Trusting A Sheikh (Playgrounds of Power 1)

by Rosie Pike

  "Uncle!" Tariq called as they entered the Embassy, seeing a well-dressed man in his late fifties striding through the ornate marble lobby.

  Hearing this, Chloe started with surprise, since she hadn't known that the Ambassador was any relative of Tariq. The man stood a shade over six foot – slightly shorter than his nephew, and his salt-and-pepper flecked beard stood in sharp contrast to the jet black hair on his head. Chloe suppressed a grin at the man's mild vanity. She knew that dyeing one's hair was very common in some cultures, particularly in China, but she couldn't help but think that if her father ever chose to try it, he'd never hear the end of it.

  "Tariq, it's been far too long," the ambassador said with a beneficent smile. "You never come and visit your poor uncle."

  "Only when I need something…" Tariq replied with a joking smile, though hinting at precisely the reason he was at the Embassy.

  "Unfortunately so." The ambassador nodded sadly. "Still, while we have some time – would you like a coffee?"

  Chloe stood awkwardly out of the conversation, partly obscured by a large bronze bust of the King's head that sat on a marble pillar, unsure whether she should introduce herself or just remain quiet. Perhaps this was one of the opportunities Rachel had obliquely referenced in which she might be able to make connections to change her life for the better. Of course, Chloe still knew that whatever her personal ambitions were, she couldn't allow them to rule her life day-to-day – so she just stood back and stayed quiet.

  "Oh, Uncle," Tariq said absentmindedly as the ambassador began to turn and lead him out of the lobby. "I'd like you to meet Chloe, who's helping me at the moment."

  "Chloe?" the ambassador replied, confused.

  "That would be me, your Excellency," Chloe said, stepping out of the shadow of the bronze bust. "Lovely to meet you," she said, proffering her hand.

  "My dear, I do apologize – I simply didn't see you back there. My eyes aren't what they used to be…" the ambassador said with impeccable manners, shaking Chloe's hand almost reverently. Chloe felt almost as though she were being wooed by some ancient king, and noticed an almost magnetic charm which seemed to hang around the ambassador like an aura. It must be a family trait, she thought, because it was exactly the same sense she got every time she spoke to Tariq. Perhaps it was a result of growing up in the surroundings of the rarefied atmosphere of a foreign court, or perhaps they had both attended some kind of finishing school. Or maybe it was just innate.

  "Oh, no need to apologize. It was my fault – I shouldn't have been standing in the shadows," Chloe replied, charmed by the old man.

  "So, how are you helping my nephew? Not that he doesn't need all the help he can get…" the ambassador asked in a kindly, joking fashion, though with a bright hint of interest in his shiny brown eyes. Chloe definitely got the sense that this wasn't just a social question – he wanted to know who and what she was, and why she was hanging around with a member of his family.

  Chloe chose her words carefully. "I work for the Kingsland Group – have you heard of it?" She often found that namedropping the illustrious group had the desired effect – giving her credibility among the powerful, famous and wealthy.

  The ambassador shot her a crafty, avaricious look. "Are you indeed? So young…"

  "Kind of you to say," she replied. "But I've been with them for a few years now," she continued, a bit more firmly – to make the point that she wasn't just some ingénue, but instead a professional who deserved to be taken seriously.

  "My apologies." The ambassador smiled. "I didn't mean to cause any offense – it's just that I've been badgering Rachel for a concierge of my own for years now, and she hasn't budged…"

  Chloe shot him a surprised look. "You know Rachel?"

  "Oh, very well. You can't miss her in the London social scene. But I have to say she can be infuriating!" He sighed in mock frustration, gesturing for Tariq and Chloe to follow him. "But maybe you can put in a good word for me?"

  "Perhaps." Chloe smiled. "But I hardly think she'd listen to me. Besides, we have very few private clients…" She paused, realizing that she might well cause the man some offense if she continued with that train of thought.

