by Bill Ward
“Not sure I could live out there,” Brian stated. “I’m too fond of a glass of wine.”
“I could just about skip the wine but beer’s another matter.”
“Well I assume as you suggested taking me to lunch, you need my help with something? Hopefully not something that will cost me my job,” Brian said, good naturedly.
“Twenty years ago, when there wasn’t such a thing as the internet, I would have gone out there and searched for the kids by knocking on doors. That worked okay in the past but in Saudi, I suspect would just draw attention to myself and not necessarily be fruitful. The kids are probably registered as living somewhere or at least attending a particular school. I need someone who is capable of hacking into Saudi public records and finding me answers.”
Brian took a large drink of wine. “It’s not something I can help with officially.”
“And unofficially?”
“I might be able to point you to someone who can help. We do have our own internal teams but we also sometimes use outside experts when we need to have deniability. I don’t know them personally but I can ask around and get a name for you.”
“That would be a great help. If I can get some hard information about where the kids are living before I go out there, then I can start trying to formulate a plan for getting them out.”
“Just give me a couple of days.”
“There’s one other immediate way you can possibly help. I need a visa for Saudi and from what I’ve been reading it seems there is no such thing as a tourist visa for non-Muslims. So I’m thinking a business visa which allows me multiple visits over six months would be best and I thought you might be able to help with the cover story?”
“I’ll arrange everything. Probably find a friendly bank where you work and you’re visiting local Saudi branches for meetings. The banks have become very amenable to these types of requests since the government dug them out of the shit.”
“Sounds good. I might have some other requests but that’s it for now.”
“So let’s enjoy lunch, forget about the bad guys for a bit and discuss the state of the English cricket team.”
CHAPTER NINE
Powell arrived early at the address on the outskirts of Maidenhead, having allowed himself plenty of time to get around the M25 but for once there had been no traffic problems. He found himself outside a large detached home, which wasn’t what he’d been expecting. For some reason, he’d thought to find a small dingy office with a geek huddled over computers but this was a very middle class home in an affluent part of town.
He knocked on the door and was further surprised to find it answered by a young, attractive girl in her twenties.
“I’m here to see Samurai,” he said, feeling slightly foolish and worried he may be at entirely the wrong address.
“He’s out back in the office.”
Powell relaxed and followed the girl through the house to the kitchen.
“I’m Tina by the way. Would you like something to drink? Tea or coffee maybe?”
“Powell,” he replied and shook hands. “Coffee would be good. White, no sugar, please.”
“I’ll bring it out to you. Peter’s down there,” she said, pointing out the window to a large log cabin at the bottom of the garden. She emphasised his name as if the idea of him being called Samurai was absurd. “He’s expecting you.”
Powell followed the path to the cabin and opened the door to find Samurai facing him, sat behind a large desk with two giant monitors and surrounded by an assortment of computers and printers on smaller desks. Samurai was very tall, skinny and looked even younger than the girl indoors. Powell couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like a Samurai. Perhaps that was the point of the choice of name.
“I’m Powell,” he said, extending his hand.
“Sorry, I don’t shake hands with strangers. Too many germs.”
Powell was a bit taken aback and dropped his hand to his side. “No problem.” Looking around the office he could see it was clean if full of technology.
“I was told you needed my help and it’s a good cause,” Samurai said, coming straight to the point.
“I need to locate two children who have been abducted and taken to Saudi Arabia by their father.”
“Anything I can do to bash the Saudis is good with me.”
“You don’t like Saudi Arabia?”
“Are you serious? After what they’ve done toRaif Badawi.”
“Sorry, I’m not familiar with him.”
“The Saudis have thrown him in prison for ten years and sentenced him to receive one thousand lashes for promoting freedom of speech on his blog. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him.”
“I’ve been kind of busy in other directions recently,” Powell apologised with something he thought was a bit of an understatement. He’d thought about nothing except Romanians for far too long.
“So what do you need me to do?”
“I can give you the names of the children and their father. I want you to find out where they are living. I have the grandparents address where they may be staying. I’d also like to know if they are going to a local school.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to check. I might need some help because of the language but I know someone who does speak Arabic and I think he’d love to help.”
“How long will it take?”
“If it’s urgent I charge two thousand pounds a day and can start tomorrow. Otherwise it’s one thousand pounds a day and I’ll fit it in as and when I can over the next month.”
“And how many days will it take?” Powell queried, shocked by the daily rate.
“Probably no more than two or three but you can never be sure. I’ll check in with you at the end of each day with a progress report and you can decide whether or not I continue.”
Powell knew he had no other options. He now understood how this couple in their twenties were living in such a grand house.
“It’s important you don’t leave a trail,” he stressed. “If this father knows we are looking for the kids he is quite likely to spirit them away.”
