Invasion

by Dc Alden

  After dressing in the traditional silk gown provided, Cooper made his way down to the atrium. He was ushered out across the ornate gardens where dinner was being served in the balmy night air. The meal was an informal affair and Cooper mingled happily with the twenty or so businessmen and politicians already there. Some he knew, others he did not. They sat around a low wooden table, propped up on mounds of large silk cushions. As the shadows lengthened, huge candles bathed the gardens in soft light and the exotic night call of birds could be heard from nearby palm groves. A quartet of musicians played quietly in the background whilst, overhead, a billion stars created an ambience that bore no comparison. As he looked around, Cooper thought the scene quite surreal, almost magical in its composition.

  They ate from the finest china and feasted on curried soups, roasted chickens, succulent fish, sweet potatoes, green salads and vegetables, all washed down with crisp white wines and deep, fruity reds served by attractive young women in traditional Arabic dress. Unlike most of Arabia, the palace was not alcohol-free. In fact, to further facilitate an atmosphere of conviviality, it was positively encouraged, the Arabians skilfully managing the meal and the conversation, neither singling out nor ignoring any particular guest, ensuring that stomachs were full and glasses continually topped.

  After dinner, Cooper found himself engaged in an interesting debate with a Turkish businessman and a low-level Spanish diplomat. The Turk was baiting the Spaniard about his government’s historically harsh policies towards immigrants from North Africa and Cooper was keen to hear the official Spanish line. Immigration was a sensitive issue in Western Europe and Cooper was always keen to get a new angle on things.

  ‘Would you like a refill, Sir?’

  The moment he turned around, Cooper decided she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her eyes, so warm and brown, her long eye-lashes and sensual lips, her face perfectly framed by a cascade of dark ringlets, all combining to form a vision of exquisite female splendour. Her smile was genuine, disarming, and her skin, lit softly by the myriad of candles, was tanned and flawless. Cooper held out his glass, speechless in the presence of the vision before him. As she leaned over to fill his glass, his eyes darted to her deep, full cleavage. She smiled at his indiscretion and he averted his gaze.

  ‘If there is anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ she smiled. Cooper stared into the dark pools of her eyes and was hopelessly lost. He mumbled something unintelligible as she drifted away, tending to the other guests, but stealing an occasional glance towards Cooper. For him, the conversation was no longer important. It became background noise, a muted hum that failed to distract him as he focused on this spectacle of Arabian beauty. He stumbled through the rest of the evening, barely socialising with his fellow guests, whilst watching her every move. And then she was gone. When he looked for her again, the girl had disappeared. He retired for the evening and, despite the comforts of his suite, found sleep elusive. When he did eventually slip into unconsciousness, the girl invaded his dreams and he slept fitfully.

  The next day, the palace guests took a coach to the coast, visiting a desalination plant and a local farm that had been built using reclaimed land and operated on advanced irrigation technology. All very impressive, admitted Cooper, but he was utterly bored. At midday, as the temperature climbed to the low forties, they were thankfully whisked back to the comforts of the palace, where they enjoyed an exquisitely prepared lunch. The afternoon itinerary was flexible and some of the more active guests played tennis or swam. Cooper decided on a walk through the gardens.

  He was deep into the oasis, where the sunlight was filtered by the huge palm fronds above, when he saw her again. From the corner of his eye he caught a movement, a vivid splash of colour, and there she was, crouched in a small clearing, picking flowers and placing them in a basket. For a moment Cooper hesitated, a sudden dart of uncertainty tempering his excitement, the setting suspiciously contrived. Then she turned, her face lighting up with a broad smile. Cooper’s heart galloped away from his intuition.

  ‘Hello again.’

  The girl nodded, her smile radiant. ‘Sir.’

  ‘My name’s Geoffrey. Geoffrey Cooper.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ the woman smiled. ‘I’m Aleema.’

  Cooper was totally captivated. He spent the rest of the afternoon with the girl, describing the paths their lives had taken and what had brought them both here to Sharm El Sheikh. He learned that she was twenty-seven years old and had worked at the palace for a year, that she’d studied English at school and secretly listened to western radio stations, a practice that she made Cooper promise never to reveal.

