by K J Griffin
A wealthy Middle Eastern gentleman offers free accommodation and an annual grant of £20,000, to help one promising student with tuition and living costs. The successful applicant will be chosen by interview. Application forms can be downloaded from the website of the Royal Embassy of Ramliyya.
It was a curious offer, but Sophie knew of several students who had received awards or bursaries from educational trusts. This was probably another of the same; only the size of the allowance was strikingly unusual, staggering even. She rummaged in her rucksack for a pen and scrawled the telephone number on the back of her hand.
The implications of twenty thousand pounds in her bank account played on Sophie’s imagination all the way home. At the very least, it would enable her to stay at Oxford and finish her degree.
‘Go for it, by all means, I won’t mind,’ her best friend, Joanna, advised over coffee back in the kitchen of the terraced house they shared together with two other girls off the Iffley Road. But while Sophie located the Ramli Embassy’s website on her iPad and downloaded the application form, the look on Joanna’s face suggested that her indifference was only stoical.
‘I haven’t really got much of an option,’ Sophie shrugged, slurping coffee. ‘Short of a sudden windfall, Mum and I can’t hold out much longer and our combined debt is enough to spark another banking crisis.’
‘’Can I have a look?’ Joanna asked, snatching the iPad from Sophie’s grasp and clawing at the tablet’s interface to peruse the Word document.
After a few seconds she snorted mirthfully into her mug.
‘It says here, ‘How do you think others would describe you?’ Well, I think I can answer that.’
Then looking Sophie up and down with an unrestrained giggle, she launched into a mock-American voiceover.
‘Undoubtedly one of the best-looking girls in Oxford, witty and self-confident, gets noticed everywhere she goes. At a full-figured five foot seven, Sophie’s more Page Three Girl than trendy, emaciated waif; rich, wavy chestnut hair, naughty hazel eyes, and the sort of fleshy-cheeked facial beauty that you might see frolicking in the pastoral orgies of a Watteau or Poussin canvas. Maybe her flat London accent doesn’t quite meet the standards of her frightful snob of a boyfriend, Marcus Easterby, but in all other respects Sophie’s the Queen of Oxford, worthy of every penny of an Arab sheikh’s munificence!’
The laughter and the play fighting over the iPad took a long while to subside. But when Joanna and Sophie had finally regained their composure, Joanna stirred her coffee thoughtfully and gave her housemate a curious look.
‘Don’t you think this ‘offer’ sounds rather strange?’
‘The size of the allowance is certainly unusually large,’ Sophie conceded, ‘but that just means there will be legions of others chasing after the grant. I’ll have to be at my very best.’
‘Well, you’d better give it a try straight away then, I suppose,’ Joanna sighed. I’ll help you with the form and you can send it back here and now. If it means losing a housemate or losing my best friend in college, then I guess I’ll have to find someone else to take your room.’
Chapter 4: London: October 3
Douglas Easterby did not feel the warmth of the freakish Indian summer weather outside that had brought the crowds onto the City of London streets below his twelfth-floor metallic window. The chairman of British Defence Systems (BDS) was preoccupied with the substantial contracts his company had just missed out on in Turkey and Indonesia. In consequence, the company’s blue chip shares had lost nearly five per cent of their value on the FTSE over the last two days.
To make the situation worse, recent news was no more encouraging from British Defence Systems’ flagship projects in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Ramliyya. The Saudis were being perennially awkward over contractual details and slow with payments. The Kuwaiti consultative shourah would not provide any decision on the next phase of a massive missile project, and now the old sultan’s death had cast doubts in Easterby’s mind over the long-term future of BDS’s cash bonanza in Ramliyya.
And it was with Ramliyya on his mind that Easterby had telephoned his old protégé over at MI6 only yesterday morning. But now Easterby wished he hadn’t. MI6 either genuinely knew very little about the changes going on in Ramliyya, or Max Clayton was becoming increasingly ungrateful for the series of promotions he and Foreign Secretary James McPherson had arranged over the years for their former lieutenant.
