by Jack Higgins
“Let me guess. Suddenly there are difficulties with the port authorities in Aden, greedy hands held out.”
“You are a very perceptive young lady.”
“A realist, Baron.”
“Who understands the Arab mentality.”
“I do not regard myself as Arab, Baron, and not just because I am half-English.”
“I am well aware of that. Your family is as great in England as my own is in Germany. I meant no slight.”
“Of course you didn’t, but, as I said, that’s not what I meant. My other half is Bedu, and that is different from being Arab. We bow our heads to no one. The Bedu are the real power in Hazar and the Dhofar, but especially in the Empty Quarter. The Bedu control the Empty Quarter, and the Rashid control the Bedu. My brother is the undisputed leader.”
“A remarkable man, the earl, and the rise in Rashid Investments has been equally remarkable. And yet he is not so often on the scene, as it were.”
“As I told you, he prefers to stay in the shadows. I have two brothers, George and Michael, who are managing directors. And, as you know, I am chairman.”
“And Paul?”
“He prefers to spend time in Hazar with the Bedu. To them, he is a great warrior. He roams the desert by camel, lives in the old Bedu way, guarded by men who would die for him, burned by the sun. He eats dates and dried meats. Would you eat dates and dried meats, Baron?”
Guiliano had materialized with a waiter and thumbed the cork off a bottle of Dorchester champagne.
Max von Berger laughed out loud. “To be frank, I’d rather enjoy the delights of the Piano Bar.”
“Then taste the champagne for me.”
“Only if you allow me one privilege.”
“And what would that be?”
“To call you Kate. It’s a delightful name and suits you beyond measure.”
She smiled. “My pleasure, Max.”
He laughed again and nodded to Guiliano, who smiled and poured. “So where are we, Kate?”
“Regarding your arms shipment? It’s no problem, but we can do better than the Greek freighter. I’ll provide a Rashid ship with an Arab crew. I’ll sort out the Aden end of things, and provide security for the cargo, including its deployment up-country.”
“And what will I have to pay for such munificence?”
“Twenty-five percent.”
There was a moment’s pause, then von Berger smiled. “What a remarkable young woman you are, Kate. I accept, of course.”
“No contract, no handshake?”
“My word.” He raised his glass. “To you, my dear, and to the future.”
They clinked glasses and drank. She nodded to Guiliano, who came forward to refill, and then she sat back, watching the Baron calmly. She knew everything about him, or at least thought she did. He intrigued her, everything about him, and she enchanted him: not in some silly superficial way, a seventy-six-year-old man falling for a beautiful young woman. It was just that everything about her was so remarkable.
“To the future, you say?” She smiled. “So now we come to it. Your interests in the Russian oil fields are not enough. You seek oil concessions in the Dhofar.”
It was a statement. He said, “Alas, to no purpose. The Russians have tried, the Americans, even a British consortium.”
“So now, by coincidence, we have Max von Berger of Berger International coming to Rashid hoping to meet my brother to broker a piffling little ten-million-pound arms deal.”
Von Berger hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years. He laughed again. “I surrender completely. I thought if I met your brother, it might make a difference.”
“Then why didn’t you say so? You’re interested in the Dhofar and development. So are we. You want to discuss this with Paul? I’ll arrange it. We’ll fly in a company Gulfstream to Hazar – say, ten tomorrow morning? We’ll go up-country by helicopter to Shabwa Oasis in the Empty Quarter, and my brother will see you there. Does any of this seem acceptable?”
“Only that if I was forty years younger, I’d have been at your feet.”
“Oh, very nice, especially coming from the pick of the SS. So it’s a date. Now, as our business here is concluded, what about taking me somewhere nice for dinner? The Ivy would be acceptable. All those awful celebrities makes it so interesting.”
And Max von Berger, filled with excitement, pushed himself up and clicked his heels.
“Lady Kate Rashid, the pleasure is all mine.”
