Cold Black

by Alex Shaw

  Snow had listened to both his MD’s induction and the business briefing at the embassy that morning. In his personal opinion the Saudi businessman was the inventor of the meaningless smile. A smile that was flashed at many but one that meant nothing; it was a tool to improve business. As a businessman Snow was learning fast, he smiled in return and assured Sammi that he would pass his enquiry directly onto his managing director.

  Hatim left the diplomatic quarter and headed back towards central Riyadh. After ten minutes he changed direction and followed a desert track driving for another kilometre before pulling over and killing his lights. Here he would await further instructions.

  Fox sipped the cold beer, his first of the day. Currently the stocks were low, which would account for the large number of ex-pats at the embassy. Fox turned to face the room and almost chocked on his drink as he suddenly saw Snow standing at the opposite end of the room, in conversation with several Saudis. The SIS had told Fox that he would be contacted ‘in country’ but not when, where or by whom. They had instructed him to get on with his duties for his new employer and not to make any waves. Fox had been more than conscientious in this and had started to check out other regional compounds. He had started to wonder if Whitehall had forgotten him. He approached Snow as soon as he became free. “What are you selling? I’ll take two.”

  Snow held out his hand. “Aidan Mills. View Bright. Optical frames. Glasses”

  “Don’t wear them myself.”

  “I’ve got some sunglasses too. You’ll probably need a good pair stationed out here.”

  “True enough.”

  “I shouldn’t do this, but I don’t want to lug all this back on the plane, here have a free sample. Latest thing, replace your old ones.”

  Snow retrieved a case from his bag. It contained a pair of adapted frames with a row of four minute microphones, a micro sized digital video camera and a transmitter concealed within. The ‘frames’, with the exception of the camera, were derived from Dutch hearing aid technology and were two generations ahead of what was commercially available. The frames were voice activated and would record both audio and video. When the frames were put into the case the device would stream data directly to a transmitter which would condense and scramble the data before it was sent as a burst transmission. Both units had built in ultra-long life batteries.

  Fox removed the frames and looked at them. He had been instructed on their use in the UK. ‘Plug and Play’ the MI6 techie had called them. ‘Pop them on, put em back in the case and then we play’. All very James Bond. What was very un-Bond like was the fact that he’d had to wait until now for a pair. All luggage brought into Saudi was scrutinised for such banned items as alcohol, pornography and icons or literature which promoted other religions. The frames had been with Snow’s ‘samples’ which, as had samples for other mission members, been put in the ‘diplomatic bag’. It was far easier than filling out the numerous customs declaration forms.

  “Thanks.” Fox nodded.

  Snow winked. No one else in the embassy knew that Snow was with the SIS, not even the intelligence officer stationed there. Patchem wanted to keep this operation on a ‘need to know’ basis. Snow had no problems working on his own. In his opinion the more people that knew about any operation the more likely it was to go pear shaped, or to use SAS parlance, become a ‘gang f### ’. This had happened when he and Fox had worked together in ‘the Det’. Support staff had heard about operations and this had invariably led to leaks. Leaks had cost lives. In addition to this Saudi Arabia, as one of the few remaining friendly countries that demanded entrance by Visa only, British visitors and workers were closely monitored. A new diplomatic passport would, perversely, attract far more attention than that of a member of a trade group.

  “So how long have you been out here then?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  Snow smiled. “It’s a bit of a strange place. How are you finding it?”

  “Hot and sandy.”

  “Have you seen the sights? Anything of interest I should go and see?”

  “No. There’s not much to do in the desert, apart from count camels and grow a beard.”

  Snow understood that he had nothing to report. Several more potential customers approached the table and Fox slipped away without saying another word, his gift carefully placed in his trouser pocket.

  Hatim must have fallen asleep for he awoke with a start, to a banging on his driver’s door. Hatim instinctively reached for his hand gun before realising that he had not brought it with him. A face suddenly loomed at the window, the dark piercing, eyes that made him fear for his life, stared at him.

