LITMIR.BIZ

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‘Once this meeting is over, call your President. Until then, accept what I say.’

      Sverov folded his arms. He had nothing to lose. ‘Carry on.’

      ‘You have a man we need to use. Voloshin. Konstantin Andreyevich.’

      Sverov’s eyes opened wide. Voloshin was one of the Belarusian KGB’s most closely guarded secrets. A Spetsnaz member trained to carry out international covert operations and acts of sabotage in his country’s name. A ‘deniable operative’ as the West liked to call them.

      ‘Do not be surprised that I know of this man, Director. Our paths have on occasion crossed. It is a tribute to you that I wish for this agent to be used.’

      Sverov looked down at the papers. ‘You say that everything is laid out here?’

      ‘That is what I said. I do not have much time to brief you, Director, therefore I believe it would be advantageous if I were to speak while you listen.’

      Sverov nodded, said nothing, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

       Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, UK

      Paddy Fox pulled at his shirt collar in an attempt to loosen it slightly. He hated being dressed like ‘a monkey’ and had always managed to have his top button undone when working for Dymex. Now, however, in the Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, it had to be buttoned. Ironically, he was dressed as though he were attending a job interview. In the waiting room next to him sat DC Flynn, acting as a minder from Scotland Yard. Fox was under arrest for murder and attempted murder, even though there was a campaign in the media to have all charges dropped. The Sun had even nicknamed him the ‘Desert Fox’ for saving the Saudi princess. They had interviewed his neighbour Jim, who, without mentioning the Regiment, had implied that Fox had been a ‘special’ soldier.

      On the advice of the Home Secretary, the press hadn’t been invited to the embassy a second time. There had been a group of ‘paps’ outside, 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 videophone 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 X-rays. He hadn’t known at the time that the hostage was royalty and, frankly, it wasn’t important. He might have fought for ‘Queen and Country’ but he wasn’t particularly in awe of the first. Fox pulled at his shirt again – he was sure the police had bought him a size too small. As he hadn’t 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 for him to follow. They turned a corner and walked down a long corridor which had various portraits hung on the walls: Saudi royals, camels, and racehorses. 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 visitor’s.

      ‘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 nonetheless. ‘Please both take a seat.’

      The three men crossed the room to an ornate fireplace 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 to.’

      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 stood abruptly. 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 me.’

      The servant took the sword while 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 wasn’t what he’d meant.

      Umar’s eyelids 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 for several seconds at Flynn, 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 welcome.’

      Inside Flynn bristled, but knew 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 couldn’t 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 had been reunited with his sword. On the street outside, the ‘paps’ had multiplied and now a gang of twenty jostled to get photographs as Flynn, not too delicately, pushed Fox into the waiting unmarked Special Branch BMW 5 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.’

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