  She also knew that Geoffrey Cooper was an intelligent and powerful man. She’d seen him many times on the news networks and realised he was an important figure in his country. He was also very handsome. She enjoyed the company of older men, she admitted, more so than men of her own age. They were just so childish. Boys, really. When the time came for them to part, her fingers brushed lightly along his arm. It was the most delicate of touches, yet Cooper felt the electricity almost crackle between them and, from that second, he was lost. No, more than that. For the first time in his life, Geoffrey Cooper had fallen deeply in love.

  At dinner that night, as the object of his desire flitted between the other guests, Cooper cursed the ambition that left him, after two messy divorces, without a wife. When Aleema palmed him the note during dessert his heart raced. The horses were supplied by a friend at the stables and Aleema led Cooper out into the desert, far from the watchful eyes of the palace.

  She was an expert rider and she guided them to a distant ridgeline out in the wilderness, where they built a fire and enjoyed hot sweet tea under the black dome of the night sky. They held hands and Aleema kissed him with a passion he’d forgotten existed. She too felt the same love, she explained breathlessly. She gave herself to him that night and afterwards he held her tightly under a blanket, gazing at the stars in the sky. If there was a heaven, Cooper decided, this was it.

  Packing his suitcase the next morning, Cooper felt almost physical pain as Cairo beckoned. Aleema was nowhere to be found and he didn’t dare look for her. He thanked his hosts for their gracious hospitality and waved goodbye, a smile frozen on his face, but inside his heart was breaking. His eyes roamed the balconies of the palace, the ornate gardens, the sun-dappled clearings amongst the palms, but Aleema was nowhere to be seen. They eventually reached the landing tower and, with a heavy heart, Cooper boarded the waiting helicopter. Twelve hours later he was back in London, utterly dejected.

  As the weeks went by, his mood only worsened. He felt totally depressed and threw himself into his work to escape the memories of Aleema that invaded his consciousness. So, four months later, when the Foreign Secretary died of sudden heart failure and Cooper was subsequently promoted to replace him, he was simply overjoyed. It was a sign, he decided; fate had brought them together once and now it would keep them together.

  His immediate priority on taking office was to renew his friendship with Arabia, albeit in a more senior capacity. A diplomatic trip was planned, destination Cairo, and it wasn’t long before a trip to the palace at Sharm El Sheikh materialised. Cooper could barely contain himself and that very afternoon he found himself, once again, circling the helipad above the oasis. At dinner there was no sign of Aleema, and his heart ached at the thought that she may have moved on to pastures new. Maybe tomorrow he would make a discreet inquiry. If he dared.

  After dinner, Cooper bid his hosts goodnight and retired early. He got undressed and slipped between the cool sheets of his emperor-sized bed. Sleep evaded him as he lay there, listening to the night breezes that hissed through the palms beneath his private balcony.

  It was just after midnight when he heard the quiet tapping. He slipped on a robe and opened the door, his heart nearly bursting from his chest. Aleema put her finger to her lips, pushing past him into the room. Cooper quickly closed the door and swept her into hi
s arms. They embraced silently for a long time and then, without a word, Aleema led him to the bed. For Geoffrey Cooper, it was the night of his life. For a young girl, she displayed a surprising wealth of expertise between the sheets and Cooper made a mental note to get back into the gym. As the sky in the east slowly paled and the first rays of the sun streaked across the horizon, they both succumbed to a deep sleep. He awoke a couple of hours later to find her gone. On the pillow was a handwritten note: Meet me in the oasis at noon. By the waterfall. Love, A.

  Thankfully, the mid-morning meeting he was due to attend in the conference centre had been cancelled. As casually as he could manage in the blistering midday heat, Cooper wandered across the gardens and followed the paths to the waterfall. He reached a clearing amongst massive, slate-coloured rocks where a crystal-clear stream cascaded twenty feet into a deep pool below. It was a magical setting. Aleema appeared from the tree line and they kissed passionately. Suddenly she pulled away, the tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s the matter, my love?’

  ‘I have a confession,’ Aleema admitted, staring at the ground. Cooper’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a waitress. I work for the Foreign Ministry and I’m here because of my language skills. My job is to listen to the conversations of our foreign guests, to gather information and report back to my superiors.’

