by Alex Shaw
Heathrow Airport, London, United Kingdom
Raymond Kennington held the mission brochure in his hand and mentally ticked off the faces, as they arrived at the Heathrow check in area for the BA flight to Jeddah. As the mission leader and the secretary of the ‘Trade East Association’ he was eager that all his charges made the flight on time. A former diplomat and Arabic speaker, Kennington had retired from the service eight years before but had found retired life too ‘pedestrian’. He had approached the Trade East Association, whom he had liaised with whilst working for the British Embassy in Riyadh, offering his services. Working part time he had now for the past few years taken three missions a year to the region concentrating either wholly on the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia or a multi leg trip hitting Oman and the Emirates.
He had fallen in love with the desert the first time he had laid eyes on her thirty years before when he had been caught up in the Aiden offensive. To him it was a living, breathing, moving entity, a source of life, a bringer of death. He had been and was still in awe of her. Each time he spotted the moving sands for the first time from the window of his plane he felt as though he had come home. He tried to image what it must have been like for Lawrence uniting Arabia. He was a romantic man and felt as though he had been born out of time.
As if to remind him, his mobile phone buzzed in his pocket, a modern annoyance. “Hello, Raymond Kennington.”
There was static on the end then an anxious voice explained that he was stuck in traffic on the M25 and when exactly was check in closing? Inwardly Kennington cringed but his voice remained his perfectly professional, perfectly calm self. He would ask the BA staff and do all he could to ensure that the ‘missioner’, a salesman ironically of heart monitoring equipment, did not miss the flight.
Kennington ended the call, took a deep breath to compose himself and headed for the nearest BA desk. He adopted his best smile to match that of the perma-tanned blue suited check in girl.
Snow entered the terminal and again felt for his passport in his shirt pocket. It was in the name of Aidan Mills, his first name had been kept. It wasn’t fool proof but then a ‘legend’ seldom was. For the next week Snow was to be a sales representative for a UK based manufacturer of designer optical frames. As such he was to have a meeting with a distributer in Jeddah and several with two large optical chains based in Riyadh. Snow’s ‘employer’ was indeed real and therefore orders could be placed. The MD was on the SIS payroll and Aidan Mills had recently been ‘hired’ as the new interim Export Sales Manager for the Middle East & Africa. He was home office based, which explained his general absence from the company office in Richmond.
Snow had taken on assumed identities in the Regiment for intelligence gathering purposes but this was the first time that he had acted on his own, on foreign soil, as an agent of the SIS. In role he was to move and mix with the other missioners but would take every chance possible to gather intelligence on what he saw. His main priorities however were to meet with his contact in Jeddah and then Fox in Riyadh. Snow had found it odd that Patchem did not want this done by the embassy based SIS officer in Saudi but made no comment, Patchem was his ‘controller’.
Snow joined the check in queue and was spotted by Kennington. “Aidan Mills?” It was an educated guess as Snow’s photograph had not been added to the brochure.
Snow looked down at the wiry diminutive man in his mid-sixties. “Yes. You must be Raymond?” Snow knew exactly who he was.
“Must be, yes.” He extended his hand. “Raymond Kennington.”
“Nice to meet you, in person.”
Kennington smiled. “Likewise. I’m sorry that we couldn’t get your picture in the brochure.”
“Not to worry, I hope that my products will speak for themselves.”
“Yes I hope that will be the case. Have you been to the kingdom before?” Kennington was curious the passport had been devoid of any Middle East stamps. It had been his duty to liaise with Watergate Travel to get the invitation letters for the visas. As such he had seen the passports.
“No. This is my first time.”
It was true, Snow had just missed Gulf war one and had left the Regiment by the time Gulf War two had kicked off and SAS units had been sent into Iraq via Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.
“It’s an exciting and fascinating place. I hope you get a real chance to meet your business contacts informally. You will find the Saudis to be a very hospitable people.”
Snow nodded, Kennington sounded like an advert for the Saudi Ministry of Tourism, if they had one.