Now things were even worse. Any second, Amanda would buzz him on the intercom to announce that Dr AbdulAziz Al-Badawi, the deputy ambassador of the Royal Embassy of Ramliyya, had arrived to see him. Whatever the deputy ambassador wanted, Easterby was certain it would not be welcome news.
So when the call finally came, Easterby hurried personally to the reception. The Ramlis demanded and received the most courteous of welcomes at all times. The chairman escorted Dr Al-Badawi to the black-leather comfort of his private study, where he buzzed Amanda for suitable refreshments.
The small talk was long, as it usually was with his Arab clients, but Easterby considered himself to be as polished as the best of them when it came to charming the Arabs’ easily offended sensitivities.
‘I trust you will pay His Excellency Sultan Faysal my special compliments,’ the chairman smiled stiffly, pouring Arabic cardamom coffee from a silver set that he had bought in Jeddah.
‘His Excellency will be honoured,’ nodded the deputy ambassador, ‘and he remembers his friends here in Britain. That is why he has taken the unusual step of sending me to discuss your company’s contract with my government.’
‘I hope His Excellency is well satisfied with our performance.’
‘Satisfied? With all hardware, yes. But you will be aware, Colonel Easterby, of the special problems that are caused for us by the presence of your British technicians and military personnel in our country.’
Easterby stiffened.
‘Problems, you say?’ he repeated. ‘Well…small problems, I’m sure. But the presence of our staff in Ramliyya is vital to provide the correct training for your armed forces, Dr Al-Badawi. After all, the equipment is only as good as the men who use it.’
The diplomat replaced his thimble-sized cup on the silver tray.
‘Quite so, Colonel Easterby, but let me be clear. You know that we Ramlis observe the holy shariah law with the strictest of discipline. I think I can assume your confidence when I tell you that the late Sultan Adil attracted some criticism on your account—silent criticism, to be sure, but criticism all the same. It came from the mutawaeen, the leaders of religion in our country. They were angry with him for allowing the Western oil workers and military instructors into Ramliyya. Do not forget, Colonel Easterby, that Madinat Al Aasima is only two hundred kilometres from the holiest city in Islam.’
Easterby nodded, looking across sharply at the deputy ambassador and jutting his colonel’s chin defiantly at the Arab, ready to fight his corner if it came to a scrap.
‘Nevertheless,’ the diplomat continued, ‘we have always allowed your workers to have their Western freedoms—make alcohol and watch movies, yaani—provided of course that these things remain inside their private compounds. Unfortunately, Colonel Easterby, we have evidence that our concessions have only encouraged some of your employees to exploit our tolerance and engage in activities that we can never allow.’
‘Activities?’ Easterby snapped. ‘What activities do you mean, Deputy Ambassador?’
‘I mean drugs, Colonel Easterby. Imagine the repercussions for your contract in Ramliyya, even for our diplomatic relations with the United Kingdom, if we were forced to raid your workers’ premises and make arrests. You are aware of the punishment for drug traffickers in our country?’
Easterby nodded. It wasn’t the public beheadings in Ramliyya that bothered him; in fact, they could do with something similar in the UK—and for a wider range of offences. All the same, he still didn’t like the turn the deputy ambassador’s talk was now taking.
‘I
assure you, Dr Al-Badawi, that I will personally launch a full investigation into this matter, and I promise that any offenders will be sacked and expelled from Ramliyya immediately.’
The chairman hoped that there was still hope for stern promises and compromise, but the Ramli diplomat gave Easterby a sly look that smelt of trouble.
‘Normally we would be quite happy with such assurances, my dear Colonel. But our young Sultan Faysal is keen to settle this matter in his own way, and by this he means without publicity.’
‘So you have a proposal?’ asked the former colonel, sensing a wily plot behind such elaborate manoeuvring.
‘We do, Colonel Easterby. We are anxious for British Defence Systems to resolve this sensitive issue quickly and unofficially, using outside help. To be more specific, we have in mind a small independent security-surveillance company that comes highly recommended to us—a British company, in fact.’