  ‘A spy?’ Cooper whispered. His face slowly drained of colour and he sat down heavily on a flat rock.

  ‘No, not really,’ Aleema protested. ‘It’s just small things. You know, opinions, ideas, enough to give the Ministry an insight, something that might give them an advantage in negotiations. Every country does it.’

  Cooper’s political instincts screamed at him to walk away, to leave this desert paradise and never return. But his emotions held him prisoner, as if he were chained to the very rock he sat on.

  ‘So I was your target?’

  Aleema shook her head, the delicate black ringlets whipping across her face.

  ‘No, Geoffrey. You remember the Spaniard? On your first trip?’

  Cooper vaguely recalled the man, the debate with the Turk about immigration. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘He was my assignment.’

  Cooper’s eyes flashed. ‘You slept with him?’

  Aleema’s face darkened. ‘Is that what you think, Geoffrey? That I’m a whore?’ She turned away from him and Cooper went after her, spinning her around.

  ‘Wait, Aleema! For God’s sake, I don’t know what to think!’

  She took his hands in hers and squeezed them gently, her deep brown eyes searching his. ‘I’m in love with you, Geoffrey. Don’t you realise that?’

  Cooper thought he was going to faint. Was it possible? Could a girl like Aleema seriously want to be with someone like him? ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth? That I’m not a target?’ He could tell his words were like knives, stabbing at her heart. The tears rolled down her cheeks and her hands trembled in his. No, that level of emotion couldn’t be faked, not even by an Oscar-winner. ‘I’m sorry,’ he blurted. ‘I take that back. It’s just so confusing, so much to-’

  ‘I want to go to London,’ Aleema declared, the words tumbling from her lips. Cooper looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘That’s right, London,’ she repeated. ‘That’s where I really learned English, as a teenager. I fell in love with the city, with the people. But most importantly I fell in love with the freedom.’ She guided Cooper back to the flat rock and sat down, snaking her arm in his. ‘Do you know what it’s like to be a woman in Arabia, Geoffrey? To be told when you can and cannot speak, to be unable to drive a car, to walk behind men in the street, to never feel the sun on your skin outside of this palace?’

  Cooper nodded silently. As a diplomat, he’d trained himself to ignore the shackles of Sharia under which Arabian women lived, the surreal streets of Cairo where every woman was draped head to toe in black, the frequent looks of despair behind the veils that kept them prisoner.

  ‘I’m supposed to be married now,’ Aleema continued.

  Cooper’s head snapped up. ‘Married?’

  ‘Twice. And twice I’ve faked a barren womb, so the man my father had chosen for me would find another. I don’t want to live like that, Geoffrey. I want a man to love me for who I am, not to be traded like a goat at the market. I want to be free, with you. In London.’

  Cooper’s stomach churned with excitement at the thought, his mind racing ahead. He’d have to resign of course, but he’d find something else, something lucrative in the private sector. That was the way in government, a considerable civil service pension pot, topped-up handsomely by a six-figure salary in consulting. Easy money. And Aleema, she’d be with him every step of the way, living together in Wimbledon, holidaying in the south of France, her nubile body soaking up the warm rays of a Mediterranean sun…

  ‘How?’ he blurted. ‘How can you travel? To London, I mean? Once you get there I can process your asylum application, get the ball rolling. I know a decent lawyer.’

  Aleema sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s not as simple as that. I can get to Cairo, but my job forbids foreign travel.’

  ‘Then how do we do this?’

  Aleema stared at the ground. ‘There is a way, but it is one you will certainly disapprove of.’

  ‘Go on,’ Cooper urged.

  ‘There’s a man in London. His name is Ali. He works at your passport office.’

  Cooper couldn’t help himself. ‘Who is he? An ex-lover?’

  Aleema chuckled, gently stroking Cooper’s chubby face. ‘No, my love. A second cousin, on my mother’s side. If you approve, then he will deliver a passport to you, in my name. The next time you visit us, here at the palace, you will give it to me. I will then travel to Cairo and board a plane for London, using my new identity. It’s the only way.’