“Is this man important?” Samurai asked suspiciously. “I mean is he part of the Royal family or something?”
“No, nothing like that. He met the children’s mother while working here at the embassy and his family are wealthy so he probably has a few contacts in the right places.”
“Is he some form of spook?”
“No, he doled out passports and work visas.”
“Good, only I don’t need some bleeding fatwa against my name.”
“This is everything you should need,” Powell said, placing the small USB Flash Drive containing all the information he thought Samurai would need, on the table.
Samurai took a wipe from a packet on his desk and gingerly cleaned the USB drive, careful not to allow the drive to come into contact with his skin. Satisfied with his cleaning, he then pushed the drive into his computer.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” Samurai stated, looking up and seemingly surprised to see Powell was still present.
Powell turned as the door behind him opened and Tina entered with two cups of coffee.
“He’s just leaving,” Samurai said rather dismissively as Powell took hold of his mug.
It seemed, no matter the rate you paid, you shouldn’t expect too much pampering. Samurai was just as much an oddball as Powell had originally expected.
“Come drink it in the house then,” Tina suggested.
“Bye,” Powell said but Samurai ignored him and was already staring intently at his screens.
“Sorry if Peter was a bit rude,” Tina said, once back in the kitchen. “He’s very focused on his work”
“Glad to hear it, given the rates he charges.”
“His social skills could be a bit better,” Tina smiled.
“I don’t mind as long as he gets the job done.”
“He’s very good at what he does. There’s always more work than he has time.�
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“Have you been together long?”
Tina laughed and pulled a strange face. “We’ve been together a very long time but we aren’t a couple! Peter is my younger brother.”
CHAPTER TEN
Powell had spent the two weeks before his trip conducting further research into Saudi Arabia in general and Riyadh the capital in particular. When he discovered the holy month of Ramadan, when Muslims fast during daylight hours and seek to purify their soul, was not due to finish for another few days, he had delayed his journey, not wanting to add further complications to his visit.
Samurai had delivered the important news that the children did indeed seem to be living with their grandparents in Riyadh. They were attending a nearby school and the address given on the application was that of the grandparents’ house.
The difficulty was not going to be initially taking the children but how to get them out of the country. The Saudis had stringent visa and exit controls, which meant it wasn’t going to be a simple case of flashing UK passports and getting on the first available plane. After further discussions with Brian and speaking with some expatriates on online forums, there appeared to be four possible exit strategies though none were immediately appealing and all carried severe risks.
The first possible exit was by plane and use bribery to get through airport controls. Corruption was common at border crossings but Powell also knew that half the people who took your money never delivered on their promise.
The second possible exit was via the King Fahd Causeway linking Saudi with Bahrain. Every weekend enormous numbers of people would make the short drive across the causeway to enjoy the night life, drink and prostitutes of Bahrain. Again though it would still be necessary to bribe someone on the Saudi side of the frontier.
The third possibility was to drive across the desert to a neighbouring country and avoid all immigration controls. The last option was to take a boat from a Saudi port or somewhere along the coastline and again avoid legal checks.
Powell felt unable to make any decision as to the best exit strategy until he was in Saudi and able to better evaluate the different options. In fact, whichever option he chose, he was also going to have at least one if not two backup plans. He would be thorough in his planning and fortunately Angela Bennett was a wealthy woman, able to fund a variety of alterative options.
Brian had come through with the business visa, which allowed him to make multiple visits over the next six months, although no one visit could be for more than thirty days, which suited his purpose perfectly.
Powell travelled business class on British Airways from Heathrow and enjoyed a couple of beers, knowing they would be his last until he returned in a week’s time. As the pilot announced they were getting close to their destination, he watched as several sophisticated women in elegant western fashions went into the toilets and came out in black abayas covering their whole body. The complete transformation of the women served as a reminder of the cultural differences between where he was coming from and where he was going.
The plane landed at King Khalid International Airport, which was the most imposing and architecturally amazing airport Powell had ever used, evidence of the country’s wealth. The plane stopped at a stand and he joined the queues for immigration. The inside of the airport was air conditioned to the extent of almost being cold.
As he emerged without any problem from the customs hall into arrivals, he was descended on by taxi drivers fighting for his fare. He agreed a price with one driver based on what his research told him was the correct amount to pay for the trip into the city centre. Leaving the air conditioned comfort of the Terminal for the first time, he was assaulted by the fiercest heat he had ever known. Even the short walk to the taxi left him sweating profusely and feeling drained.
The taxi took him to the Sheraton hotel, located close to the financial district where he supposedly was visiting a major bank for business meetings. For the first time in his life, he was staying in a luxury hotel and had an unlimited expense account, which was a far cry from his days working for MI5, when hiding away in run down dumps was more the norm. Then again, Belfast didn’t have much in common with Riyadh.