With a swish of his robes, Dr Al-Badawi pulled a card from an inner pocket.
‘Here we are. It’s called Ultimate Security of London. It should be possible, I think, for you to place some of Ultimate Security’s men undercover in your Ramli operations. When they have discovered those responsible, you will sack and expel any of your employees who are compromised by the investigation and report to me personally the names of any Ramlis who may be involved. This way we can both avoid embarrassment and continue our good relations—which brings me to the other business I have come to discuss.’
Easterby was intrigued. Instinct told him that calm was about to follow the storm, so he motioned for the deputy ambassador to continue.
‘His Excellency Sultan Faysal is keen to maximise security in our region. To this end, he will create a new elite division of Ramliyya’s National Guard. This unit will be supported by the latest helicopter gunships, missiles, artillery and tanks. Of course, we will be asking British Defence Systems to bid first for this contract—and it will be substantial. Provided that the problems I have outlined are resolved, there is no reason why we would look elsewhere to meet our requirements.’
Easterby allowed himself a rare half-smile. This was the game as he understood it. They would fight over the backhanders later, he and the deputy ambassador, at future meetings behind even more tightly closed doors.
‘You can assure His Excellency Sultan Faysal that I shall follow his wishes exactly as you have outlined, Dr Al-Badawi. And I will liaise directly with you at the Embassy, you say?’
The diplomat inclined his head in assent.
‘Then I will inform you in person the moment I receive the information you require,’ Easterby concluded, heartily shaking the Ramli’s hand. Tricky devils, he smirked, watching the swish of the old fellow’s robes in the doorway. Tricky and full of strange foibles, like this unknown security firm they wanted him to use. But let them have it their way. For a tiny country, the Ramlis bought arsenals enough of BDS hardware to equip all the armies of the Middle East. And now they wanted more. Well, so did British Defence Systems’ shareholders!
Chapter 5: London: October 7: 7:00 a.m.
The Ramli diplomat who left the first class cabin of the early morning Egypt Air flight from Cairo seemed to be sensitive to the mild autumnal English weather, judging from the way he had wrapped the folds of his white ghutra tightly around his lower jaw, leaving only his nose and sunglasses on show. He kept himself withdrawn and aloof through the VIP passport control at Heathrow, in a manner the immigration officials would be likely to expect of visiting dignitaries from the Gulf region.
A dark-skinned man in an impeccable black suit brightened by a yellow silk tie was waiting to take command of the porter and to whisk the Arab sheikh through the chaos of the terminal lobby to the comfort of a dark-blue Jaguar carrying the plates of the Royal Embassy of Ramliyya.
Inside the car the traveller unfolded his headdress and peered out of the tinted window.
‘Everything is arranged, Hasan?’ he asked, as the car negotiated the heavy airport traffic.
‘As you instructed, Hadratak,’ the driver nodded.
‘The house?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have sent my card to the names on the list I gave you?’
‘Exactly as you directed, Excellency.’
‘Any contact from our ‘associates’?’
‘I expect your guests from Ireland and Peru to arrive on Saturday; the others have not yet replied to your latest instructions.’
The backseat passenger looked out intently at the drab scenery of the M4 motorway as the driver made for the exit of the M25.
‘And the girl?’ asked the passenger, still absorbed with the view.
‘You will see her tomorrow morning, Excellency, at eleven o’clock.’
‘Good, Hasan. You have done well.’
* * *
South London: October 7: early afternoon
The driver parked his white transit van in the quiet suburban street. The late-Victorian brick houses sat in ordered lines on the South London contours. Back down the hill, across the main road, blocks of morose, unkempt council flats suggested a more sophisticated, twentieth-century vision of squalour. A punctured helium balloon sat semi-shredded high in the branches of a denuded plane tree. Shoals of fast food wrappers and drink cans eddied in back-alley tornadoes that swept through the urine-splashed walkways and concrete corridors. Black youths patrolled their fiefdom with Staffordshire Bull Terriers and mountain bikes.