Snow reached the counter and checked in. The majority of the missioners were flying economy, the only exception being the equestrian supplies manufacturer and the artist. Both men were old hands at Saudi and normally travelled on their own. Snow managed to get an exit seat, with his height he needed it. He took his boarding pass, lap top bag and entered the line for the final security check. There was a two hour wait for the boarding time and Snow planned to have a quick look at the duty free shops, he needed some desert boots, before sitting in the executive lounge with a large cognac.
EIGHT
Crowne Plaza Hotel, Jeddah. Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Snow’s first morning in Saudi Arabia had started with a large, pork-free, buffet breakfast, continued with the official mission briefing and was now to end with his first business meeting as Aidan Mills.
With a head full of ‘do’s and don’ts’ courtesy of the man from the British Embassy, Snow crossed the heavily air conditioned foyer and exited the hotel as a large Hyundai saloon pulled up. The driver wore a dark maroon suit with mustard yellow shirt and tie. He looked at Snow down his long crooked nose.
“Mr Aidan?”
“Yes, I’m Aidan Mills.”
The elderly man extended a bony hand. “I am Mosbah Fattouh, welcome to Jeddah. Please get in.”
From Snow’s briefing with View Bright’s MD, he knew that Mosbah Fattouh took the company’s economy range and sold mainly to chemists and other low end outlets. He had been an agent for View Bright since the 1980’s and now in his seventies had no thought of retiring.
Fattouh steered the saloon out of the hotel complex and into the Jeddah traffic. Snow noticed that although clean, the car smelt heavily of cigarettes.
“It is your first time in Jeddah?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“Hot.”
Fattouh nodded. “Have you been to Lebanon?”
“No.” Snow lied.
“Much more green and the air so much better. Here is ok for work but not for living.”
They neared a large roundabout and headed further into the city. “Have you worked here for long?” Snow knew the answer.
“Yes, a long time. I also have a business in Beirut. Perhaps you shall visit me there also?”
“Insha'Allah”
“Yes, Insha'Allah. You speak Arabic Mr Aidan?”
“No.”
“Better to speak English or French. I am sorry…” Fattouh reached for his mobile phone and started to speak rapidly in Arabic.
Snow looked out of the window at the passing dusty buildings. Along the coast there had been some modern glass offices, what looked like restaurants and of course several mosques, here in the side streets the buildings were a uniform grey concrete with peeling white plaster. Still speaking, but now in annoyed Arabic, Fattouh brought the car to a halt outside a nondescript six story building. “AJ is waiting; let us go to the office.”
They took the steps to the second floor and entered the office which had two rooms, a toilet and a small kitchen. One room had dusty carpets the others bare concrete. A man greeted them.
“This is AJ.”
AJ held out his hand. “It is good to meet you Mr Aidan.”
“You also.” Snow replied.
Fattouh resumed the conversation with his employee, which had started on the phone. Admonished, AJ went into the kitchen. Fattouh beckoned Snow into his office. Both men sat. Sno
w looked around the barely decorated space. One wall had a window with views of other similar buildings, on another hung a large map of the Kingdom and on another a cork board with several letters pinned to it.
Fattouh leaned on his desk and lit a cigarette. “How is Mr Mark?”
Mark Farrow the MD of View Bright, had warned Snow to take everything Fattouh said with a pinch of salt and to promise him nothing. “Well. He sends his regards.”
“Tell him thank you. When Mr James came to see me, we discussed prices. He raised them. I told him, Mr Mark would never have agreed to this.” Fattouh took a drag on his cigarette. “Mr Mark and I had an agreement and Mr James changed it.”
Snow frowned. “Mr James left the company before I joined, I can’t really talk about anything he may have done.”
Fattouh waved his cigarette. “He was no good; Mr Mark would never have raised my prices. Mr Aidan, I tell you the prices should be changed. My customers, Mr Aidan, are not wealthy, they are the foreign workers who have come to Saudi Arabia. People from Pakistan, India, Egypt, the Philippines.”
