by Alex Shaw
“I’m sorry Paddy, I really am, but as you were made aware at the start of the consultation process, cuts have to be made. We have been as fair as we can.”
There was a pause as Leo Sawyer waited for Paddy’s reply. Unable to bare the awkward silence, Paddy’s line manager, Janet Cope, coughed to clear her throat.
“James we really are sorry to let you go but it has been decided that we need two sales engineers and not three.”
Paddy stared at each of ‘the suits’ in turn. “What about the position in Saudi?” Paddy’s voice was loud in the small glass walled room.
Cope flinched and Sawyer nervously straightened his tie
“You were not suitable for the role. Sorry.” Sawyer replied in what he thought appeared to be a sympathetic manner. He felt Fox’s green eyes bore into him.
“But I speak Arabic! Can any of the other candidates?” Paddy had started to turn a shade redder than normal.
Cope gasped. “Now James, I understand that you are upset, but we do not need to shout.”
Paddy cast her a contemptuous look. “Only my mother calls me James.”
Cope herself turned a shade of pink and looked down.
Sawyer pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Paddy. “If you have a look at this you will see that we are paying you in full for your unused holiday time, three months redundancy pay – as per your contract and an additional bonus for all your hard work in the last five years.”
“Six years. I have been here since 2004.” Paddy picked up the sheet and scanned the thirty eight lines.
“Of course, six years my mistake.”
“Your redundancy is effective immediate, as of the end of today. That means you can start to look for work from tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to stop you from finding another job. We really are truly sorry.” Cope smiled that ‘monkey smile’ that he had hated ever since the day she’d become his boss six months earlier.
Paddy folded the letter, placed it into his shirt pocket and stood. He stared again at both suits. Sawyer was about to speak but Fox held up his hand.
“Thank you for your sincerity.”
Heads turned as Fox crossed the open plan office for his desk, some tried not to make eye contact, others to look sympathetic. Either way to him they were just pathetic. His two sales colleagues, those that were not being pushed out, were not surprisingly anywhere to be seen. He reached his desk and started to empty its drawers into his pilot case. Fox had always disliked Sawyer. Ever since the last Christmas do, when Tracy had let slip that he’d been in ‘Desert Storm’, the man had constantly quizzed him about his past. Sawyer a member, he claimed, of the ‘territorials’ had then tried to take them all – Sales & Marketing - on a team building ‘Paint Balling’ weekend. As Marketing Director Tracey had gone and according to her Leo was ‘such a laugh’. At the next works ‘event’, Fox had caught him staring at her and given him the nickname ‘Eagle Eyed Action Man’. In fact the only real ‘action’ Fox could envisage Sawyer getting, was ‘from behind’ at the local gay bar.
Looking up, Fox saw the security guard leave the MD’s office with a clipboard in his hand. He bore the man no ill will.
“Hi Mick. Are you going to march me off the premises? ”
“Sorry.” He put the clipboard on Fox’s desk. “I’m going to need the car keys and your signature here.”
Shaking his head, Fox took the keys to his BMW three series and dropped them into Mick’s outstretched palm. “Of course you are and I’m going to walk three miles to the train station.”
“Thanks.” Mick cast a glance around before saying, almost in a whisper, “I don’t suppose Mr Sawyer has offered to drive you in his Z4?”
“I’m not queer.”
Mick suppressed a smile. “It’s my break in ten minutes – I’ll take you to the station.”
“That would be good, pal, thanks.”
It was the way of the world. Mick had more decency than all of them. He patted Fox on the shoulder and left him to finish his bags. Fox continued to shove his personal papers into the pockets of his case. Sawyer and Cope remained cocooned in the meeting room, eyes glued to documents, pretending to look busy and hoping he would leave. Fox closed the case and walked towards the stairs. As he passed the meeting room he tapped on the window, both occupants snapped their necks to the right. Fox smiled and held up his middle finger.
Fox crossed the road towards the river and used the pedestrian bridge. The tide was out as usual and the river had turned into a thick muddy smudge. Bloody awful if you asked him, but then Tracy hadn’t when she’d bought the house that overlooked it. As he reached the opposite side he could hear them already, the local kids from the flats out again on their ‘mini motos’ out zipping between cars. Jim would be outraged again. Jim was always outraged.
“Get off the bloody road!! I’ll call the police!!” Jim Reynolds, retired decorator and moral voice of the street yelled after the miniature motorbikes.
Fox laughed. “Good evening Jim.” He liked his neighbour, even if he made fun of him.
“Is it? I’ve had them effing kids tormenting me for the last hour! Shouldn’t they be at school?” He waved his hedge scissors.
“Jim, it’s almost six.”
“Oh, well at work then or doing their homework. At their age, I was painting houses.”
“So are they, with spray cans.”
The area had been touted as the latest urban development for professional people with two point four children and a BMW. The truth however was that the kids from the local council flats saw the quiet, pot hole free, roads of Shoreham beach as their private race track.