For this trip, he had decided the best way of remaining unobtrusive was by joining the many business travellers, who typically would stay in a very smart hotel and gorge on the five star food and shopping, when not working.
He was impressed with his large hotel room and modern furnishings. There was even a mini bar but without alcohol. The room service menu looked good, which suited him as he didn’t plan to sit eating alone in restaurants. He’d been told that you could get some of the best fish dishes you could find anywhere in the world and as he loved fish he was looking forward to putting his information to the test.
The hotel had a gym, which Powell planned to use each day. He had been putting in extra training at his kickboxing gym, not so much because he expected to meet any trouble on this reconnoitring trip but more because he was concerned about being fully effective in the crushing heat, he anticipated and had now experienced. He had read that with an arid, desert climate, Saudi is nearly always baking hot but is at its worst in July. He would need to stay fit and hydrated if he was to operate at maximum effectiveness.
Thanks to the Internet, Powell had already located Baz’s family home and was familiar with all the streets in the vicinity. He was unsure about moving around on foot as he suspected a European would attract too much attention but how busy were the streets? The whole point of this trip was to answer such questions. He would hire a car in the morning and investigate.
Powell had a file of information on his laptop, which was protected by a complex password. Nothing on his person disclosed his real reason for visiting Riyadh. He ordered ribeye steak and chips from room service, despite his penchant for fish and reread everything in the file. Confident he was as prepared as he could be, he turned out the lights and set his alarm for an early start.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Powell hired a BMW Z4 from the desk in the hotel’s lobby. It was the same as he drove at home, which he reasoned should minimise the learning curve of driving on the wrong side of the road. The one change was the addition of air conditioning, which wasn’t needed in Brighton but was essential in Saudi. While the car was delivered to the hotel, he stuffed himself on a huge breakfast buffet and read a local English language newspaper.
Once sat behind the wheel of his shiny new BMW, he wondered if he had made the right choice. On the one hand there was a familiarity to the inside of the car but everything was in the wrong place! If he had hired a completely different car he wouldn’t have had any expectations about where to find the instruments.
He set the Sat Nav system to the address of Baz’s parents and headed down King Abdullah Road. The traffic was quite busy and more than once his left hand moved towards an imaginary gear stick before he remembered it was now on his right. Fifteen minutes driving and a few turnings later, he found himself at his destination. He drove straight past the large home surrounded by a high, brick wall, which ensured the privacy of the occupants. A little further down the street he made a turning and found space to pull in at the kerb.
The road on which the house stood had a collection of large properties down both sides of the street. It was very much a residential area with no shops and he was going to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb if he went for a walk.
The task he’d set himself seemed so daunting he was tempted to drive away and forget the mad idea of rescuing Angela Bennett’s kids. Instead, he drove around the block and took in the surroundings. Next, he drove past what he thought was the school the children attended but again everything was hidden behind a large brick wall and there was none of the usual noise you would expect to hear from the playground of an English school around lunchtime. Then he remembered it was July and the schools were closed for holidays just like in England.
After a few further minutes driving around, Powell lost his bearings and fo
und himself emerging on to King Fahd Road, opposite advertising for a shopping mall, describing itself as the largest in the Middle East. He wondered if it was somewhere Baz and his family might visit. It was certainly very close to where they lived.
He decided to visit the mall, which was called Al Mamlaka and take a look around. The mall was located in a huge skyscraper and once he’d parked, he found himself in a shopping centre like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The building had impressive air conditioning, which offered a great respite from the oppressive heat on the streets.
Full of stylish designer names and beautiful shop fronts, in his mind it seemed more suited to California than the Middle East. Then again, the Saudis had to spend their oil wealth somewhere. Everything was sparkling clean and ultra-modern with huge ceilings.
He walked around and looked in a few shops but wasn’t in Saudi to go shopping so it was only idle curiosity, which made him go inside. He noticed that unlike in England, there wasn’t a single female shop assistant in any of the shops.
There were plans of the different floors and one floor was described as being for women customers only, so they could shop in privacy and comfort, which made him smile. Presumably it would be staffed by female shop assistants, which would be useful in the stores selling lingerie and other female orientated products.
The mall was so vast it didn’t seem overly crowded, certainly not like the shopping centre back home in Brighton, which was minute in size by comparison. Never having been a great fan of shopping he knew it wasn’t a place he would visit often if he was a local.
He found a Starbucks on the ground floor, ordered a Latte and sat watching a mixture of locals in their long white thobes and foreigners in suits walking past.
Having finished his coffee, he browsed in a few more shops, then discovered that from the mall there was access to the Four Seasons hotel, which was equally grand. He decided this would be where he would stay if he was to return. It was close to Baz’s parents’ house and would make a good base. He decided he’d seen enough for the time being so headed back to his hotel.
