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The Secret Intelligence Service section head looked over his shoulder as they pulled into traffic. ‘I didn’t want to waste any more 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 snatched the Nokia and looked at the screen. What he saw made his heart stop. It was a picture of his daughter with a gun to her head. The prince could feel his heart racing; he clutched his right hand to his podgy chest… he couldn’t breathe. He slumped into a chair. His Vertu had now connected with his brother in England, who was calling his name. Panic set in as the prince’s entourage rushed to revive him.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ The voice of the commander of the guards was clear and precise as he spoke to Fouad’s brother, on the other end of the line in London. ‘Prince Fouad is unwell.’
‘How?’ Prince Umar was concerned for his favourite younger brother.
‘He has fainted, Your Highness, from learning of some bad news.’
‘Which is?’
Major Hammar didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Someone has kidnapped the princess.’
‘Kidnapped? But she is in Brighton, at Roedean.’ The prince in the Saudi Embassy was suddenly anxious.
Shoreham-by-Sea, UK
Fox checked his watch. The job interview in Central London had been a complete waste of time, in and out in less than an hour. The interviewer – some hair-gelled kid in his twenties – had attempted to grill Fox about his suitability for the job. A job he was overqualified for. The boy had seemed offended when Fox had refused point-blank to elaborate on his military career. His CV mentioned only his parent unit, the Gordon Highlanders, and not ‘the Regiment’.
On Fox’s way out he’d seen the other applicants, ten years younger and twenty pounds fatter. He had no chance and didn’t give a… He turned into his street and saw a familiar car. The dark-red BMW Z4 of his former boss, Leo Sawyer, parked four houses away on the bend – complete with a number plate that did indeed confirm he was a wanker: LE07 SAW. Fox frowned. Why would the jumped-up salesman be here? A dark thought struck him, and an anger of the type he hadn’t felt for years, deep inside. Fox stopped and retrieved his mobile. Dialling Tracey’s number, he continued up the street then saw her car in the drive. A mini moto buzzed past him from behind, making him flinch. Silly old git, getting jumpy.
‘Where are you?’ she answered.
‘Just getting on the train at Victoria,’ he lied, eyeing her car in the drive. ‘And you?’
‘Still in the office. Should be home when you are, though. I’m just seeing to something.’
Fox almost threw the phone but managed to control himself. He snapped it shut. ‘Eagle-eyed Action Man’ was shagging his wife. He walked down the path, dropping his jacket and briefcase on o the grass, then tried to open the door. It was closed from the inside – the key still in the lock. He could feel the anger rising as he pressed the bell. There was no answer. He started to bang, then pound with his fists. ‘Open the door!’
There was movement inside, a twitch from a curtain. Fox took a step back and was about to shout again when another mini moto shot past. He turned in the direction of the noise just as two saloon cars swept into the road. Both were going too fast for the bend.
As Fox watched, it felt as though he were seeing everything in slow motion. The first car swerved to avoid the youth on the mini moto. The bike bounced up onto the kerb and carried on, but the car hit the opposite kerb and the wall to the garage compound.
There was a heavy crunch and shrieking of metal as the Ford Mondeo hit the wall. The second car, some fifteen metres behind, slammed on its brakes and stopped sideways on. At the same time, there were noises and movement from his house. Fox ran across the road to the Ford; joyriders or not, they needed help. The driver’s side had hit first and what was left of the screen was covered in blood. Fox’s eyes scanned the vehicle; the driver was dead, he was sure of that, but the passenger was moving. He was reaching down to pull at the door when he saw a weapon in the footwell. There was a whimpering from the back.
Fox peered in. Lying half on the seat was a girl, an Arab-looking girl, with duct-tape over her mouth and arms fastened behind her back. A man was lying under her; he tried to push her off. Fox saw the second weapon, this one a semi-automatic. The girl locked eyes with him and Fox recognised the pleading look of fear.
