Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  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 maam.” 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 tomorrow.”

  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 expectin
g 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 end 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.”

  “Which is?”

  Major Hammar did not quite know how to deliver the news. “Someone has kidnapped the Princess.”

  “Kidnapped? But she is in Brighton, at Roedean.” The prince in the Saudi Embassy was suddenly anxious.

  Shoreham by Sea, United Kingdom

  Fox checked his watch. The job interview in central London had been a complete waste of time, in and out in less than an hour. The interviewer – some hair gelled kid in his twenties – had attempted to grill Fox about his suitability for the job. A job that he was overqualified for. The boy had seemed offended when Fox had refused point blank to elaborate on his military career. His CV mentioned only his parent unit, the Gordon Highlanders and not ‘the Regiment’.

  On Fox’s way out he’d seen the other applicants, ten years younger and twenty pounds fatter. He had no chance and didn’t give a ….he turned into his street and saw a familiar car. The dark red BMW Z4 of his former boss, Leo Sawyer, parked four houses away on the bend. Complete with number plate that indeed did confirm he was a ‘wanker’, LE07 SAW. Fox frowned. Why would the jumped up salesman be here? A dark thought struck him, and an anger of the type he had not felt for years, deep inside. Fox stopped and retrieved his mobile, dialling Tracy’s number he continued up the street then saw her car in the drive. A mini moto buzzed past him from behind making him flinch. Silly old git, getting jumpy.

  “Where are you?” She answered.

  “Just getting on the train at Victoria, and you?” He lied, eyeing her car in the drive.

  “Still in the office, should be home when you are though. I’m just seeing to something.”

  Fox almost threw the phone but managed to control himself. He snapped it shut. ‘Eagle Eye Action Man’ was shagging his wife. He walked down the path, dropping his jacket and briefcase onto the grass, then tried to
open the door. It was closed from the inside – the key still in the lock. He could feel the anger rising as he pressed the bell. There was no answer. He started to bang, then pound with his fists. “Open the door!”

  There was movement inside, a twitch from a curtain. Fox took a step back and was about to shout again when another mini moto shot past. He turned in the direction of the noise just as two saloon cars swept into the road. Both were going too fast for the bend.

  Fox watched on and, as though he were seeing it in slow motion, the first swerved to avoid the youth on the mini moto. The bike bounced up onto the curb and carried on but the car hit the opposite curb and the wall to the garage compound.

  There was a heavy crunch and shrieking of metal as the Ford Mondeo hit the wall. The second car some fifteen meters behind slammed on its brakes and stopped sideways on. At the same time noises and movement from his house. Fox ran across the road to the Ford, joy riders or not they needed help. The driver’s side had hit first and what was left of the screen was covered in blood. Fox’s eyes scanned the vehicle, the driver was dead – he was sure but the passenger was moving. He reached down to pull at the door when he saw a weapon in the footwell. There was a whimpering from the back.

  Fox peered in; laying half on the seat was a girl, an Arab looking girl with duck-tape over her mouth and arms fastened behind her back. A man was lying under her; he tried to push her off. Fox saw the second weapon, this one a semiautomatic. The girl locked eyes with him and Fox recognised the pleading look of fear.

  Without hesitating, Fox grabbed the hand gun from the front of the car, took a step back and shot the passenger though the ear. The sound was like thunder in the enclosed space. Momentarily deafened, he pulled the rear door and the girl half fell out. The second male passenger opened his eyes and reached for his weapon. Fox dragged the girl clear and put a double tap directly into his temple. His head exploded.

  Shots from behind. Fox threw himself over the girl and pulled the door in front of him. It was the only protection they had. More rounds and now shouts. Fox sprang to his feet, weapon held in both hands, instantly acquiring a target. A passenger from the second car was running at full sprint towards him, with what looked like an assault rifle in his hands. Fox fired the first round hitting the assaulter in the chest, the second in the head. The man spun sideways and crashed to the ground.