  “Get out.”

  Hatim scrambled out of the minibus and stood on the dirt track. A second vehicle had pulled up behind him and several men were standing around smoking. Hatim addressed his leader. “Khalid.”

  Khalid stared back his eyes showing hatred for the incompetent driver. He spat into the sand. “I should kill you for falling asleep, but your face is known too well.”

  “Thank you Khalid.”

  Hatim had started to shake, the man before him was the person he feared most on earth. There were rumours, that he had no reason to disbelieve, that Khalid himself had been responsible for many abductions and executions of coalition troops in neighbouring Iraq. These same rumours said that he was personally known by the man at the top, the world’s most wanted terrorist, Osama Bin Laden. Khalid however did not appear on the Americans most wanted list, a ‘clean-skin’ Saudi national he could safely walk the streets of Riyadh and any other capital city he chose to do so.

  “How many did you bring Hatim?”

  “Three.”

  “British?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will there be any trouble?”

  “No. They will be drunk.”

  “Their vices make them predictable.”

  Hatim lit a cigarette unaware of the irony. “They will be very predictable.” His hand shook as he took a quick drag.

  “Bring them here as arranged. Now go!”

  “Yes Khalid.” Hatim climbed back into the minibus and retraced his route towards the embassy.

  Fox’s head was buzzing and he had in a strange way enjoyed himself. His two mates had managed to find the only two unattached women at the reception, however they were also vying for their attention with the commercial secretary and a very bloated red faced ex-pat. Fox had continued to ignore Snow and latched onto another mission member who filled him in on the antics of his beloved Celtic. When they finally climbed aboard the minibus none of them noticed the smell of cigarette smoke, Hatim had been chain smoking, or his even less than jovial mood. Twenty minutes into the journey and all three Brits had started to sing football songs and rib each other about which team would stuff whose in a fantasy game. Lordy was convinced that his beloved Plymouth Argyle, a strange choice for a Londoner, would be victorious.

  Lordy held up his hand and looked around in a conspiratorial manner, Fox and Frank leaned in nearer over the back of the bench seat. From under his jacket Lordy produced a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label and grinned.

  “Yer mad b’astad.” Frank snapped his neck in the direction of Hatim. “If we get caught with that we’re buggered!”

  “Better drink it then. Here, age before beauty.” He handed the bottle to Fox.

  Fox kept the bottle below the driver’s eye line and took a swig. “Up you and yours.”

  Lordy took his own swig before persuading Frank to have one. The minibus bounced over a pothole and Frank spilt the brown liquid over his cream slacks.

  “Looks like you’ve pissed yerself mate!” Lordy roared with laughter.

  Frank gave him an evil stare before smiling and taking a larger swig. They hit another bump then an even larger one.

  “Hatim, drive like a normal shagger will yer?” Lordy shouted to the front.

  Fox looked around. He could see no lights and the road had started to feel worse. His training started to kick
in. “We’re not on the road we came in on.”

  “What?”

  “Probably a short cut mate.” Lordy offered.

  Fox scanned the darkness outside for any signs of life. “Hatim, where are we?” The driver did not reply, Fox could hear him mumbling to himself. “Oi, Hatim. I said where are we?”

  The driver looked back. “We go new road. Short.”

  “Doesn’t feel very new.” Frank looked out of the window.

  Fox had a bad feeling. “I think we’re in trouble.”

  Lights abruptly appeared from in front and behind them. The van skidded on the sand strewn track, as Hatim applied the brakes.

  “What is this?” Lordy tried to open the side door.

  “Stay in the van.” Fox grabbed his arm.

  “Do as he says, man.” Frank hissed grabbing the bottle and holding it upside down by the neck oblivious to the last dregs of the whiskey pouring onto the floorpan.