Snow nodded. He had been briefed on this. “Mr Fattouh...”
“Mosbah, Mr Aidan, call me Mosbah.”
“Mosbah, your sales figures have stayed the same even with the increase. So I don’t think price is an issue.”
“Mr Aidan, I tell you the prices should be changed.” Fattouh stubbed out his cigarette, he had had his moan. “Would you like a drink? I have beer in the fridge, I shall call AJ.”
“Thank you. Now what I want to talk about is our new range.”
“Please show me.”
Snow opened his pilot case and spread several frames on the desk. AJ brought in a bottle and a glass. Snow read the label. “Kaliber, alcohol free. I haven’t had this for years.”
“We have more in the fridge.”
After three bottles of fake beer and a promise of an order for two hundred pieces, Fattouh deposited Snow back to his hotel.
“Mr Aidan, my Sponsor Mr Hassan Al Rashid, has invited you to his house this afternoon for a drink.”
“That is very kind of him.”
“I shall collect you at five? This will give you time for a rest.”
“Five is good for me. I shall see you then Mosbah.”
Fattouh drove away as Snow headed back into the hotel.
Mentally drained from Fattouh’s negotiations, Snow sat in the foyer bar and ordered a ‘drink’. He decided that ‘international business’ was not his forte. A large glass of fresh pineapple juice arrived and he drank with it his eyes closed. He still did not quite understand why Patchem had sent him to Saudi or what he expected him to see? In the day that he had been there, as a westerner, he had been constantly stared at by the Saudis and kowtowed to by workers from the sub-continent. He couldn’t be any more conspicuous even if he painted himself blue and sitting in a primitive office with an elderly salesman was not going to gain him any ‘Intel’.
“Hello Aidan. How are you enjoying it so far?”
Snow opened his eyes to see Raymond Kennington sitting opposite him. “Fine.”
“Any sales yet?”
“I’ve just taken an order and I’ve been invited to the house of my agent’s sponsor this afternoon.”
Kennington nodded. “I always tell my missioners that the Saudis are a very hospitable people. Once you get to know them they are some of the nicest people imaginable.”
“I can imagine.”
Kennington smiled, not registering Snow’s sarcasm. A waiter appeared and Kennington ordered a mineral water in fluent Arabic.
“You have a real love for the region don’t you?” Snow awkwardly asked to break the silence.
“I suppose you could say that but I think it’s because I appreciate all that the Arab people have done for the Western world.”
“Oh?” Snow had no idea what Kennington was talking about, but was too tired to let on.
“Indeed, the so called ‘Islamic Golden Age of learning’ happened at a time when we, in the West, were primitives. After the fall of the Roman Empire, we had no learning to speak of. The Muslims kept the works of Plato, Aristotle and many others alive by translating them and re-translating them. They developed medicine and maths. Did you know that ‘algebra’ is an Arab word in itself? We could never have had the renaissance, of ‘Western learning’ without the knowledge that the Muslims not only kept alive, but developed.” Kennington folded his arms.
“I see, but if they were so much for the preservation and sharing of learning, why did they develop a religion and a society that has become so secretive?”
“You can’t have it all.” Kennington laughed.
Snow looked at his watch. “I’m sorry Raymond but I’ve got some calls to make to the office.” In fact he still had to file a quick report to SIS.
“Don’t let me hold you up. Just remember, I’m here if you need me.”
*
The street had been dusty and the grass sparse but on passing through the high gates into Al Rashid’s gardens, Snow was shocked to see the lawns were manicured and a lush green. As the car came to a stop a man in a white thob appeared at the door.
“That is Mr Hassan, my sponsor.” Mosbah Fattouh announced. “Let us get out.”
The elderly Lebanese exited the car, flattened his tie and quickly walked towards Al Rashid. “Mr Hassan.”
“Mosbah.”
“This is Mr Aidan, from View Bright.”
The Saudi bowed ever so slightly and extended his hand. “It is an honour to meet you, Aidan.”
