by Graham Hamer
Tweedle blew a smoke ring across the desk, appearing surprised at his own success. “The management expects you to honour your Contract of Employment. If you feel unable to do so, you may seek work elsewhere.”
“In other words, I'm bloody-well fired.”
“Not at all, dear boy. We're asking nothing from you that's unreasonable. We're asking to make no changes in —”
His words were cut short as Dave stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. “Bollocks!” he shouted as he stamped down the corridor. “Bollocks to the pair of you.”
Richard smiled and jabbed at the computer keyboard. “Two down and one to go,” he said, satisfied that the ashtray incident had now been settled.
“I thought he was going to get aggressive again,” Scott said. “He was beginning to get a bit agitated towards the end.”
Richard laughed, his shoulders jerking up and down. The smoke from his cigarette drifted into his eyes and he half-closed them as he rubbed his hands together. “Oh I'm having a lovely day, Ronald. How satisfying it is to be back in the driving seat.”
“It's all working out rather well, isn't it.”
Richard pressed another key on the keyboard. “Now, Ronald, how certain are we that Legg won't be back for a few months?”
“About ninety nine percent. When we completed the payment and the share transfer and shook hands on the deal last Friday, I had Nick Ferris follow him. He went straight to the travel agents in Douglas. By the way, while I think about it, I want to get rid of Ferris, he knows too much.”
“Isn't that dangerous, old boy? If you sack him, he might be tempted to open his mouth.”
“Not if we pay him off. I'd rather have him out of the way. He was useful when he was digging up information for us, but now we've no further use for him I'd rather see him gone.”
“Well, if you think so. You know him better than me.”
“I'll make him out a decent redundancy cheque to keep him mellow.”
“Do as you think right,” Richard said, pressing another key on the keyboard. A message flashed on the screen. Curious things computers. “Now, what were you saying about the travel agents?”
“Oh yes. Legg went straight there after we struck the deal. I got that young lady friend of mine to phone them on Friday afternoon. She told them that she was Mr Legg's secretary, phoning to check on his up-to-date travel arrangements. Nothing had actually been finalized, but Legg had made it clear that he had no intention of returning for at least four months and maybe longer. I can get my friend to check again in a few days to see what the final arrangements are. We shouldn't have any problems keeping track of him for a while.”
“Good, so now we can get cracking. First job for me is to visit our friends in Kuwait. If I can pull a big cash deal with them and the Saudis, we'll at least be sure of a tax-free profit, even if Legg comes back early. I assume, you'll be busy here in the meanwhile. It's no good me telling you what to do, Ronald, old boy - it was your plan, and I'm sure you'll act in our best interests.”
“When do you plan leaving? You'll need visas and stuff won't you?”
“No, this Khalid fellow's going to arrange it all. Said he knows people in the ministry of something-or-other and that he'd meet me at the airport.” He poked his finger towards another key on the computer keyboard.
“No! Not that one!” Scott trilled. “You're just about to wipe out all the pension fund records.”
Richard jumped back from the keyboard as if it had bitten him. “Bloody computers. You can't trust them.”
“Don't worry,” Scott said. “I'll sort it out. I was about to ask if Gidman knows you're coming?”
Richard pushed the keyboard away from him. “Certainly not. I told the Al-Sabahs not to mention my visit. I look forward to dealing with Gidman first thing Thursday morning, then I can start negotiations with these Arabs.”
* * *
Claire sat up as the ring of the telephone beckoned. She dropped her magazine on the table and answered, “Claire Le Petit.”
A man's voice answered. “Hello. Is it okay if I speak English?”
“Yes, who's calling?”
“My name's Dave Kelly, I'm from The Isle of Man.”
“Hello, Mr Kelly, what can I do for you?”
“It's a long story, Claire. You don't mind if I call you Claire do you?”
“No, not at all. You're Dave aren't you? The man who fell off a roof? Ian's talked about you.”
“That's me,” he said. “Double somersault and triple twist - ten points from all the judges.” Then his voice turned serious. “Listen, Claire, something's happened over here that Ian needs to know about. I don't suppose he's actually got himself a mobile phone yet, has he?”
