Cold Black Page 8

  “Any women here?” Fox muttered to himself as he replayed the stoning scene in his head.

  The queue moved slowly forward and eventually Fox produced his passport. His visa was examined by a uniformed Saudi, whose eyes opened wide, on seeing that he was to work directly for the Royal family. It was stamped and returned. Just through the gates, Fox was greeted by an immaculately dressed military officer. He held out his hand.

  “Welcome to Saudi Arabia Sergeant Fox.”

  Fox cringed and shook the proffered hand, the grip was firm. “Paddy will do fine.”

  “Paddy.”

  The eyes of the young officer gleamed. “His Royal Highness sent me personally to collect you and speed your entrance into the Kingdom. Now if you will follow me, we shall expedite your luggage. I hope your flight was agreeable? I am Captain Barakat.”

  “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

  “Basil.”

  Fox looked amused, the captain shrugged. “I know that in your country it is a funny name, Basil Brush, Basil Faulty yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “But in Arabic it means ‘Brave’”

  “I meant no offence.” Fox spoke in Arabic.

  Basil smiled broadly. “Your Arabic is excellent.”

  “So is your English. Sandhurst?”

  “That is correct Paddy; I believe your language skills stem from Hereford?”

  Inside Fox swore, who else knew he’d been in the Regiment? “Correct.”

  They walked along a corridor and reached the customs hall. The four conveyor belts were empty, but the hall was packed with passengers from earlier flights patiently waiting.

  Basil put his hand on Fox’s arm. “Stay here a moment.”

  The officer disappeared through a door and two minutes later the nearest conveyor belt started to whir, luggage from the BA flight tumbled down the chute. Fox saw his dark red Samsonite case, always easy to spot, and grabbed it.

  Basil reappeared and took the handle. “Allow me.”

  Basil led Fox towards the customs area. The officials, on seeing Basil, waved them past and within seconds they were pushing through the swarms of taxi drivers, eager relatives and chauffeurs all waiting for their pick-ups. Fox fumbled inside his rucksack for his ray bans and put them on as they exited the terminal building and were again assaulted by the heat. Basil seemed unaffected, even though he wore a uniform jacket and strode towards a white Bentley Continental Flying Spur. He raised his arm and the boot popped open.

  “Nice.” Fox was again taken aback. The car in front of him was the world’s fastest four seat production car capable of 0 – 60 mph in 4.9 seconds and a top speed of 195 mph. Basil lifted Fox’s heavy case and showing an unexpected level of strength swung it into the boot. He held his hand out for the rucksack and once this was inside he closed the lid.

  “Shall we?” Basil opened the front passenger door and Fox climbed into a world of cream leather, burnt oak and walnut. “A good company car yes?”

  “Your army pay must be better than mine ever was.”

  Basil nodded as he eased the large sports sedan away from the curb. “Prince Fouad is a most generous employer, the car is of course his but I am to use it for important errands.”

  “Tell the prince I am most grateful.”

  “You will of course tell him in person when you arrive.”

  “Of course.” Fox had momentarily forgotten he was due to meet his employer on arrival. Uncharacteristically, Fox now felt shabby in his brown Merrell’s, sand coloured cargo trousers and check shirt. Sod it. He dressed like a lackey for no one, Royal or no.

  The car joined the Riyadh highway and was soon cruising at over 100 mph. Basil flashed his lights at anyone who dared drive slower. There were speed limits in the Kingdom, but not for the royal family, or indeed important officials.

  “Have you read ‘Bravo Two Zero’ Or ‘The One That Got Away’?”

  “Yes.” Fox knew what was coming.

  “You were in Iraq in 91?” Basil had read all that there was to read about the legendary SAS and was thrilled to have a former member as his passenger.

  “I can’t tell you Basil.”

  “I’m sorry, operational security I expect?”

  “No,” Replied Fox dryly, “I’m an old man. I can’t remember.”

