LITMIR.BIZ

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out doing a bit of shopping. Didn’t want me to get under her feet at Tesco; you know what women are like.’

      Jim hadn’t meant to be ironic. ‘I do indeed. How is she?’

      ‘Fine. She was a bit shaken at first but then she started telling all her friends about it. I think she’ll be telling that story for years!’ Jim smiled. ‘She got her best china out for that girl. And then when we found out who she was! Well, talk about all her dreams coming true – meeting royalty and that.’

      Fox shook his head. ‘As long as you’re both all right?’

      Jim nodded. ‘Paddy, there were a lot of paparazzi hanging around. One asked me to give him a call if you came back.’

      Fox reached into his pocket. ‘How much did he offer you? I’ll match it.’

      ‘No, I didn’t mean that. There’s been a couple of them hanging about. I just wanted to warn you.’

      ‘Thanks.’ The last thing Fox wanted was his face in the papers.

      ‘That bloke, the one you…’

      ‘Shot?’

      ‘I’m sorry. I saw him before but I didn’t feel I could tell you. Not my place.’

      Fox tapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘Not my place either, by the look of it.’

       Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt

      ‘Sharm el-Sheikh is known as the City of Peace, referring to the large number of international peace conferences that have been held here.’ The fat man’s voice carried on the breeze from the next boat. He continued reading from his guidebook. ‘Sharm el-Sheikh remained under Israeli control until the Sinai Peninsula was returned to Egypt in 1982 after the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty of 1979. A prosperous Israeli settlement had been created there in the Seventies under the name “Ophira”, derived from biblical Ophir. Some of the buildings erected at the time are still in evidence.’

      ‘Is that where we’re going this afternoon, Dad?’

      The boy, the Chechen guessed, was seven and still at the age where he hung on his father’s every word, even if he didn’t understand.

      ‘No, we’re going out on this boat to see the fishes.’

      ‘Can we eat them?’

      ‘Some of them, but some could eat us!’

      The boy laughed. ‘Dad, that’s silly.’

      The Chechen drank his iced tea and looked back at the shore. The cornice was crowded with cafés. Tourists took up tables, chatting loudly, eating ice creams, and getting sunburnt. On the sea, power cruisers and yachts mixed with day launches, glass-bottomed tourist barges, and fishing charters. It was the perfect place to have a meeting without being noticed. The neighbouring boat moved off, taking the British holidaymakers out of earshot.

      ‘I am listening,’ Khalid said quietly.

      The Chechen smiled, although what he was about to say was not a joke. ‘We are in a position to be able to help each other. There are many true believers in your country who fear that the Kingdom is too lenient on the infidels; that the Kingdom is governed by those who seek to line their own pockets.’

      ‘This is the view of a growing number. It is not a secret.’

      ‘But what is a secret is that, among these true believers, there are those who are ready to take direct action.’

      There was a pause as the Saudi sipped from his glass, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. ‘There are such people.’

      ‘I would like to help them.’

      The bluntness of the Chechen’s reply caused the normally composed Arab to frown. He had never met this man before; the meeting had been set up using a Soviet-era KGB sleeper channel. A channel that Khalid thought he would never have to answer again. ‘You are a believer, a true believer?’

      The reply was in Arabic. ‘I am Chechen.’ It was a lie, but he had learnt his Arabic in Chechnya. ‘I know firsthand what it feels like to have one’s own beliefs subjugated by an occupying infidel force. I represent a powerful group who will no longer stand by and watch our Muslim brothers in the Kingdom mocked by their own rulers.’

      ‘And what could you offer, my brother?’ The Saudi did not switch his Oxford English for Arabic.

      ‘If certain targets were to be presented, I would be able to assist in both the funding and equipping of any attack.’

      ‘Training?’

      ‘Special Forces training, my brother.’

      There was a pause as the wash of a jet ski caused the launch to rock. Khalid looked the man in the eye. ‘This is an interesting proposal.’

      ‘One that you should accept.’

      ‘How is it that you came to know of my beliefs?’ Khalid was still not completely trusting of this Chechen. He could have accessed his handler’s file to entrap him, part of the Christian crusaders’ war against the true believers.

      ‘Alexander Williamovich wanted me to say “my love for my country is as pure as the vodka that has replaced the love of my wife”.’

      Khalid grunted, reassured. The odd sentence was confirmation that this man had indeed come from, or had the blessing of, his former Soviet handler. An amateurish and clichéd device which was effective for that very reason.

      ‘How is the vodka-soaked fool?’

      ‘Dead. He was murdered by the very Russians he served. Did you know that his grandfather was also Chechen?’

      Khalid was saddened. It had been this man who had recruited him out of Oxford, masquerading as a fellow undergraduate. ‘My brother, I should like to accept your kind offer of assistance.’

      The Chechen nodded and smiled briefly. ‘We can make immediate preparations, my brother. I have a list of targets that I assume you would want to attack.’

      ‘I have my own target list.’ Khalid frowned. He didn’t like taking orders and wanted to make it quite clear that he, even if funded by this man and his people, would be in charge.

      The Chechen had expected this. The Arabs were a proud race, much like the Russians, he mused, but both were easy to lead, if hard to control. ‘I assure you, my brother, that I only suggest my targets because I have intelligence on them and it could be that some of our targets are the same.’

      ‘Perhaps then we should compare lists?’

      ‘I see you have already targeted the Al Kabir family.’

      Khalid’s eyebrow twitched with surprise. ‘An unfortunate mistake caused the girl to be rescued.’

      ‘I am here to prevent unfortunate mistakes. Next time we may meet in Dubai, in a more fitting environment.’

      ‘Insha’Allah’

       Shoreham Beach, UK

      A shiny green Mini Cooper, plastered with company decals, pulled up outside Fox’s house and the driver got out.

      ‘Mr McDonald?’ The estate agent was young, suited, and eager.

      ‘Aye, that’s me.’ Fox, now wearing a baseball cap, shook with his right hand, a small carrier bag of shopping swaying gently in his left.

      ‘John, John Edgar.’

      ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, John.’ Fox had made his accent thicker than normal.

      ‘That’s no problem at all, Mr McDonald.’ Edgar twiddled the keys on his finger nervously. ‘Well, as you can see, it’s a nice, quiet street. What brings you to the area?’

      ‘I’m looking for somewhere nearer to my work.’

      Edgar

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