  "… And I'm not exclusive enough to receive the honor?" the ambassador asked with a broad grin on his face, reassuring Chloe that he hadn't in fact been offended at all, but was instead messing with her. "Please, sit." He indicated four austere mahogany chairs surrounding a coffee table in the center of an exquisitely decorated drawing-room.

  Chloe couldn't help but notice – it was hard not to – that two soldiers in full dress uniform were drawn up at attention by a portrait of the King on the other side of the room. Sensing her attention had been grabbed by the unusual sight, the ambassador turned his head and chuckled.

  "Don't worry, you get used to them. It's only ceremonial."

  "Oh," Chloe croaked. "To be honest, I'm not sure if I'd get used to soldiers guarding my house too quickly…"

  "Oh, I don't live here," the ambassador assured her. "And this is the only place inside the Embassy that they guard."

  Chloe slowly relaxed into her chair, but couldn't dismiss the feeling that Rashid, whenever he arrived, might not be as quick to dismiss their presence. Frankly, to her Western raised sensibilities, even having a giant oil painting of the King was somewhat unusual.

  "Now, Tariq. It's time you and I spoke plainly," the ambassador began. "Chloe, my dear – could you give us a couple of minutes?"

  Irritated but not entirely surprised, Chloe made as if to stand up, but Tariq laid a restraining hand on her forearm. "No, Uncle – anything that needs to be said can be said in front of Chloe." He looked at her warmly. "I trust her –." There was a brief pause, and Chloe felt a sense of warm elation rush through her body. "Judgement," Tariq finished slowly.

  The ambassador gave the pair them a long, hard look before acquiescing. Chloe felt as though he was examining her very soul. "Very well, as you wish," the old man finally agreed.

  "What is it that you wanted to speak about?" Tariq prompted his uncle.

  Again, the ambassador shot Chloe a wary glance, still not convinced that having this discussion in front of her was sensible, and she could see the internal battle raging within him as his pragmatic side won out over his paranoid side.

  "Things are not…" the ambassador began slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Stable at home. You must have seen that before you left?"

  Tariq nodded slowly, the look on his face indicating that he wasn't sure where his uncle was going, but not wanting to prejudice things by jumping in too quickly.

  "This situation is something neither the King or the government need right now, and it's been made very clear to me that it needs to be resolved quickly."

  "Well I'm all ears," Tariq said, slightly angrily. "What more do they want me to do? We're here to sort this out, aren't we?"

  "I know, I know," the ambassador replied reassuringly. "But what I'm hearing is that some factions of the government might consider employing… more severe measures to bring the problem under control."

  "More severe measures?" Tariq exclaimed in surprise. "What the hell do they expect me to do? I'm not going to kill the guy."

  Chloe sat back, trying to remain invisible – but behind the impassive mask she wore on her face, her mind was whirring. The trainers at the Kingsland Group had always made one thing very clear – they could and should do anything to help their clients, so long as it was legal. They could even skirt the boundaries of laws, enter the grey zone – but never cross over. The ambassador might be hearing that ‘more severe measures’ might need to be taken; what Chloe was hearing was a crime being planned.

  "No one's asking you to do that…" the ambassador said in a hushed voice, looking around to make sure no one else was in the room. Chloe watched the expressions on the soldiers’ faces closely – they didn't so much as blink, giving no impression either that they spoke English, or if they did, that they cared.

  "What's the purp
ose of this conversation then?" Tariq asked coldly.

  "It's a warning – that's all," the ambassador said with what he clearly believed to be a friendly smile on his face. Chloe wasn't fooled – the atmosphere in the room had just changed.

  At precisely that moment, the three of them were interrupted by light knocking on the door.

  "Come in," the ambassador barked brusquely.

  A slender woman in a red floral headscarf entered the room, eyes demurely pointed at the ground. "Your Excellency, the guards at the gate inform me that your guest is arriving."