  Basil laughed loudly in the soundproofed interior of the Bentley. “That English sense of humour. That is why I like the English more than the Americans.”

  “The English are a funny lot.” Fox did not bother to mention that he was actually Scottish.

  “For me I prefer slightly the writing of Chris Ryan to Andy McNab but that is just my personal preference. I have all the books of both men. Do you have a preference?”

  Fox shrugged. He didn’t want this subject to continue further.

  “Perhaps you should write a book also, Paddy?”

  “What would I write about? Gardening?”

  “Again the English humour.” Basil’s laugh became a tone higher.

  There was a sudden wail of Islamic music and Basil reached into his trousers to retrieve his phone, all the while the Bentley continued at over 100 mph. Basil spoke in Arabic, Fox listened to the conversation but was more interested in their progress. The car swerved slightly as Basil replaced the phone into his pocket. “That was the Prince. He is glad you have arrived safely. “

  “Insha’Allah.” Fox replied dryly.

  “Yes. God willing. We should be at the Palace within the next ten minutes or so, it depends on the traffic.”

  “You mean how fast they can move out of our way?” The needle had started to climb higher.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  Twice more in the next ten minutes Basil received calls, not from the Prince. Twice more Fox became a nervous passenger which, for a man who loved fast cars was rare. They pulled off of the highway and headed into the desert along a road which led to a high wall, with steel gates and a security box on the outside. Basil sounded his horn and the gates opened without the occupants of the car being checked.

  Immediately inside the walls, Fox’s eyes became wide. In complete contrast to the desert outside, inside was the greenest grass he had ever seen, several fountains and a large, white, Mediterranean style villa. The Bentley glided up the mirror flat granite drive and stopped in front of the house. Basil got out and quickly moved around the car to open the passenger door. Immediately the warmer air entered, but this time it was moist and bearable. A man in a white jacket appeared and was handed the keys. Basil then gestured that Fox should follow him and they walked around the house and into a large area at the back. To the left a huge white single story building sat apart from the rest of the house and on the right a large swimming pool nestled perfectly amidst a landscaped garden. Basil ushered Fox towards the canopy to one side and the portly robed seated figure who sat there.

  “Your Highness.” Basil bowed.

  Prince Fouad Al Kabir rose from the lounger and extended his right hand.

  “Mr Fox. How pleased I am to welcome you here.” His English was accented, but not Sandhurst, unlike both Basil and his brother’s.

  Fox took a step forward and bent at the waist to meet the Royal hand. The grip was limp, as though Fouad did not quite know how to shake hands. “It is an honour to be invited, your Highness.”

  “Sit please, Mr Fox.”

  Fouad sat back on the white linen lounger and Fox sat on a lower one to his left whilst Basil remained standing. “That will be all Captain Barakat.”

  Basil bowed and headed back to the house as members of the serving staff appeared with a pitcher of fruit juice, trays of fruit and pastries, dates and an urn of Arabic coffee. A coffee cup was filled and presented to Fouad then a second was handed to Fox. The staff retreated out of ear shot. Fouad leaned forward.

  “I really am very grateful for what you did for my daughter. I will forever be in your debt.”

  “I did what anyone would have done your Highness.”

  Fouad held up
his finger. “Now I know that is not true. You are a man of honour and of discipline Mr Fox. My brother speaks highly of you.” He drank his coffee and Fox did the same. “So what do you think of my humble home?”

  Fox let his eyes wander before answering. “I like it.” He could think of nothing else to say, as far as houses of the Saudi Royal Family went it was the first he had been in.

  Fouad stood and Fox hastily followed.

  “I like it here because there is a lesser need for air conditioning than the city. We have our own micro climate thanks to my very clever gardener.” Fouad gestured towards the many palm trees lining the walls before he started to walk towards the other building. “This is not your first time in the Kingdom? I believe you were here when there were troubled times for our neighbours?”