The following day, the Rashid Gulfstream landed in Hazar at the military base, a relic of British imperialism. A Hawk helicopter was waiting and Kate led the way to it, von Berger following. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. So much of the time on the flight from Northolt had been spent in conversation and on about every subject under the sun. He was totally fascinated by her.
The flight in the helicopter was noisy and uncomfortable, as it carved a way through the great heat, bouncing in the thermals over the vastness, the desolation of the Empty Quarter. Evening was falling, the huge sand dunes stretched to infinity, or so it seemed, and von Berger loved it, all of it. Age seemed to have slipped away from him.
And then, in the distance, in the gloom, there were fires, and finally, the Hawk swept in over the vast Shabwa Oasis and hovered. It was a great pool surrounded by palm trees, herds of camels and goats and an enormous encampment; women, children and men, all Bedu, milling around.
The helicopter landed, the engine stopped. The pilot opened the door and stood to one side. “Here we are then, Baron.” Kate smiled. “If you would follow me.”
She was wearing a khaki bush shirt and slacks. Now she pulled on a headcloth and stepped out. The crowd had stepped back and Rashid warriors ran forward with rifles, making a line. The silence was almost total, except for the snort of a camel and the plaintive bleating of the goats. Then down the lane came Paul Rashid, a dramatic figure in headcloth and black robes.
He held out his arms. “Little sister.” Kate ran to him for his embrace.
The crowd erupted, the noise deafening. Paul Rashid turned to von Berger and held out his hand. “You must excuse their enthusiasm, Baron. My sister has a special place in their hearts.”
“I find that perfectly understandable.”
Rashid’s grip tightened, then he leaned forward and kissed von Berger on each cheek.
“Excuse the familiarity, but witnessed by my people, this makes you special, too. Inviolate, you might say. Word spreads easily in the Empty Quarter, better than on a computer. You will always be safe here.”
To von Berger, it was so familiar. It was like Holstein Heath, the Darker Place, the special relationship with his people. He was very moved.
“You make me proud, my Lord.”
Rashid turned to the crowd. “This is Baron von Berger, my friends.”
The crowd raised their voices, the camels wheezed, everything was in motion. Kate turned to von Berger. “Just go with the flow, and remember from now on you are the guest of every Bedu in the Empty Quarter.”
“So, a little hospitality would be in order,” Paul Rashid said. “First, you must refresh yourself after the journey, then we eat.”
“And then comes business,” Kate said.
“Enough for now.” Paul Rashid turned and led the way through the crowd.
The Baron was taken to a richly furnished tent, with carpets and hangings. A canvas bath was provided, two young men on hand who spoke English and attended his every need.
Later he was taken to a larger tent, filled with people eating and sitting on cushions in the traditional way, women bringing in food of many kinds from the cooking tent: stews, roasted lambs, an absolute feast. Von Berger sat between Rashid and Kate.
Rashid said, “I trust you understand. My people expect this. They have their traditions, Baron.”
“Max,” von Berger told him. “Please call me Max.” He reached for a dish of some sort of lamb chops a woman offered, took one with his bare hand and tried it. “Delicious.” He tur
ned to Paul Rashid. “One old soldier to another: I was in the Winter War in Russia and this is infinitely better.”
Paul Rashid smiled. “Then enjoy, my friend.”
Much later, they sat, the three of them, by a blazing fire, guards sitting close by, drinking coffee, AK47s across their knees.
Rashid said, “So, this Yemeni arms affair. Of course we’ll broker it for you. No big deal. But let’s be frank. What my sister said to you was true. This Yemeni thing is nothing to you, we know that. What you are interested in are oil concessions in the Empty Quarter perhaps and certainly in the Dhofar.”
“Absolutely. I know that the Russians are after it, the Brits, the Americans, but your influence with the Bedu confounds them all.”
“That’s true.”
There was silence. The Baron said, “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”
“Of course. I’ll have one with you.” He called in Arabic, a youth ran forward, and cigarettes were provided, and a lighter.