Without hesitating, Fox grabbed the handgun from the front of the car, took a step back, and shot the passenger though the ear. The sound was like thunder in the enclosed space. Momentarily deafened, he pulled the rear door and the girl half-fell out. The second male passenger opened his eyes and reached for his weapon. Fox dragged the girl clear and put a double tap directly into his temple. His head exploded.
Shots from behind. Fox threw himself over the girl and pulled the door in front of him. It was the only protection they had. More rounds and now shouts. Fox sprang to his feet, weapon held in both hands, instantly acquiring a target. A passenger from the second car was running at full sprint towards him, with what looked like an assault rifle in his hands. Fox fired the first round, hitting the assaulter in the chest, and then a second, aimed at the head. The man span sideways and crashed to the ground.
Movement from his right. Another X-ray, this one using the houses for cover, was heading his way. Both men fired. Fox ducked again and looked at the girl. She was shaking beneath him. He took a breath and sprang back up. He let off a single shot at the target. The man was moving now, back towards the car as the driver shouted at him wildly. Another target came into view, blocking Fox’s line of fire to the retreating car; this figure was wearing a dark-blue shirt and was racing directly towards the Z4. Taking a millisecond to decide, Fox fired a round into the man’s back.
The second car spun its wheels in a ‘J-turn’ and screeched away. Fox, out of rounds, had no time to grab another weapon as he tried to catch the number plate. All around he saw curtains twitching. Two teenagers wearing hoodies were standing stunned, next to their mini motos, holding up mobile phones, videoing the whole event. On seeing Fox staring at them, they both legged it, carrying their toy bikes.
Fox bent down and pulled the girl to her feet; he spoke to her in Arabic. ‘You’re safe now. I’m going to take the tape off.’
The girl let out a moan of pain as the tape was removed, then started to sob as he undid her bonds. She was about seventeen and beautiful. She held her hands to her face.
‘Come with me.’ Fox reached out gently and took her by the arm. He walked her up his neighbour’s path. Reynolds opened the door, a shocked expression on his face. Fox pushed the girl at him.
‘Jim, look after her.’
Without waiting for a reply Fox moved back to the street and, bending down, checked the nearest X-ray for a pulse. There was none. He kicked the assault weapon away to the side of the road and then moved towards the man with the dark-blue shirt, his former boss, Leo Sawyer. The sales director lay on his back, eyes open, breathing laboured. Fox’s single round had ripped through him, puncturing a lung. Fox aimed the empty weapon at Sawyer’s head and let him hear the ‘dead man’s click’.
Fox felt no remorse; the man had tried to screw him and had screwed his wife. It had been a split-second but conscious decision, his anger and the urge for revenge manifesting itself in the single bullet. He didn’t care if Sawyer lived or died.
Fox didn’t need to check on the two X-rays in the car – he had drilled them at point-blank range; half their skulls were missing. He knew they were dead. Fox took out his mobile and dialled 999. The operator confirmed his mobile number and asked him which service he required, then transferred him. Before he could speak he heard sirens nearing. Fox sat on the kerb and waited to be arrested. He had once again demonstrated to the world that he was only good at one thing – killing.
Chapter 2 (#ub089ec2e-8e05-511e-a063-0cd20b9ebafc)
Presidential Dacha, Minsk Region, Belarus
Dark hair patted down, burgundy tie, crisp white shirt and dark-blue suit. Sverov admired himself in the mirror. It was important he make the right impression; he was, after all, going to be the first ever head of the Belarusian Intelligence Service – the KGB – to be interviewed by the BBC.
When the BBC had contacted him via the embassy, his initial reaction had been to refuse the journalist an entry visa into the country. However, after a moment’s thought, he’d decided that the potential positive publicity would greatly help the image of Belarus. So he’d replied yes and got his hands on the most recent reports filed by the same journalist to check his credibility.
It was going to be a full half-hour interview for the BBC World programme HARDtalk Extra. Sverov had read with much interest the list of former interviewees, some of whom he greatly admired, while others he would have shot on sight if they ever entered his country. He had advised the President of the benefits this interview would bring and then made him believe it had been his own idea all along. Megalomaniacs like the President, although he never would have admitted to anyone that he thought his leader was one, were easy to manipulate.