  “Yes your Highness.” Fox did not want to elaborate but knew what the Prince was alluding to. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and followed his new employer. Between the heat, alcohol and sheer fatigue, he was finding it hard to stay polite, however grateful he may be.

  The Prince abruptly stopped and turned. “Mr Fox. What happened to my daughter in England was outrageous.” He turned back and continued along the path. He waved his arm. “What happened to me here in my own home was also unacceptable. This is something that I have not experienced before. Allah be praised, you were my daughter’s saviour, but now I also need you to ensure my continued safety.” At the door to the building he again faced Fox as if to express the severity of the matter. “Much damage was done to my most prized pieces, but my general collection was untouched.”

  Fouad pushed the door and stepped into the building. Fox entered behind him and could hardly believe what he saw. The room was vast, like a giant aircraft hangar and full of rows upon rows of cars. Fouad smiled like a kid showing off a new toy to a friend as he watched Fox look around. “Do you like cars Mr Fox?”

  “Yes, your Highness, they are a hobby of mine.”

  “Indeed?” Fouad was happy and clasped his hands together. “How so?”

  “When I left school I wanted to be a mechanic like my dad, that’s why I joined the army.” He had however been placed in the infantry and not the Royal Engineers as requested, so had had to learn the inner workings of the internal combustion engine in his spare time. A knowledge that served him well in the Regiment’s ‘Mobility Troop’.

  “What car do you drive in England?”

  “I have a Porsche 930 ‘Flachbau’”

  “What is that?” Fouad looked earnest.

  “It is the 930 with a 935 style ‘slantnose’ conversion, your Highness.”

  The Prince nodded enthusiastically. “Of course yes. You must forgive me, my German is not very good – I did not know the word. If I remember rightly that had the up-rated 330 bhp performance kit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, I can see you ask how I would know such things? Well I am one of the founding members of the Porsche Club of Riyadh. Porsches are a particular fondness of mine. Let me show you.” They crossed to the other side of the room passing as they did so, a ‘who’s who’ of twentieth and twenty first century sports cars.

  “Here!”

  With a flick of the arm he unfurled a dust sheet that had been covering a silver, Porsche Carrera GT, the fastest road going Porsche yet built. Fouad glanced back at his new employee to gage his reaction. Fox was smiling and shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  “Each year we have a race from Riyadh to Bahrain. I fly out three engineers from Porsche Germany in Stuttgart to check the cars before we leave. The race starts at 3 a.m., when the tarmac is the coolest, otherwise the tyres would not be able to cope. I hold the current record at 3hrs and 5 minutes.” He smiled conspiratorially, “But then I do have the fastest Porsche in the race.”

  Fox leant forward and looked in the ‘cockpit’. He was beginning to like his ‘boss’. “You have great taste, your Highness.”

  “True. Some collect art, but to me this is art. Working art.” The Prince suddenly clapped his hands. “We shall speak at another time. I see you are tired after your journey. I fear first class is not what it once was. Captain Barakat shall take you to your rooms. You shall start work tomorrow.”

  Basil appeared at the door and the Prince bid Fox farewell. Once more in the Bentley, they made swift progress back towards the city suburbs. Fox’s driver was, he knew, eager to make further conversation but sensed that Fox was beyond speech. Fox started to nod off, despite the speed they were travelling at, but within twenty minutes they had reached a residential area. The Bentley slowed at another high wall and gate combination, again it was ushered in unchecked.

  They stopped and Fox looked around. They were inside what looked like an upmarket holiday park made up of one and two story villas, some terraced some detached, that were built in two horse shoes. The two story buildings making up the outer ring. In the centre was a swimming pool and what looked to be a barbecue area. To one side were three tennis courts and landscaped lawns. At the barbecue area the residents were cooking or standing drinking.

  “This is where all the Riyadh based foreign employees of ‘The Al Kabir Group’ live.”

  “How many are there?”