  Cooper thought about the proposition. What she was asking wasn’t that much, merely smuggling a passport in a diplomatic bag. Better still, Cooper would carry it on his person. But the passport was faked, a crime in itself. No, when Aleema got to London they’d destroy it once she was through customs, do things the right way. The main thing was getting her onto British soil. ‘What about an entry stamp, into Arabia? They’ll check at Cairo.’

  ‘Ali will take care of that.’

  ‘Resourceful chap, this Ali.’

  ‘You must get together. How about your private office in Whitehall?’ Aleema suggested. ‘Can you meet him there?’

  ‘Of course,’ scoffed Cooper. ‘No-one questions my authority there. In fact, the office is probably the best place to meet. People coming and going all day. I’ll keep it informal, get Charlotte to put him in my diary. All very low key.’

  ‘Really?’ gushed Aleema. ‘Does that mean you’ll-’

  Cooper lunged forward, planting his wet lips on hers. ‘I’ll do it. As long as we’re together.’

  ‘Oh, Geoffrey,’ sighed Aleema, returning the kiss. ‘My God, my heart is beating so fast. Here, feel.’ She brought his hand to her breast and Cooper felt the firm flesh beneath the thin material of her sari. ‘Together, in London,’ she exhaled happily. ‘It’s like a dream.’ Then the smile slipped from her face, unease clouding her eyes. She took his hands in hers and gripped them tightly. ‘My future, my whole life, rests in these hands. Without you I am lost.’

  Cooper looked into those brown liquid pools and his head swam. ‘I won’t let you down, Aleema. Ever,’ he breathed.

  Cooper met Ali three weeks later, at an informal reception inside the Foreign Office building in Whitehall. He was a slim, bearded Asian in his early thirties, good-looking in a well-cut navy suit. Cooper was instantly jealous. They shook hands. Ali’s grip was firm, his voice low in Cooper’s ear.

  ‘Foreign Secretary. Your friend in Sharm El Sheikh sends her fondest regards.’ Cooper could have cried out with joy. Instead, his face remained a mask of formality. ‘Good to know,’ he muttered. ‘No problems w
ith security, I trust? You gave them the right name?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gave a small, amused bow. ‘Ali Omar, junior trade delegate from the Indian High Commission, at your service.’

  Cooper took an instant dislike to Ali, but he couldn’t decide if it was his good looks or his over-confident manner that rubbed him up the wrong way. He expected Ali to be a typical low-level civil servant, intimidated by Cooper’s status and cowed by the opulent surroundings, but this Ali was neither. He shrugged off the feelings and concentrated on the real issue; getting Aleema to London.

  ‘You’ve brought the item?’

  ‘Let’s talk in your office,’ murmured Ali.

  Cooper led the way, slipping out of the reception room and upstairs to his private study. He closed the door and invited Ali to sit, taking a seat behind his own desk.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ Ali said. ‘Listen, there’s a problem with the passport.’

  ‘Shh!’ Cooper ordered, a finger to his lips, his eyes darting towards the door. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Relax, Geoff, no one can hear us,’ smiled Ali. ‘That door’s a foot thick.’

  Yes, too assured by half, observed Cooper.

  ‘It’s the entry visa,’ Ali explained. ‘Cairo have just changed their stamp. It’s going to take a while before I can get one and replicate it in Aleema’s passport.’

  Cooper sighed heavily. ‘How long?’

  ‘A month. Maybe two.’

  ‘Shit. Bloody shit.’ Cooper helped himself to a large brandy from a decanter on the desk and leaned back in his chair. ‘Sorry, would you like a drink? You can’t rush off straight away. It’ll look suspicious.’

  ‘Thanks. Ginger ale.’ Ali slipped into a chair, crossing his legs.

  Cooper picked up the phone and punched a number, quickly slamming the phone back in its cradle. ‘Bloody hell, Charlotte’s downstairs. Wait here. I’ll get it myself.’

  The moment Cooper left the room, Ali got to his feet and went to the computer on the desk. The back of the machine had eight USB ports, two of them already in use. He fished an object from his pocket, a tiny device that, when plugged in, was barely noticeable. Rearranging the mess of cables to further disguise the minuscule device, Ali crossed the room and sat back down. He wasn’t a technical man, he couldn’t tell if it was working or not, but someone, somewhere, would let him know if the exercise had been successful.