

  Khalid was saddened. It had been this man who had recruited him out of Oxford, masquerading as a fellow undergraduate. “My brother, I should like to accept your kind offer of assistance.”

  The Chechen nodded and smiled briefly. “We can make immediate preparations my brother. I have a list of targets, which I assume you would want to attack.”

  “I have my own target list.” Khalid frowned, he did not like taking orders and wanted to make it quite clear that he, in whatever way funded by this man and his people, would be in charge.

  The Chechen had expected this, the Arabs were a proud race, much like the Russians he mused, but both were easy to lead if hard to control. “I assure you my brother that I only suggest my targets because I have intelligence on them and it could be that some of our targets are the same?”

  “Perhaps then we should compare lists?”

  “I see you have already targeted the Al Kabir family.”

  Khalid’s eyebrow twitched with surprise. “An unfortunate mistake caused the girl to be rescued.”

  “I am here to prevent unfortunate mistakes. Next time we may meet in Dubai, in a more fitting environment.”

  “Insha'Allah”

  Shoreham Beach, United Kingdom

  A shiny green Mini Cooper, plastered with company decals, pulled up outside Fox’s house and the driver got out.

  “Mr McDonald?” The estate agent was young, suited and eager.

  “Aye, that’s me.” Fox, now wearing a baseball cap, shook with his right hand, a small carrier bag of shopping swayed gently in his left.

  “John, John Edgar.”

  “Thanks for coming at such short notice John.” Fox had made his accent thicker than normal.

  “That’s no problem at all Mr McDonald.” Edgar twiddled the keys on his finger nervously. “Well as you can see it’s a nice quiet street. What brings you to the area?”

  “I’m looking for somewhere nearer to my work.”

  Edgar nodded, to show his understanding. “Good. Well as you can see it is a new development, just over three years old I believe. Shall we go inside?”

  “Let’s.”

  The man from Andrews & Son opened the front door and stepped back to let Fox inside, as Fox passed he swiped the keys from the door.

  “Thanks. I’ll take it.”

  Edgar was confused but smiled nevertheless until the door closed and he was locked out. Fox winked at himself in the hall mirror as he made for the kitchen, ignoring the doorbell which the bemused estate agent now rang. Reaching under the sink he turned the water back on then opened the under stairs cupboard and did the same with the electricity supply. The doorbell had stopped ringing; Fox filled the kettle with water. Edgar’s face appeared at the back window; Fox held up the kettle and gave a ‘thumbs-up’ before lowering the roller blind.

  Tracy had really done a number on him. The house was bare except for the odd items that had been left strategically to ‘sell it’. The kettle in the kitchen, expensive cooking utensils hanging on their pegs and magazines, of the type they never read, on the coffee table in the lounge. Luckily both the TV and three piece suite had also been used for staging.

  A thought suddenly occurred to Fox. He moved quickly to the internal garage door and opened it. There she was his beloved Porsche, stubbornly standing stock still and refusing to move until she had been fully restored. She was where he had left her but was now surrounded by boxes. Fox opened the nearest one to find it full of clothes, his. He was a relieved; at least she hadn’t thrown them away. Picking up the box he made his way upstairs and took a shower, again ignoring the front door and now his mobile.

  Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

  Khalid stared at the desert. Was there no greater example of God’s greatness? He was doing ‘His’ work on earth, carrying out His divine will. It was time to start the new Jihad against the infidels, who in league with the corrupt royal family would defile the house of Islam.

  Khalid had received a target list from ‘the Chechen’ and some suggestions. He had found them most acceptable. His men had been instructed and soon, Insha'Allah, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia would be cleansed of the infidel plague and be the true house of Islam.

  Wellness Fitness Club, Brighton Marina, United Kingdom

  The three ‘meats’ were in again, pumping themselves up to ridiculous proportions. Fox shook his head, what a trio of tits! Each in their early twenties, one was well over six foot, the second just under, whilst the third – who Fax had nicknamed ‘mini-meat’ - was scraping five. As they passed, Fox kept his eyes on the monitor in front of his tread mill and the main report on Sky News, some sort of demonstration in Ukraine. Looking down again he saw that the two larger meats were now loading up the leg press machine for ‘mini-meat’, who, as usual, was making grunting noises as he pushed the plates away from his body under the ever increasing pressure.

  The guy really was comical, thought Fox. He was square, his shoulders were broader than Foxes, and his chest fuller. The sad thing was that this actually made him look shorter. Meat one and meat two egged him on and threw him a bottle of water when he had finished his set.

  Fox had seen all sorts in his time, from the wiry types who were happy to run all day to the meat heads who thought that they were invincible. Usually Para’s, huge hulking men who ran into bullets like they were rain but died none the less. Strength was a great thing to have but flexibility and speed were just as important. Fox reached the five mile mark and slowed down the machine before stepping off.

  At forty five he was in as fine a shape as he had been at twenty five, or so he claimed. Not for him the beer belly and saggy skin. True his joints ached more now, but he took a perverse pleasure in confronting the pain and battling through it. He drank greedily at the water fountain before heading for the pull up bar directly in front of the leg press station and ‘the meats’. Resting in between sets they gave the older man sideways glances. Fox knew they were watching so decided to show off. He jumped up for the bar and, pausing only for a second to get his grip, snapped off ten very fast pull ups. Dropping back to the floor he noticed their stunned expressions.

  “Bit tired tod
ay.” He said in their general direction as he made for the bench press.

  Snow showed a member’s pass and was let in. He followed the signs for the gym. Mid-afternoon and the place was busy with young mums and those who, he supposed, worked shifts. He looked around before spotting the man he wanted to talk to, pumping his arms into the air.

  “Is that a warm up set?” Snow looked down at Fox.

  It took a second for the old soldier to register the face then his own creased into a broad smile. “Wouldn’t be for you, you English poof!” Fox rested the weight on the stand and rose to his feet. He extended his hand; it had been more than fourteen years since he’d seen the young trooper he’d shared a cold ditch with.

  “It’s good to see you Paddy.” Snow shook the large hand.

  “You too mate.” Fox jerked his head and implied that they should move.

  Snow followed him to the personal trainer area away from the other gym users in the corner. They both sat on different pieces of exercise equipment.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Well you see me?” Fox took a gulp of water.

  Snow gave a quick look over his shoulder to see that no one was within ear shot. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Fox wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You still Regiment?”

  “Not quite.”

  Fox raised his eyebrows, he knew better than to question any further here at the gym. “Listen, let me get a shower and meet me outside. You got a car?”

  Snow nodded.

  Snow brought his Audi round to the entrance. Five minutes later he and Fox were leaving Brighton Marina and heading back to Shoreham.

  “You’re a celebrity.” Snow cast Fox a wry look as they pulled out into the sea front traffic.

  “Apparently I’m very popular on Al-Jezirah.”

  “So what happened?” Snow wanted to hear it first-hand.

  “Who wants to know?”