* * *
Mohammed Al-Sabah pulled his long white dishdasha over his head, threw it onto his desk and cursed as the office telephone rang again. “Who the hell's ringing here this time of night?” He gazed at the dark-skinned girl who stood naked in front of him. “Wait,” he said curtly. He picked up the receiver. “Yes — yes — no, he's not here at the moment — no, I shan't see him until the morning — yes — yes, I'll tell him first thing — Claire, you say? — yes, fine — okay, I'll tell him —” He slammed the receiver down. “Bloody woman. What does she think I am - a bloody messenger boy for Gidman?”
He eyed the young girl's glistening body, then heaved himself onto his back on the desk, his crumpled dishdasha acting as a pillow for his head. “Okay, Annulah, you want those extra dollars to send home, so let's see some action here.” He laughed, his bloated belly unfolding like a water-filled sponge.
The naked Sri Lankan maid closed her eyes, took a deep breath and prayed for forgiveness. This was a requirement of the job that she hated the most.
WEDNESDAY 2 JULY
Richard stared, fascinated, out of window as the 'plane banked for its final approach into Kuwait International Airport. Below, several towering pillars of flame from wellhead burn-offs cast eerie, dancing shadows across the floor of the desert. A wide highway, illuminated by neon lights, but devoid of any vehicles, ran straight and true to the invisible horizon, away to the south.
Other than a steward who'd been taken ill part way through the flight, the journey had been long but uneventful. He allowed his head to sink back into the covered headrest, closing his eyes and savouring the thought of the deals that lay ahead. Everything was beginning to work out well. Dave Kelly and Gidman Junior had given up without a struggle, Ron was back at home base setting his devious mind to fulfilling the plan, and the Al-Sabahs had paid for his first class ticket to Kuwait. For some reason, though, they'd asked him to purchase two bottles of Scotch at the duty-free in Amsterdam and hide them in his flight bag.
The cabin jolted a little as the wheels touched the runway, and the smooth drone of the engines changed to a roar as the pilot engaged reverse thrust. Minutes later, the mighty 747 rolled to a gentle halt outside the modern terminal building.
The first class travellers were allowed to exit before those in cattle class and Richard was at the head of the queue. He strutted along the wide, polished mezzanine that led to the baggage reclaim area on the lower floor. A bearded Arab, wearing a dishdasha that was six inches short of his ankles, rushed past him. Richard watched him go. What was the rush? It was unlikely that they would have started off-loading the luggage yet. He followed the growing crowd, down the short escalator to a brightly lit customs hall, and was dismayed to see that all those who had passed him were now forming a single, unmoving file in front of a solitary staffed kiosk.
As he cursed himself for being so slow, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face a tall, traditionally-dressed Arab with a wide, well-clipped moustache.
“Mr Tweedle?”
“That's me, old boy.”
“Could you accompany me please?”
“Er — yes — why?”
“Mr Al-Sabah is waiting for you,” the man said, with a welcoming gold-toothed smile. “He
thought that you might prefer to avoid the crowd.”
Richard smiled back and shrugged. “Of course,” he said, puffing out his chest and enjoying the suspicious, watching eyes of his fellow passengers.
As they came to a door bearing a sign that advised the world that it was the entrance to the office of one 'Captain Ahmad Al-Kirimi - Customs', the tall Arab knocked twice, opened the door and ushered him into the spacious, but sparsely furnished office. A thin, distinguished, uniformed man sat behind a polished desk, sipping orange tea from a tiny glass cup. A military moustache stood to attention on his upper lip as the straight-sided cup returned smartly to the saucer. The other occupant of the room was a corpulent man, whose white dishdasha strained against his magisterial belly. He, too, sipped tea from a cup, which seemed far too dainty for his sausage fingers.
The two men looked up as Richard entered the room.
“Mr Tweedle,” the uniformed man said, “welcome to Kuwait. Khalid, here, was just telling me how much he was looking forward to your visit.”