  Chloe looked out of the window, which faced onto the gravel drive at the front of the opulent embassy, and was surprised to notice that two or three television crews had pulled up in their news trucks and were setting up, with cameramen pointing their equipment at an old, beat up Ford Fiesta that was slowly chugging through the gates. The car was old, so old that while it may once have been blue, it now appeared sea grey, and Chloe was more than surprised that it was still capable of forward movement.

  With her professional hat firmly back on, Chloe realized that the optics of the situation weren't in their favor, not in front of the media, anyway. Perhaps, she thought, they should've picked a meeting spot on neutral ground instead of trying to impress Rashid with the trappings of power in the Saudi Embassy. Worse, the fact that he was turning up in a thousand dollar car, not one of the expensive Range Rovers or Rolls-Royces parked outside, was only going to emphasize his underdog status.

  And that wasn't going to help their cause.

  She watched as the car pulled to a halt outside, watched as a short man parked it neatly by the lawn and stepped out, dressed like a bookish middle-aged university professor. He looked quiet and unassuming – the kind of man you might walk past in a street and never even notice. And yet, here he was, the center of an international political storm, walking into the Saudi Embassy in London being filmed by half a dozen television cameras – cameras he never once turned to face.

  Chloe watched through the French windows as Rashid walked, unhurried, to the front door, where he was greeted by one of the embassy's attaches, who shook his hand and hurried him in.

  They all rose, knowing he would be shown into the drawing room within seconds.

  "Mr. Al Mansouri," Tariq said gently as he was ushered into the room. "It is so good of you to agree to meet us."

  The bookish man looked up and around, seeming slightly surprised to see Chloe in attendance. He inclined his head politely. "It was good of you to ask to meet me."

  "Please, sit," Tariq said, gesturing at the empty chair. "Can I pour you a drink?" he asked respectfully.

  Rashid seemed surprised at the treatment he was receiving and stumbled over his reply. "I –. Please," he muttered. "I'd like a tea."

  "English breakfast?" Tariq smiled. "It's the only one I'll drink…"

  "That would be excellent," Rashid said stiffly, sitting with his back straight, looking for all the world as though he expected to be attacked at any moment.

  Tariq leaned forward and poured the hot drink from the waiting teapot. "Here you go," he said, offering the teacup to his guest.

  "Can I get you anything else?" he asked, trying to put his guest at ease. "Just say it, and it'll be done."

  "No, no," Rashid said, resting the saucer on his leg – but not taking a sip. "This is fine, thank you.”

  Chloe couldn't help noticing that the man's eyes were darting around the room like a caged animal, and felt a strong wave of sympathy run through her. She watched as his gaze travelled a predictable pattern – first checking out the exits, then the windows, then quickly resting on each of his hosts in turn, before settling – and remaining – on the stoic figures of the soldiers on the other side of the room.

  "Shall we attend to business then?" the ambassador offered. "We have a lot to discuss."

  "Indeed," Rashid said stiffly. "We do." He didn't offer any more, and Chloe watched as Tariq registered his guest's uncomfortable, obstinate behavior. Ever the gracious host, he accommodated it with ease.

  "Perhaps," he asked softly, "you can tell us what you hope to get out of this meeting?"

  Chloe watched as Rashid's eyes traced the circuit around the room again, once more finishing by staring at the two soldiers. Subtly, she touched his forearm to get his attention and leaned in. "Maybe," she whispered in a low tone, "he'd be more comfortable if we cleared the room a bit?" she said, staring pointedly at the two guards.

  "Ah, of course," Tariq agreed in a louder voice, no stickler for ceremony. He clicked his fingers and, looking at his uncle for permission, motioned the two men to leave. The ambassador granted it with a slight nod of his head, and noticing this motion, they did so. Rashid relaxed perceptibly.

  "Thank you," he said to Chloe gratefully. "Sometimes I just can't focus with, well, them around…"

  Feeling as though somehow she had come to the fore and made a connection with the man, she continued talking, though uncomfortably aware that it might not be her position to do so. "I'm glad that's better," she began softly. "Do you think you can tell us why you came here today?" she asked.