Snow was surprised by the perfect Oxbridge accent. “And you also, Mr Hassan.”
The Arab smiled. “Please, just call me Hassan. Mosbah is an old friend of mine yet he also forgets.”
“Habit, Mr Hassan.”
“No, it is your Lebanese manners Mosbah. Please let us go inside, you must be thirsty.”
Al Rashid led them into the house, along a white high ceilinged hallway and into a reception room. He gestured to a long, leather settee. “Please take a seat. I have given the staff the afternoon off; I thought it would be more informal if we were on our own? What would you like to drink Aidan?”
Snow paused; he did not want to make a faux pas. “Whatever you are having.”
Hassan nodded, he understood. “I am having a glass of Johnnie Walker and Mosbah is having a big one.”
“Thank you that would be nice.”
Hassan walked to the far end of the room and opened a large drinks trolley. Snow made out several different brands of whisky and vodka. Hassan picked up the nearest bottle and a glass.
“Tell me Aidan. How much does a bottle of Johnnie Walker cost now in the UK?”
Snow wasn’t a whisky man. “I don’t know about the high street, but at the airport they were selling two bottles for £22 duty free.”
“What!” Fattouh raised his thick eyebrows. “So little?”
Hassan held up the bottle as he spoke. “I pay £80 a bottle here. Then this is the price I pay, for living in this wonderful country!” As he moved his arms, a trail of whisky fell from the bottle and onto the carpet. “Oh dear, but no matter we have much more.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, your English is very good.”
“Thank you Aidan, I studied at Eaton and then Oxford. It is the tradition in my family and one that my son Gafar has continued.” Hassan handed first Snow then Fattouh a glass. “Where did you graduate from?”
“Leeds.” This was true and had been kept for his cover.
“Ah. You know, I miss Yorkshire pudding. I remember having it for Sunday lunch as a student.” Hassan raised his glass.
“Yer not wrong, reit Yorkshire Puddin's a poem in batter.” Snow’s grandmother had been from Rotherham and it was one of the only accents he could ‘do’, with the exception of Moscow.
Hassan smiled broadly whilst Fattouh continued to drink his whisky. “What did you read?”
“As little as possible.”
“Me
too. Now Mosbah has been telling me about these new products you have shown him. Very good I am sure, but we will not talk of that. Mosbah is in charge of his own business, I am just a sleeping partner.”
“I tell Mr Aidan, Mr Hassan, that the prices are too high, but he assures me they will sell.”
“Mosbah, I do not doubt that you are both correct. Now enough please of business. This is your first time in my country?”
“Yes.”
“What is your impression?” Hassan smiled playfully as both he and Fattouh awaited Snow’s answer.”
“Well, it’s different.”
Hassan stood and refilled the glasses. He waved the bottle. “No need to try to appease me Aidan, I know the drawbacks of this ‘Kingdom’. Did you know that once upon a time my family ruled Riyadh?”
Snow raised his eyebrows. “No, I didn’t.”
“It was a long time ago. We were angrier then and lost a battle to the house of Saud, who with the support of the British Army became the rulers of this land that we now call Saudi Arabia.”
“He should be King.” Fattouh pointed with a long, bony finger.
“No Mosbah, I should not be. It was a large family and I am more than happy with the way things have worked out. Who would want to be the ruler of the home of Islam? Think of the pressure and responsibility that brings? No I am not an enemy of the state, far from it, but I do disagree with the way it is run.”
“Really?” Snow did not want to get drawn into politics.
Hassan took a drink then continued. “There is a fight at this very moment for the soul of the Kingdom. On one side we have the progressives. These are the people that the West approves of, those who want the country to be part of a modern international age. On the other side are the fundamentalists. What the West must understand, is that the fundamentalists are not all bad. The militant few, the ones who want to get their way using ‘Bin Laden’ type tactics are very obviously beyond the pale. However a lot of these people are traditional, simple Saudi people who are scared of change and outside influence. They simply don’t like the way the world is going and will resist the erosion of, as they see it, their beliefs and morals.”