Khalid Al-Sabah dropped his cup onto the saucer and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, forcing his body into a standing position. “Hello, Richard, it's good to meet you at last. I trust you had a pleasant flight?”
Richard smiled to himself at his first glimpse of the older Al-Sabah. The man was B-I-G. Clothes aside, he could have been looking at a mirror image of his poor deceased brother. On second glance the facial differences became evident - the moustache, the oh-so-polished teeth, the bulging eyes that appeared to swivel on the sides of his face like an fat chameleon. “The flight was excellent thank you, old chap,” he said, studying the road map of tiny veins that had burst and coalesced in Khalid's puffy cheeks.
“Pleased to hear it,” said Khalid. “Captain Al-Kirimi will stamp your passport and visa for you if you can let him have them.”
Richard unzipped the pouch of the leather flight bag and reached inside for his papers, passing them to the uniformed Captain.
“Did you manage to get that little thing I asked you for?” Khalid asked, as Captain Al-Kirimi busied himself with the documents and a rubber stamp.
“What? The er — er —”
“Yes, the whisky. Ahmad and I have a little agreement - he gets to keep one bottle and we get to keep the other.”
Richard smiled. “Certainly,” he said, taking one of the bottles from his bag. “Glenfiddich, old chap. Is that okay?”
“That will do very nicely,” Captain Al-Kirimi said, sliding open a desk drawer and secreting the bottle inside. “Very nicely indeed, thank you.” He closed and locked the drawer, and handed Richard his passport. “As always, it's nice to do business with you, Khalid. I do hope you have a fruitful stay, Mr Tweedle.”
Al-Kirimi crossed the room to a second door, and beckoned the two men to follow him into a narrow corridor that avoided the normal customs check and led to the baggage reclaim area behind. As they entered the large hall, the Captain spoke to a uniformed guard who saluted then nodded to his superior.
“Okay,” said Captain Al-Kirimi to Khalid. “Your driver has Mr Tweedle's luggage and is waiting outside the main doors.”
“Thanks. I'll see you soon, Ahmad.”
Captain Al-Kirimi turned back towards his office, leaving the two men alone.
Richard beamed at his host. “That was some reception. How did you arrange it?”
“Part of our tradition,” Khalid replied, as he waddled like a duck through the noisy hall. “Al-Kirimi is Egyptian, but he does as we tell him, so now he's in charge of airport customs. Everything over here revolves around influence, Richard. It's something that our family possesses in abundance. As long as the right palms are greased, everything works well. Which reminds me, you'll need to hang on to that other bottle for your return trip. Our customs people don't usually take too kindly to Europeans leaving the country with suitcases stuffed full of money.”
Richard laughed aloud. “Now that's what I call a well run country.”
“As you might have gathered,” Khalid continued, “alcohol's a highly valued commodity. The black market price of what you just gave our friendly customs officer is about three hundred pounds sterling.”
As the shiny red Chevrolet pulled away from the airport to join the highway, in the direction of the city, Khalid nodded towards his Lebanese driver. “This is Michele. He and the car are at your entire disposal for as long as you choose to stay with us. You'll be staying at my house on the coast, south of the main city.” He took a pack of two hundred cigarettes from the glove compartment and offered it to Richard, who sat in the back seat. “I gather you like an odd smoke. You'll find them very cheap over here. I don't use them myself, but I do have other little distractions.”
Richard nodded his thanks to the grinning teeth that flashed in the semi-darkness of the car. “What distractions would they be, old boy?”
“Wine and women,” Khalid chuckled. “Alcohol and whores are banned, but the laws are only superficially enforced. Whatever you want, just let Michele or me know, and we'll do our best to provide it for you. There are one or two discrete and very private beach clubs opposite my house, where the Lebanese girls like to strut their stuff. Michele here can arrange anything for us in that line, you'll find them rather attractive and very accommodating “
The big car turned right and glided onto the Fifth Ring Road; the vehicle and its passengers rolling east towards the coast.