Sverov exited the bathroom in the presidential dacha and took his seat in the study. The BBC make-up girl had already applied his, something he found effeminate, but a necessary evil. The sound recordist clipped a microphone to his lapel, a ‘backup’, he had said, to the furry grey sound boom suspended out of shot above his head. The BBC journalist, Simon White, lived up to his name. He was possibly the pastiest individual Sverov had ever met. His thin frame actually looked bigger onscreen but his eyes had a dark intensity.
Sverov had demanded a list of questions a month in advance and made it clear he wouldn’t answer any new ones unless they’d been faxed and agreed. Sverov spoke, in his own opinion, ‘good English’, but had said that, for the actual interview, he would feel more ‘comfortable’ speaking in Belarusian. The producer, however, had asked if the interview could be in English, as this was the style of the HARDtalk series. Sverov accepted his reasoning that, to ‘woo the West’, one must speak their language. For the past month he had been practising with the KGB language instructors. His English was more than ‘good’ – he was in fact fluent – but he wouldn’t have passed for a native speaker. He still had an accent and sometimes paused to find the most appropriate words.
As the crew readied themselves, Sverov noted White’s professionalism, a trait lacking in all Belarusian journalists. This was with the exception of those, of course, who worked for the state-owned Golas Radzimy (Voice of the Motherland) and Narodnaja Volya (The People’s Will). The BBC crew were ready, he was told, to start taping the interview. Sverov nodded and composed himself. He knew in which order the questions were to be asked and had already rehearsed his replies, but he was still sweating and not because of the harsh TV lights. The director gave the cue and White started with his piece to camera.
‘Speaking in 2005, the then United States Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, identified six “outposts of tyranny” around the world. These were Cuba, Iran, Burma, North Korea, Zimbabwe, and Belarus. My guest today is someone who was not at all happy with this statement. Ivan Sverov, Director of the Belarusian State Security Service, the KGB. Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to speak to HARDtalk.’
Sverov nodded. He wasn’t happy with the introduction, either, but had his prepared response to it – the Americans would turn red.
‘Thank you for the opportunity to let me correct the lies perpetuated about my country by the former Bush administration.’
The reply was what White expected. ‘If I may start with what has been said about your President. He has been accused, allegedly, of crushing dissent, persecuting the independent media, political opposition, and rigging elections.’
Sverov frowned. ‘By whom? Certainly not credible governments. President Lukachev has led Belarus for more than fifteen years. He has given us more than fifteen years of stability. Can any of our former Soviet neighbours boast that? Indeed, President Lukachev came to power on his promise to “stop the Mafia”, to root out corruption in the former government. To make accusations of illegal activity against the President is a nonsense!’
Although impressed by the formality of his interviewee’s English, White cut in. ‘What about Secretary of State Rice’s comment labelling Belarus an outpost of tyranny?’
‘Secretary Rice’s assessment was very far from reality. We invited her to see our country for herself. These completely false stereotypes and prejudices were a poor basis for the formation of effective policy in the sphere of foreign relations. On behalf of my government I would like to invite her successor, Mrs Clinton, to visit. Now let us look at the word “tyrant”. What is a tyrant? A tyrant is an individual holding power through a state, a ruler who places the interests of a small group over the interests of others. In this context, President Lukachev has placed the interests of the Belarusian people above the interests of the rest of the world. Let us look at the original meaning of tyrant. In ancient Greece, tyrants were those who had gained power by getting the support of the poor by giving them land and freeing them from servitude or slavery. The word “tyrant” simply referred to those who overturned the established government through the use of popular support. President Lukachev has the popular support. Secretary Rice did not choose her words with care. Perhaps she did not fully understand them?’ Sverov folded his arms. He was very pleased with that reply, especially the wordplay.
White was not perturbed. ‘If I may? The 2007 referendum, which the President won, allowing him to run for a third term, was criticised for being rigged.’
