by Alex Shaw
On the advice of the Home Secretary, the press had not been invited to the embassy a second time. There had been a group of ‘paps’ outside the embassy, but Fox’s minder and the Embassy’s security detail had managed to shield his face. The media was desperate for a recent picture as the video phone footage had been pixelated too much for their liking. It was all fuss over nothing as far as he was concerned. He had done what he was trained to do, rescue hostages and neutralise the X rays. The fact that the hostage was Royalty he had not known at the time and frankly did not deem important. He may have fought for ‘Queen and Country’ but was not particularly in awe of the first. Fox pulled at his shirt again – he was sure that the police had bought him a size too small. As he had not left the cells on bail, a shirt and suit had been ‘acquired’ for him.
The large double doors at the far end of the waiting room opened and a member of the embassy staff beckoned that he follow him. They turned a corner and walked down a long corridor which had various portraits hung on the walls, Saudi Royals, camels and race horses. They reached another set of large double doors. The man knocked, opened them and retreated back the way he had come.
Prince Umar stood and left his desk. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored dark grey business suit, white shirt and old school tie, his hair and perfectly kempt beard were jet black. He smiled broadly and stretched out his hand to take his visitors.
“Mr Fox. I am extremely honoured to finally meet you.” The handshake was firm.
“Thank you for the invite your Highness.”
“And this is?” Umar looked at the minder.
“DC Flynn, sir.”
Umar seemed puzzled, but shook his hand none the less. “Please both take a seat.”
The three men crossed the room to an ornate fire place where Umar sat in a large burgundy leather chair. Fox and Flynn sat on the matching settee opposite him. Umar clapped his hands and a servant brought in a tray of dates and a pot of black coffee. The two guests were given a cup each.
“Mr Fox, on behalf of my brother, Prince Fouad, and the House of Saud, I want to thank you for rescuing my beloved niece, Princess Jinan. You are a man of honour and courage. You were unarmed, yet you managed to stop four armed men and save Jinan. We will forever be indebted to you.” He bowed his head, a mark of great respect for a Saudi royal.
Fox tried not to look too uncomfortable, like most Regiment men he found it hard to take praise. “I just did what anyone would have done, your Highness.”
“Anyone with Special Forces training, Mr Fox.” Umar smiled widely and showed off a set of perfect white teeth. “You were in the SAS if I recall?”
Fox momentarily looked down. “I’m sorry your highness but I cannot confirm or deny your assumption.”
Umar moved his hand as if batting away a fly. “You do not have too.”
There was an awkward silence as the Prince drank his coffee and his guests did likewise. An embassy staff member entered the room carrying something resting on his arms but covered by a ceremonial cloth, the Prince abruptly stood. Fox and Flynn rose also. The man bowed, held out his arms and Umar took off the sheet to reveal a large ceremonial sword. He held it up with both hands, took a step forward and offered it to Fox. “On behalf of the house of Saud.”
“Thank you your highness.” Fox took the sword into his own hands. It was heavier than it looked. The scabbard was Ruby and Emerald encrusted, the actual metal was a highly polished greyish white. Platinum.
Prince Umar continued to smile and picked up a booklet that had been lying on the table. “This is from my brother and I.”
The servant took the sword whilst Fox studied the booklet. It constituted details of a bank account in Zurich in the name of James Fox. He read on, the balance was two hundred thousand pounds. “Your Highness I can’t accept this.”
Flynn looked over his shoulder. “It is the law, your highness. A criminal cannot legally profit from his crime.”
Fox felt his face burn, Flynn was a fool. That was not what he had meant.
Umar’s eye lids flickered and he slowly turned his head to look at Flynn. “What crime is that officer?”
Flynn felt his own face flush. “Three counts of murder and one of attempted murder, your Highness.”
Umar stared at Flynn for several seconds, who dared not move his eyes. “Mr Fox has not committed a crime in my country. Let me remind you, Mr Flynn that you are in The Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and, as such, on sovereign Saudi soil. If Mr Fox would like to, he could remain here and claim asylum, but I am afraid that you are no longer welcomed.”
Inside Flynn bristled but knew that he was powerless. “But your Highness ….I”
Umar held up his hand. “Officer Flynn, Mr Fox has committed no crime, and he will not be prosecuted.”
Flynn had started to feel resentment. “I think that is up to the Crown Prosecution Service to decide.”
“No. Mr Fox will not be prosecuted. Mr Fox would you like to remain here?”
For a moment Fox could not decide if the Prince was joking or being serious. “Thank you for your kind offer but…”
Umar lowered his hand; his face had creased into an expression of reassurance. “Do not worry, Mr Fox. The CPS will not bring charges. And now I must take my leave of you.” He held out his hand once more, “Mr Fox, we shall remain forever indebted to you.”
Umar ignored Flynn, turned and moved towards his desk. The double doors opened behind them and both Englishmen were ushered out of the Embassy, but not before Fox was reunited with his sword. On the street outside the ‘paps’ had multiplied so now a gang of twenty jostled to get photographs as Flynn, not too delicately, pushed Fox into the waiting unmarked special branch BMW five series.