  Rashid studied her carefully for a second, and Chloe was overcome with the same feeling that she had experienced when speaking to a professor at college – a sense that this was a man of wisdom and she should be grateful that he was sparing his time to speak with her. He had a soft, caring and almost grandfatherly manner, and Chloe was more inclined to hug him then cross-examine him.

  "What I ask is simple. Saudi Arabia must halt its purchases of weapons, for now at least, and the United Nations should be allowed into the country to do an inspection to make sure that the weapons that have been purchased in the past agree with international law."

  In front of him, the ambassador choked back his laughter. "You can't be serious?"

  Rashid, for all that he looked like a bookish university professor, wasn't put off by the man's intervention and refused to be quieted. "Secondly," he continued firmly, "independent human rights investigators must be allowed into prisons to confirm that torture, abuse and ill-treatment is no longer allowed to continue."

  "The King couldn't possibly allow such a thing," the ambassador scoffed. "And besides, those prisons are both well run and well maintained – Saudi Arabia doesn't torture prisoners."

  Even Chloe felt compelled to turn to the man and express her indignation at the comment, and she had to fight back the urge to do so. To his credit, Rashid refused to be cowed.

  "Then, Sir," he began quietly, "it appears that either you are blind, or stupid."

  The ambassador stood swiftly, knocking the chair back behind him. "I will not be spoken to like that – especially not by you!" he hissed.

  "Uncle," Tariq said firmly, placing a reassuring hand on his uncle's waist to settle him down. "Please, Rashid is our guest."

  In a smoldering rage, the ambassador clenched his fists and sat back down, the chair having quickly been righted by a quick-witted aide. Chloe was shocked at the man's reaction, especially since he'd given her no reason to expect that he might react like that. He'd seemed like a calm, composed – if a little misogynistic – man in their prior dealings.

  "Thank you, Prince Tariq," Rashid said politely. "So now you understand what it is I'm asking for. The question is – what can you do about it?"

  Tariq considered his response carefully and diplomatically, and even Chloe, who had almost no experience in the world of government and diplomacy, realized that he had more tact in his little finger than it seemed his uncle had in an entire body.

  "What you're asking for will be," he paused searching for the right word, "difficult. I don't see that the King will bow to your demands on weapons sales. He'll see it as a matter of national security."

  Rashid nodded sadly. "I imagined as much. It doesn't seem as though there's much point in us continuing this conversation. Perhaps I should go."

  "Please," Tariq gestured, "stay for a little while. You can always walk out if we d
on't reach an agreement, okay?"

  Chloe watched as Rashid battled his emotions before bottling them up and agreeing to continue. "Go on."

  "Why is it that you want to prevent us buying weapons?" Tariq asked gently. "Every country on the planet buys them – after all, one of the primary responsibilities of any state is to protect its citizens. No country would allow a protester to interfere with that sacred duty. So I ask again, why try and stop it?"

  Rashid mulled over the question for a second. "It's not –" he began, pausing briefly, "that I want to stop all of them," he began to say, haltingly. "But it has come to my attention that instruments of torture are being purchased by the military and the intelligence services for use on Saudi citizens under the cover of defense equipment, and that is intolerable."

  "My good sir," Tariq began gently, "I've been sent over here to negotiate on behalf of my country, and I can give you my word that I've not been asked to buy anything of the sort. It is a matter of honor, and I assure you that I wouldn't associate my name, or the reputation of my family, by getting involved in such a sordid business."

  Chloe watched admiringly as the Prince began settling into an almost statesmanlike role. He was calm, in control and, most of all, relaxed.

  "I'm afraid you're either lying to me," Rashid said almost angrily, "or you don't see the evidence that's in front of your own eyes."

  Tariq bristled, but tamped down his own anger far better than his uncle the ambassador had managed a few moments before. "What evidence do you have?"

  "You have a man named Khalid in your travelling party, do you not?" Rashid asked, and Chloe felt a voice of consternation grip her stomach, not liking where this was leading.