  Fox moved over his seat towards Hatim. The driver was applying the handbrake. “Move this bus! Move the damn bu…”

  The rear, side and passenger doors opened simultaneously and men with Shemags covering their faces pointed guns at them. Frank brought up the bottle and smashed it into the jaw of the nearest assailant. The man fell back and dropped his gun inside the mini-bus. Fox grabbed the AK47 and applied pressure to the trigger. Nothing, it was turned to safety. As he attempted to flick the switch, rounds peppered the van around him. There was a scream next to him as Frank was hit in the chest. A fist struck Fox in the face, the weapon fell. Before he could react another fist hit him and he felt himself dragged out of his seat and thrown onto the dessert floor. Reaching into his trouser pocket he did something that went against every instinct and bit of training he had, his fingers grasped his passport and wallet and dropped them on the sand. A rifle but hit him on the side of the head then everything went black.

  Khalid cursed as the remaining two westerners were pulled out of the bus. One was bleeding profusely and his face had gone grey. The second was trying to protect his face. Khalid ordered his men to hold the second man up by the arms. He then looked him straight in the eye and spoke.

  “If you try to escape you will be dead like your friend.” Khalid removed a dagger from his waist band and slit Frank’s throat.

  Lordy was unable to speak and Khalid was disgusted by the urine stain that suddenly appeared around his crotch. Both Lordy and Fox were moved into a second vehicle.

  Khalid approached Hatim, who was standing nervously puffing a cigarette at the front of the minibus trying to look the other way.

  “You have done well.” Khalid extended his left hand to shake the driver’s. As soon as their hand’s made contact in a swift and powerful movement Khalid pulled Hatim down with his left whilst drawing the right hand, and the dagger it held, across his neck. Hatim fell to the floor, blood bubbled out of the cut in his neck as he grabbed at it in vain. Khalid turned and walked away as Hatim chocked on his own blood. The driver had served Allah well.

  Minhal Holiday Inn, Riyadh

  The phone rang in Snow’s room waking him from a restless sleep. It had been a choice between a loud air conditioner or the hot desert air. He eventually chose the air. He reached over and grabbed the room phone, his voice croaky.

  “Hello?”

  “Aidan, it’s Raymond Kennington here.” The mission leader always gave his full name on the telephone.

  “Hello.” Snow looked at his watch it was six, he hadn’t overslept.

  “Aidan, someone from the embassy is coming here at seven. There is to be an emergency security briefing.”

  Snow sat bold upright. “What?”

  “A man from the embassy is coming to brief us. You will also need to have your things packed and be ready to leave the hotel.”

  “Right.”

  “Seven, sharp. Sorry got to phone everyone.” He hung up.

  Snow switched on the TV and flicked through the channels, skimming two Arabic programmes, not understanding a word before finding CNN. He watched for a minute or so before changing to BBC World. The usual stories about Iraq, but nothing new. The ‘man’ from the embassy Kennington mentioned would be the intelligence officer. As a former diplomat Kennington would know the protocol too. Snow reached for his mobile and speed dialled the UK. It would be thee a.m. there. No. He disconnected before Patchem’s line rang and instead dialled the night desk at GCHQ. He was asked for his officer identity code before being put through to the duty officer.

  “Has anything been reported overnight in either Saudi Arabia or the Iraqi border that would affect Riyadh?” He leaned against the window frame and peered through the wooden fretwork, at the dusty car park opposite the hotel.

  “Let me check for any flash traffic.” A voice replied.

  There was a pause as the night officer speed read the incoming traffic for the shift he was halfway through, traffic taken mostly from the US managed Echelon network. The officer knew better than to ask why the information was needed or where the agent was calling from.

  “A suspected car bomb in Southern Iraq…not near the border…wait... Yes…British National found dead on the outskirts of Riyadh. Franklin Glaister. a construction contractor for the Al Kabir Group.”