The old man removed his gardening gloves and scratched his head. “Any more news on the job front?”
Fox shrugged. “Who wants to employ an old soldier like me?”
“That’s the problem, no gratitude. They should have given you a medal.”
Reynolds knew that, as a member of the SAS, Fox’s had been sent into Iraq with the SAS. Fox had not been a member of Bravo Two Zero, as all those who knew the truth of his past constantly questioned, but a deep penetration mission which had never been published. It had been their job to recce the approach to Bagdad in advance of the coalition’s arrival, an arrival which had not come, at least for ten years. This mission he never talked about. Reynolds, himself a veteran of Suez, had great respect for Fox.
“Maybe when we’re both dead they’ll put a plaque on our houses?” Fox smiled.
There was the sound of base heavy music from behind them and Tracy Fox, Paddy’s wife of five years raced up the road in her convertible Saab.
“Here she comes, Ghetto Gertrude!”
Reynolds chuckled as Tracy pulled up on to the drive. “Hello love.”
“Hi Jim.” She smiled warmly then changed her face when she spoke to Fox. “The sooner you move that old heap of yours out of the garage the better. I don’t know why you keep it!”
“It’s a classic, love.” The conversation they had each evening when she was forced to park her new car on the drive.
“Help me with my bags then.”
“Yes ma’am.” Fox winked at Reynolds and made for the car.
Reynolds picked up his hedge scissors and continued to trim his already perfect shrubs.
Fox followed his wife inside with her laptop bag, which she complained was too heavy to carry. He found his wife looking through the mail.
“So tell me what have you been up to today whilst I’ve been out at work?” It was a daily question thrown at him with growing disdain.
Fox placed the bag on the floor and took a breath. “I went online, put my CV on Monster, checked my email, fixed the tap in the kitchen.”
Tracy nodded. “And?”
“And what?”
“Did you call any of those agents I gave you details of?” Her hands were now on her hips.
He looked at the gap between her blouse buttons and the red of her bra. She had a great pair of tits. “No. I’ll do it tomorr
ow.”
Her expression grew sour. “You’ve been saying that for the past week, Paddy!”
“I know luv, I know.” Here came the lecture.
“You’re not going to get a new job by sitting on your arse all day long.’
“Then how can I use the computer?”
She ignored his attempt at levity. “It’s been almost two months now.”
“It’s been six weeks.”
“Exactly. When the redundancy money runs out, what then?” Her eyes narrowed.
Fox sighed. They had met at Dymex, where she at least still worked. “I’ve got enough saved and besides you earn twice as much as I did.”
“What? You want to live off me? You, a man, wants to live off me?” The argument was not new and their lines were well rehearsed.
“Don’t be sexist.” He loved to goad his oh so PC wife. “I’m not going to ‘ponce’ off you. I’ll find something.”
She turned and headed upstairs. “I’m going to have a shower.”
Fox watched her arse twitch beneath her tight skirt, even when she was angry he still fancied her. He spoke beneath his breath. “Hi dear, how are you? Have a nice day? Don’t worry...” He smirked to himself. Right, bung a risotto into the microwave; uncork a bottle of the Chilean merlot she likes, that’ll calm her down for a bit.
*
Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London
Snow signed for his belongings at the front desk. “Should I be honoured that you came in person?”
“Yes.” Patchem said flatly.
The desk officer gave Snow a stern look. “You are free to go.”
“Much obliged.”
“In future, for heaven’s sake, if someone says they are an SIS officer call us to ask.”
“Very well sir.” The desk officer showed no sign of accepting Patchem’s reprimand. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Outside they got into Patchem’s Lexus and drove away.
“Thanks Jack. So why did you come?”
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 are 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 to 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 on whom I can rely. I brought you into Six, Aidan, 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 that he could not quite place. Burning oil! The Saudi whipped off his thin bed sheet and rushed to the window.
Flames were leaping from his garage, worst 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 of his bedroom window. He opened completely the French window and nervously moved onto the balcony, the heat like an oven on his face.
Finding his voice, Al Kabir yelled 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 had not been a dream. The fire had caused over a million dollars’ worth of damage. In addition to the Phantom, two more expensive vintage Rolls’ 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 was not fearful, the concept had never entered his head, but upset.
Twenty more members of the Saudi Arabian Royal Guard Regiment, the unit with the unique task of protecting the Royal house of Saud, now patrolled his ‘palace’. His brother said he had been foolish to have stayed at his small place in the desert, but security was not a concept that Fouad could fully understand. He was Royalty so why should he be in any danger? Unlike his brothers – especially Umar, Fouad did not 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 did not know how to react; here a stranger was 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 ever been insulted in such a way.
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 en
d 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, 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 did not know who to call 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.” At the other end of the line in London, the voice of the Commander of the Guards was clear and precise. “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.”