“They got me through the Winter War, these things,” the Baron said.
“And me the Gulf War,” Rashid replied. “We have much in common.”
Von Berger turned to Kate. “Listen to what I say. I would value your opinion.”
“Of course.”
“Right. If I try to obtain concessions in the Dhofar, the great powers would put in place as many roadblocks as they could. Even now, the Russian government isn’t happy with my holdings in their country. Any extension of my power would displease them.”
“That would seem obvious,” she said.
“And the Americans have always distrusted me. The Hitler business never goes away.” He turned to Rashid. “You, on the other hand, they are stuck with. That intrigues me. Why haven’t you used those concessions in the Dhofar?”
Rashid drank his coffee. “Tell him,” he said to Kate.
“Cash flow,” she said. “Rashid Investments is worth billions, but it’s all tied up. Capital investment, mainly. I don’t need to tell you that oil exploration is an expensive business.”
“But if you had the resources, you could go ahead in the Dhofar. America and Russia could do nothing.”
She looked at him calmly. “We’d need a lot of money. And I wouldn’t want it tied up by the banks.”
“What she means is we’d need something like one billion in cash, nice and fluid in our own account, to get started,” Paul Rashid said.
Von Berger nodded. “Two billion would be better.”
They both stared at him. “Two billion?” Kate said.
“Yes. Let’s see, today is Tuesday. I’ll set the wheels in motion, you could have it by Friday.” He smiled. “And then you would be developing oil in the Dhofar, not me. The White House, the Kremlin, Downing Street – they wouldn’t know a thing.”
It was Kate who answered. “Oh, God, that would be beautiful.”
Her brother held up his hand. “This is not a joke. You’re not that kind of man.”
“No, I’m not renowned for my sense of humor where money is concerned.”
“But the manipulations necessary to raise such a sum on the international finance scene would be very obvious. There is no way the Americans, the Russians and the Brits would not be aware of it.”
“No, there you’re wrong. There would be no need for anything unusual to happen. I have access to unlimited cash funds.”
Kate was astonished. “In that amount? But from where?”
“Oh, Swiss banks. I’m what is known as cash-rich. There’ll be no wheeler-dealing on the stock exchanges, no haggling for loans or investments in the financial markets. Just healthy injections of cash into Rashid Investments, as you choose.”
They looked at each other. Kate was excited and clutched at her brother’s arm. “Paul, we’ll never have such a chance again. We can confound them all.”
“I know, little sister.” Rashid turned to von Berger. “And in return?”
“In return, I would expect to be made a silent partner in Rashid Investments.”
“On what terms?”
“Nothing onerous, nothing unreasonable. We can work it out together, here, and I’ll step back. In fact, we shouldn’t even meet socially, not ever again.” He turned to Kate. “Which will be a great deprivation.”
Paul Rashid sat brooding. After a while, he said, “Those international oil cartels, they’d love to drill anywhere they damn well pleased in the Dhofar and walk all over the Bedu in the process. Rape the desert.”
“And you would do it differently?”
“It can be done differently, Max, no one knows that better than you. You are right, by the way. We can’t be seen together in the future.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“Subject to our agreement on the partnership, yes. I’ll arrange all the necessary documentation and you will arrange the funding.”
“By Friday.”
“We have an ancient Bedu custom, more binding than any contract.” Rashid took a small razor-sharp knife from his belt. “Your thumb, Baron, the left hand.” Von Berger held out the hand, Rashid touched the end of the thumb and drew a spot of blood. He did the same to his own, then touched it to von Berger’s, their blood mingling.
Kate held out her left hand. “Me too. It is my right. I brought him.”
He smiled. “And you did well, little sister.” He pricked her thumb also and she touched his and then von Berger’s. Paul Rashid leaned forward and put an arm around both of them. “This bond that will last for life itself.”
“I swear it on my honor,” von Berger said.
Kate smiled and something glowed in her eyes. “What a pity, Max, that we can’t meet again, but Paul is right.”