  An alarm sounded in Snow’s head. The same company that Fox ‘worked for’, owned by Prince Fouad - the man that Fox had been assigned to watch, the same Prince who’s life had been threatened. “I need you to connect me to a number.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Snow relayed Fox’s cell number from memory. The call would be routed through the UK so it was untraceable and thus in no way incriminate Fox. Snow waited and dared not breath as the line first connected then an automated voice told him that the mobile phone he was ‘trying to reach’ was switched off.

  Snow blinked, ended the call, walked into the bathroom and stepped under the shower. He ran through the situation in his head. The dead man worked for Prince Fouad, so did Fox. Fox’s phone was switched off. Protocol was for it to always be left on and by his side. Was he overreacting? Could he be out of coverage or, a sudden chill hit him, unable to answer the phone? There was no point in getting jumpy. He didn’t have time to stand still. This security meeting would perhaps shed more local light on the situation. The mission group was then due to leave the hotel for the King Khalid airport and their flight to Dammam, the last stop on the three city tour. Snow dried quickly and dressed in a pair of lose style cream combats, long sleeved blue polo shirt and desert boots – he never wore a suit when travelling – then tried Fox again. No answer.

  Arriving in reception at six thirty five he added his cases to the pile already there and saw Lermitte in the breakfast room. The bio-fuel man was, according to himself, ‘on the Atkins’ so had a huge plate of Beef Bacon, scrambled eggs and cheese. Snow grabbed a couple of bread rolls, beef bacon and eggs. He could not let his unease show, as Aidan Mills he did not have the same access to information as Aidan Snow.

  “Morning. How are you feeling?”

  Lermitte looked up with red rimmed eyes. “Peachy.”

  He had drunk far more than Snow the night before and had barely been able to cross the foyer to the lift. The night porter had offered to get him a doctor, however diagnosing a case of severe ‘leglessness’ was not a wise move in Riyadh. Snow’s own head was not as clear as he had wished but nothing compared to the crazy times of Kyiv.

  Snow filled a roll with beef bacon and a fried egg. “Kennington woke you too?”

  “Knob.” Lermitte shovelled a forkful of beef bacon into his mouth. “What did he tell you?”

  Snow shrugged and took a swig of black coffee. “The embassy needs to brief us about some security issues or something.”

  “Maybe someone stole the Prince’s favourite wife? Or one of our camels is missing?”

  Snow smirked although he was in no mood for frivolity.

  Kennington entered from the foyer holding a newspaper. “They’ve done it again.”

&nb
sp; Snow raised his eyebrows. ‘Who has?’

  Kennington continued, for once showing something other than admiration for their hosts. “The bloody Saudi, state run media. Just look at this.”

  He handed Snow the morning newspaper. There was the official picture taken at the reception the night before (which Snow had managed to skilfully be out of the room for) and a headline that read ‘British Investors gain partners in Riyadh’. Snow looked up blankly.

  Kennington furrowed his brow. “They won’t ever say that we are trying to sell to them, no. They always say that we are investing. Much better for their ‘image’.”

  Unseen by Kennington Lermitte rolled his eyes.

  Snow scanned the article and saw that he had been misquoted. ‘View Bright to open local factory…’ “Oh.”

  “Exactly. You clearly said, and I heard you, that you wanted an agent not a manufacturing partner.” Kennington folded his arms and rocked on the balls of his feet.

  Lermitte shrugged and took another mouthful. “So why the wake-up call?”

  Kennington looked around in a conspiratorial manner. “I don’t know the details but someone was found dead in the desert this morning. Could be, a British citizen.”

  Lermitte’s fork stopped midway between mouth and plate. “Shit.”

  Snow’s mind focussed. “Go on.”

  “Look I really can’t tell you much more, I only know this as I am ex FCO. But at seven we’ll get the full picture.”

  Surely this could not be pure coincidence? It had to somehow be linked to both his and Fox’s mission. Snow felt a mixture of emotions, anger at the death of an innocent man but also helplessness. He was unable to do anything. He wanted to grab a car and charge off across Riyadh to check on Fox, but Aidan Mills could not do that.