  “In Riyadh there are about one hundred or so. There are many more in Dammam of course for the oil refineries, and in Jeddah. The Al Kabir Group is one of the Kingdom’s largest and most successful employers.”

  “Really? That is interesting.” Fox did not add that as it was ‘owned’ by a branch of the Royal family of course it would be ‘successful’.

  “Let me show you to your house.”

  Basil unloaded the car and headed for the larger outer row of villas.

  “This one Paddy.”

  He pointed to the very end two story villa, nearest the gates. The villa, as did all the others, had a three foot high white picket fence around it and a small very green lawn. It was painted brilliant white and Fox took a guess that the interior colour would be the same. On entering he was not disappointed. Basil hefted both case and rucksack with ease up the flight of stairs and into the front bedroom.

  “I hope you will feel happy here, but if you need anything please don’t hesitate to call me.” Basil flashed him a large smile with brilliant white teeth, which again matched the paintwork and produced a business card from his inside pocket.

  “Shukran.”

  Basil shook Paddy’s hand – again the strong grip. “You will be collected at 08:00 tomorrow. Have a nice first night!”

  Basil left the villa. Fox looked around the very white room. It had an American sized ‘double bed’, two walk in wardrobes, an en-suite shower and a balcony. He looked at his watch – still on London time, two hours behind Saudi. It was early afternoon in the UK but mid-afternoon here, if he had a nap now he would not be able to get a proper sleep later on. Fox shook his head. ‘Come on you old git, only two bloody hours difference.’ He muttered to himself as he unpacked his case, took his wash bag and entered the shower.

  Central Moscow, Russian Federation

  The office was in an unassuming riverside residential apartment block within walking distance of the Kremlin. From the exterior, the balcony looked like any other, but the glass in this was an inch thick and bullet proof. The double doors that led from the communal hallway to flat were also armoured, made from heavy reinforced steel designed to withstand a direct hit from an RPG.

  In his high security Moscow residence, Maksim Gurov spoke over the secure phone to Ivan Sverov in Minsk. Both men had been monitoring the Ukrainian news channels. The reporting of a shooting was high on the schedule just after the most recent exchanges from the ‘President v Opposition Leader’ battle. However the reports could not confirm who the victim had been, the militia had yet to release details. This was what Gurov had expected of the Ukrainians.

  “Your man saw the ambulance crew arrive?”

  “He also saw the body being loaded onto a gurney.”

  “Was the face covered?”
Gurov needed to know if the old man was dead.

  “He could not see. He was stopped from getting any closer by the Militia.”

  “Was the target neutralised?” Gurov was infuriated.

  “Voloshin stated that he fired an entire magazine into him.”

  Gurov now had no doubt. He viewed the Belarusian KGB Spetsnaz operative as amongst the very best. He had, after all, once been his commanding officer in the Soviet Red Army. “Good. I will send you further instructions.”

  “How?” Sverov did not like being ordered about but before he received an answer; the Russian had ended the call.

  Central Kyiv, Ukraine

  Sukhoi opened his eyes and focussed on the white roof of the ambulance. He felt a stabbing pain in his chest and his head was spinning. He heard a familiar voice.

  “Why did you not tell me you were wearing a Kevlar vest?” Dudka had been angry at his friend’s omission but relieved that he was not dead.

  “Did you think that I had gotten fat, Genna?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “On a Belarusian diet?” Sukhoi winced as the ambulance bounced over a pothole.

  “You have at least two broken ribs and a severe concussion.”

  “Where are we going?” Sukhoi felt groggy.

  “To a secure hospital, it’s where we take the politicians and members of the SBU.”

  “Fix up the spies?” Remarked Sukhoi ironically.

  Dudka looked at his friend. “Do you know who shot you?”

  “Yes.”

  Dudka was not surprised, “Do you know why?”

  “Yes.” Sukhoi turned his head and looked up at the Ukrainian. “We have to stop them Genna or mine won’t be the only death...”