“Go.” Flynn told the police driver. He turned to Fox, now making no attempt to hide his anger “I suppose you found that funny?”
“Hilarious.”
Before Flynn could reply his phone rang. He answered it and his jaw dropped. “He’s done what?” In shock, Flynn stared blankly at the back of the driver’s seat for several seconds before closing the handset. “You’re free to go.” Flynn looked like he was choking. “The CPS has dropped all charges.”
Fox started to laugh. “Drop me off at the nearest bank.”
Flynn spluttered his face redder than ever. “You are carrying an offensive weapon!”
“So arrest me.” Fox held out his hands ready to be cuffed.
Flynn had no reply; he balled his fists, as shock once again gave way to anger.
THREE
Maidan Nezalejsnosti, Kyiv, Ukraine
Dudka stood with his dog on the edge of Maidan Nezalejsnosti and watched as Kyivites went about their daily routines of shopping, drinking and falling in love. A hot August lunchtime on Kyiv’s Independence square and all those who could go, were away on holiday or at their dachas. Those who stayed behind, however, enjoyed the sunshine.
Maidan Nezalejsnosti was the heart of the city and had been home to innumerable national celebrations. Every New Year’s Eve it was crammed with in excess of a hundred thousand people waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Dudka had been at the festivities in London once, and been most unimpressed. Independence Day was another great celebration, as was ‘Victory Day‘, the only hangover from the Soviet Union that he enjoyed. In recent years however, the square had been home to many political gatherings.
As the home of the Orange Revolution in 2004, well over two hundred thousand Ukrainians had camped and protested until they caused a re-run of the presidential election. One year later it became the home of those wishing to cause a re-run of the parliamentary elections. The ironic aspect to Dudka was that in the first event the then Prime Minister had illegally won the election whilst in the second he claimed that he had illegally lost. And now? Well now he was the President of Ukraine.
Such was the politics of Ukraine. In the past Dudka had tried to keep out of it all and had ‘supported’ the right person, regardless o
f his personal preferences. He had initially been appointed by Ukraine’s first President in 1992. He kept his views to himself again when promoted by the successive president to the title of Deputy Head of the SBU, head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime (Director). However his ‘boss’, he hated to think of him as that, Yuri Zlotnik, was a highly political beast.
Zlotnik’s position as the Head of the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) was a parliamentary appointment, upon recommendation by the President. Directly under Zlotnik were deputies that were appointed on his recommendation, again by the President of Ukraine. In normal circumstances this process would have resulted in a fair, impartial and dedicated security service however in a government where the President and the Prime Minister had been ‘at war’ problems arose.
Zlotnik was a compromise candidate, the President’s initial recommendation having been boycotted by the Parliament, led by the then Prime Minister. It had been a bitter time as the two sides played a game of chess. Finally, as a ‘compromise’, Dudka took delight in remembering, Zlotnik was confirmed as head of the SBU. Zlotnik then attempted to clear house by putting pressure on the President to appoint men close to him who were, no surprise to anyone, supporters of his sponsor, the Kremlin favoured Prime Minister. Now two years later the former Prime Minister, originally a mechanic from the Eastern city of Donetsk had finally become the President of Ukraine. Zlotnik and his pro-Russian cronies were now cemented in power, the President’s men.
Zlotnik had decided to keep Dudka in place. Dudka was the oldest and most respected Director in the SBU, with years of distinguished service prior to that with the Soviet KGB. With age however Dudka had become less subtle and it was not secret that he was not a fan of the new President and his men from Donetsk. If asked Dudka no longer held back with his honest and sometimes blunt views.
Dudka reached down to stroke his dog, a grin on his face. He remembered how Zlotnik had turned red, when at an office party Dudka had shared these views with him. Zlotnik had slammed his vodka glass on the table and stormed off. As such Dudka was in essence the enemy within. He was constantly butting heads with his boss but he had gotten results, more than Zlotnik’s cronies. He was, as Zlotnik had told him to his face, ‘an oxymoron - a convenient inconvenience’.
Dudka turned and headed home, back up Karl Marx street, or Horodetskoho street as it was now been renamed, to his flat two minutes away on Zankovetskaya street. The first street named after a political activist, the second after a politic-less actress, both were busy with locals and tourists alike, shopping at the over-priced boutiques. No doubt his colleague and head of the SBU’s Antiterrorist Centre, Pavel Utkin, would be looking at the summer crowds and worrying, he saw danger in everything.
Dudka and Utkin also did not see eye to eye. They were constantly running into each other over who had jurisdiction, his own directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime or Utkin’s Antiterrorist Centre. Nowadays the distinction was not clear, organised crime seemed to be increasingly carried out to fund terrorism. For his part, Dudka wanted things to be smooth. It was Utkin, the younger man by twenty years with an eye on the top job, who wanted to take over. The problem was that Utkin too was one of the Presidents men.
Dudka found himself working with the press, not he, had labelled them the ‘Bandits from Donetsk’. The consensus had been that January’s presidential elections would oust the bandits. Consensus had been wrong. The election had given the bandits the most powerful position of all, that of President of Ukraine.