“No more Piano Bar.” He spread his hands. “I’m desolate.”
Little did he know, but some two years later, he was to meet her again and under the most dramatic of circumstances.
January 2000, to be precise. Von Berger was approached through his Berlin offices by Iraqi government sources. They wanted exploratory talks regarding arms supplies. Von Berger wasn’t surprised. Arms dealers all over the world had been approached. There wasn’t much chance of keeping quiet about it with the Israeli Mossad so closely allied to American and British intelligence.
He wasn’t certain why he went to Iraq at all. He didn’t approve of Saddam Hussein or his regime. The lift that Kate Rashid had given to his life had been only temporary. Since the meeting in Hazar, he had not had any overt contact with the Rashids. The business dealings in the Dhofar, in which he had invested so much, had prospered hugely. The truth was that he was seventy-eight years old, and the only people he had cared about were dead and gone. He had accomplished so much and there was nothing left that was worth doing. He was also bored, so he went to Baghdad.
The city seemed immense, ancient and yet modern, hot and dusty, crowded with humanity. He flew into the airport in a Gulfstream and was received with extreme courtesy by a young intelligence major called Aroun, immaculate in a khaki uniform that looked as if it had been tailored in London’s Savile Row. Sporting medals and the wings of a paratrooper, he was handsome, intelligent and spoke good English. He eased von Berger through the usual formalities and escorted him out to a limousine, a Lincoln. He joined him in the rear seat.
“Do you smoke, Baron?” He offered his cigarette case.
“Why, thank you.” Von Berger accepted a light and leaned back, peering out at the crowded streets. “Fascinating.”
“Yes, well, I think it will rain later.”
“Is that good?”
“In this city, yes. The smell can be overpowering, and Baghdad was not created to fit in with the invention of the motor car. I’m taking you to the Al Bustan, Baron, a five-star modern hotel.”
“And my meeting?”
“He can’t see you today. I’ll let you know.”
“Of course.”
Already, von Berger was wondering whether he should have come in the first place.
Later tha
t evening, he stood on the terrace of his suite, smoking a cigarette and drinking Irish whiskey. It was a strange thing to find in his suite and he wondered who had known enough about him to supply it. There was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder and rain started to pour down. He looked to the crowded streets, the slow-moving traffic, but already the air smelled fresher. It was as if a weight had been lifted. He finished his whiskey, and the mobile phone in his breast pocket, an international model, rang.
“Who is this?” he inquired.
“How about a drink in the Piano Bar?” said a woman’s voice. “Oh – sorry, that’s not possible. You’re at the Al Bustan in downtown Baghdad.”
He was astonished. “Kate, it’s you. Where are you?”
“Never mind.”
“And how on earth did you know I was here?”
“Oh, I know most things. That you’re brokering some sort of arms deal with Saddam, for instance. When are you seeing him, or are you?”
“It was supposed to be today, but it’s been delayed.”
“Who said so?”
“The young man who received me at the airport. A Major Aroun.”
“A major? They should be doing better than that for you. It all smells a little like old fish to me.”
“Well, dictators can be like that. I was raised on Hitler, remember.”
“All right, but listen, take care. I’ll check back to see how you are. You’ll be pleased to know we’re making a fortune, partner.” The line went dead and he switched off.
He languished for three days, and had definitely decided to go back home when the hotel phone finally rang. It was Aroun. “He’ll see you tonight at nine-thirty. I’ll pick you up at nine and deliver you to the Presidential Palace.”
“How kind,” von Berger said. “I was about to leave.”
“Please, Baron, his sense of humor is limited. In any case, you wouldn’t have made the airport. I would suggest you be ready on time.”
Max von Berger laughed. “My dear boy, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
When von Berger went down to the hotel foyer in response to Aroun’s phone call, he found the major standing by a Mercedes sedan. He wasn’t in uniform and wore a black leather bomber jacket and jeans, as did the driver. Von Berger wore a black suit, white shirt and dark tie.