“And tomorrow you'll have the pleasure of confronting our mutual friend, Mr Gidman.” Khalid said.
“Ah, now that's something I'm looking forward to. He and I have an old score to settle. I take it he doesn't know I'm coming?”
“No. He's staying in Mohammed's house and we've intercepted at least four phone calls, three of them today and one yesterday evening. It’s our good fortune that friend Gidman doesn't appear to own a mobile phone, so is most definitely unaware of your presence.”
“Splendid, old chap. I'm grateful to you for your co-operation.”
“The gratitude's mutual, Richard. We've managed to keep him out of our hair for the past two weeks, but we'll be glad to see the back of him.”
“No need to worry about him, Khalid. I'll be happy to deal with him first thing in the morning.”
THURSDAY 3 JULY
Ian dropped his jacket over the back of the chair and pushed aside the spread of dog-eared papers on the desk. The thought of working in an air-conditioned office held considerable appeal after two weeks in the blistering sun but, despite progress, he felt uneasy and unsettled. He'd telephoned Sean the previous week, intending to bring him up to date with events. The Irishman, however, had seemed distant and, when Ian had called the production manager to discuss a technical matter, his workmate had told him that there were rumours of a corporate take-over. Though it was no surprise that Sean should take a back seat, having often spoken about the possibility of early retirement, it was still unsettling to be uninformed about and removed from the situation.
Wondering whether to call the factory and have a chat with Pete to see what developments there might have been, he checked his watch. It was nine o' clock, so he'd have to wait a couple of hours to be certain that his son was at work three time zones away.
“Good morning Ian,” Mohammed said, grinning unreasonably as he rolled into the office. “How are things going?”
Ian looked up from his work to acknowledge the Kuwaiti. “Fine thanks. By the end of today, we should know exactly what stock you've got. I must admit I'm glad to be working inside for a change, your weather takes a bit of getting used to.”
Mohammed smiled a strange smile. “Visitors to our country can find it quite tiring sometimes,” he said. “Talking of visitors, your boss has just come out here to join us for a little while.”
“What? Sean? Where is he?”
“I'm here, old boy, but my name isn't Sean,” Tweedle said, stepping into the office, with Khalid Al-Sabah close behind.
Ian's jaw hit his chest. He s
tared open-mouthed. There was no doubting who it was. If the 'old boy' didn't give it away, the obligatory cigarette, held with fingers spread wide, did. “What the —”
“If you were going to say, what the dickens am I doing here? I'll save you the effort. I'm here because I'm the new owner of Three Leggs. Your friend Legg has disappeared for several months to some unknown underwater destination and in any case is now no more than a minority shareholder. It's just you and me now, dear boy, what do you have to say about that then?”
Ian stared at him, stupefied. Tweedle's voice was like a shiver looking for a spine to run up. He looked first at Mohammed and then at Khalid, as if for salvation, but no rescue was forthcoming from either of them as they mirrored Tweedle's gloating grin.
“Lost for words are we, old chap?” Tweedle asked. “Khalid, can we arrange for a glass of water for my employee? He seems to be having trouble breathing.”
Mohammed burst out laughing.
“I don't bloody believe this,” Ian muttered, almost to himself.
“Oh, just a moment Mohammed,” Tweedle said. “I do believe the patient's improving, it just spoke.”
Al-Sabah burst into another fit of laughter. “What did it say?”
“It said, shut your fucking face before I do it for you,” Ian snarled, rising from his seat.
Mohammed took a step away from the desk.
“Right,” Ian snapped, impaling Tweedle with a black stare. “Tell me in simple terms, Tweedle, what the hell's going on here?”
“Not much to tell, old boy. I own TLM and you're sacked, simple as that.”
“Sean would never sell Three Leggs to you.”
“That's what your son and Mister Kelly both said. They were also wrong.”
“So you've sacked Pete and Dave as well.”
“They left of their own volition, old chap. Clash of personalities or something.”
“What is it with you, Tweedle? What the hell are you doing getting involved in industrial handling machinery? You know bugger-all about it.”