Phil Goss walked purposefully down the hill towards the main road, accompanied by a young black man and woman. They crossed where the traffic bifurcated into a one-way system then homed in on one of blocks towering in front. The girl clip-clopped just behind Goss, struggling to match the men’s pace. At the entrance to The Hargreave Estate, the black man stopped to peer through the heavy coating of graffiti at a map of the decaying labyrinth in front of them.
‘You found it, Dazza?’ Goss asked.
‘Yea, here we are. Numbers 52 to 108 Hargreave. On the left,’ he pointed.
They followed the path to the stairs.
The men took the stairs two at a time, pausing briefly on each landing to check the numbers on any doors that had them. On the fourth floor Goss stopped, sending Dazza first left then right along the corridor in search of the flat. The girl eventually caught Goss up at the top of the stairwell and masticated her gum sloppily, blowing annoying bubbles into the fetid air.
Shortly, Dazza returned.
‘This way,’ he whispered, thumbing to Goss’s right back along the corridor.
‘Off you go then, Kiara,’ Goss hissed. ‘Time to do you stuff.’
The girl strutted with lazy swings of her large hips down the corridor towards one of the numberless orange doors Dazza had just marked with his gum. She had to knock three times between long pauses before the door finally jerked back, opening no more than a knife blade width in aperture before it caught on its chain.
‘What the fuck you want?’ grunted the sleepy voice behind it.
‘Hi,’ Kiara cooed. ‘Eejay told me to swing by. Said you could fix me up with some stuff I was wanting.’
‘Where d’ you see Eejay, sister?’ asked the suspicious, black voice.
‘At my place. He comes round from time to time, know what I mean?’ Goss had crept closer and now he watched Kiara take a step backwards into the light, where she started to fondle her cavernous cleavage with glossy red nails.
‘Hey, you alone in there, handsome?’
‘Why do you wanna know, gal?’ The sleepy voice brightened up.
Kiara was good. Goss could just imagine the arousal.
‘Why dontcha just let me in,’ she teased softly, ‘and I’ll show you how I like to pay for my kit.’
‘Sure thing, sister, come right on in,’ the man chuckled, pushing the door shut to remove the chain.
But it was not the girl who greeted the man behind the door. The lead-weighted cosh struck with an expert blow across the arch of the nose, neatly cracking the bone.
The stunned man let out a piercing scream, collapsing in agony on the hallway floor.
Goss was on top of his spread-eagled body in a second, deftly binding mouth, hands and legs with duct tape. Dazza jumped over the torso as Goss worked the tape, rampaging through the rest of the flat with his .22 Ruger Mark II bobbing in a jumpy hand. The girl followed behind more cautiously but similarly equipped.
The search was quickly completed. Kiara had the barrel of her Ruger tight against the fat man’s temple before he could lift his bare torso off the mattress, while from the bathroom, Goss could hear the sound of a quick scuffle.
Dazza emerged moments later to join Goss in the living room, dragging a slim, spiky-haired youngster by the scruff of his dirty blue t-shirt before throwing him down onto the living room floor. The young man cowered under the downward pressure of the Ruger barrel that was jutting into the base of his neck, while Goss immediately set to work with the tape. The assured rips and scrunches of the tape were tell-tale signs of Goss’s familiarity with this kind of work, and when he had finished the last wrap with a flamboyant flourish, Goss spat a rich wad of saliva into the young man’s spiky hair. He laughed out loud when the gob started to trickle down the side of his victim’s head, then prodded the man with his boot till Spiky Hair had rolled over on the filthy cream carpet next to the man whose broken nose was etching its own dark red signature into the seam of stains.
With another snigger, Goss grunted at Kiara.
‘Get your fella on the floor over here with the other two.’
The girl nodded in response and jerked her pistol muzzle ever deeper into the fat man’s temple until he had joined the other two on the carpet.
Working with speed, precision and fat, heavy breaths, Goss taped up his last body, and now that he felt secure, he sat down on the sofa to enjoy a short break, looking down with satisfaction at the three writhing bodies on the floor, eyes bulging grotesquely under the pressure of the tape and the workings of fear.