Dudka reached his building, entered the lift and rose to the third floor. His official lunch hour over, he settled his dog back down and left for his office. He would walk, not bothering to use his car, an advantage of living in the very heart of the city. He’d be there within sixteen minutes, taking a circulatory route to pass the crowds on the central square. He put his tie and jacket back on, both bought from the state owned central store Tzum and shut the front door.
Since secession from the Soviet Union, Ukraine had changed greatly and not at all, he mused as he journeyed back down Zankovetskaya. The shops lining the capital’s streets were full with expensive imported goods and the city bustled with a ten times increase in traffic but beneath the surface many of the same people were running the country. They may have renounced communism but they were still Soviet in mentality. The faces had not changed either. It was the new generation that would really change the place, and he feared that, at seventy two, he would not live long enough to see his dear country become fully grown.
His day had gone and all he could do now was to ensure that the country did not implode before he could hand it over. His own protégé Blazhevich was one of the people who would shape the future of the SBU. He was young, not yet thirty five and untarnished by the Soviet past. He had first proved himself to be a worthy officer two years before, when working together they had halted an international arms trading network. If Dudka had to name one good man in the nest of vipers that the SBU had become, it was Vitaly Blazhevich.
Dudka crossed Kyiv’s main boulevard Khreshatik, by means of underpass and puffed as he walked up Prorizna Street. The hills kept him trim. He thought of himself as solid. Certainly not fat. Yet his late wife, the ballerina, was always putting him on a diet! Two American businessmen passed him walking downhill. One was gesticulating to the other, who was nodding and looking serious. Dudka took this in his stride, fifteen years ago all foreigners would have been stared at but today, although still undiscovered by international tourism, more and more foreign businessmen were in Ukraine.
The criminal element too had seemed to understand the value of ‘foreign business diversity’. In the early days his case load was heavy with instances of attempted or actual extortion on and against foreign business interests. Now these were few and far between as the criminals too tried to expand abroad. This however caused new headaches as he stretched to improve ties with foreign agencies and Interpol. Dudka’s current case load however was surprisingly light. Not much had seemed to happen in the last two months, perhaps the bandits were watching and waiting for the political situation to settle before deciding the most profitable type of ‘business’? Or perhaps, he mused once more, perhaps they too were just on holiday?
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, United Kingdom
Snow climbed the stairs to stretch his thigh muscles. Sitting for too long in traffic, his left leg had become stiff. He reached Patchem’s floor, his thighs gently warmed, crossed the open plan section desks and pushed the door that led to the reception area for the ‘Soviet Desk’, as it was still affectionately called by the longer serving officers. Patchem’s over serious secretary nodded that he should enter. Patchem gestured for Snow to sit. Through the large, thick, glass window the Thames below reflected the mid-morning sun.
“Paddy Fox.” Patchem did not waste his words.
Snow nodded. The dramatic rescue footage, which some over excited journalists were saying was the most sensational since the Iranian Embassy siege, had made Fox something of a media sensation. The royal endorsement of Umar Al Kabir had only added to this. It had been leaked that Fox was an SAS veteran of both Iraq war one and two. The media, who liked nothing more than a real life ‘action hero’, clamoured for more information and pictures like a pack of feral dogs. Even Britain’s most well-known former SAS member turned author had commented on Fox’s actions in his newspaper column.
“I know you were in different squadrons, generations, but you must have met over the years?”
“We have met.”
Snow did not mention the freezing nights spent in a hedgerow in South Armagh’s ‘Bandit Country’ whilst on attachment to the ‘Det.’, the Royal Ulster Constabulary’s intelligence unit. The pair of them had been deployed to relay information on a suspected new IRA cell.
“What do you think of him?” Patchem’s bright blue eyes burned into Snow’s. “Liked by most, respected by all I assume?” Patchem interrupt
ed, with mild sarcasm.
“Yes.” What was he getting at?
“But in possession of a short temper. He wouldn’t get past the psyche test in today’s Regiment selection. Six weren’t interested in him either, even though he spoke Arabic. Here, have a look.” Patchem removed a buff coloured file from his brief case on the table in front of him.
Snow took the file and opened it. It was a censored version of the military record of one James Celtic Fox. A boy soldier in the Gordon Highlanders, he passed selection at the age of twenty one and into B Squadron 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. Mobility Troop. Specialist: demolition. The file listed some of the campaigns he had undertaken, many not known outside the confines of Whitehall and Stirling Lines. Large areas had been blacked out when the file had been photocopied.
“Fox made Corporal in the Highlanders but was demoted back to private.”
Snow looked up from the page “Oh?”
Patchem spoke, matter of fact. “He threw his Sergeant Major out of a window.”
Snow was not surprised; he’d believe anything of Paddy.
“Evidently he found the bugger in bed with his wife. Luckily for both men the room was on the first floor! So to business.” Patchem held his hand out for Snow to return the file. “As the media has been so keen to broadcast to the world, an unknown terrorist organisation attempted to abduct the daughter of a member of the Saudi Royal family. Fox stopped them, shot three of the kidnappers and rescued the girl. Unfortunately he also seriously wounded a bystander – you’ll have seen all this on TV”