Porchester frowned and leaned forward on the desk. ‘Excuse me, Prime Minister, but what proposal?’
The Prime Minister smiled. ‘David – perhaps you’d like to elaborate for the benefit of the Committee?’
David nodded. ‘After our last result,’ he said, ‘I was able to convince my superiors that a new agency was worthy of funding. After all, we proved the United Kingdom’s energy assets are a major security concern – both from a natural depletion of resources, but also by threats from individuals, organisations and, potentially, other countries.’
‘Because our operations last time were almost compromised by a leak within the Ministry, outwardly we’ve been disbanded. Redundancies, people moved out to other agencies – you get the picture. I was then given the task of rebuilding the group – handpicking individuals I could trust. We plan to move our headquarters out of the city centre and away from Government influence. We’ve distanced ourselves completely from the Prime Minister’s office. Occasionally I’ll brief him, but I’ll do that under the auspices of an expert reporting alongside MI5 or MI6 – acting as an advisor to them.’
‘Black ops,’ murmured Dan.
David shook his head. ‘Not quite, but close. On an ‘as needed’ basis. Yes, we will have people in deep cover, but selectively. Often they’ll tend to try to influence behaviour, rather than constantly reporting to us, for us to then take action. Not all those people will be employed by the agency as staff either – we’ll bring in people best suited to address the tasks at hand as consultants. And they’ll be fully culpable for their actions.’
‘What’s the designation of this new team?’ asked the Admiral.
‘The what?’ Porchester frowned.
‘Its name,’ said David, ‘has already been assigned by the Prime Minister. It’s the Energy Protection Group. Suitably innocuous, gentlemen, don’t you think?’
Dan glanced up and looked at the expressions on the other men’s faces.
Porchester began to bluster. ‘But… Prime Minister… you can’t just create a new agency using ex-military personnel and members of the public!’
The Prime Minister smiled. ‘Of course I can. It’s exactly how SOE, MI5 and MI6 were created. A gap in our intelligence capabilities was realised and the necessary funding appropriated to plug that gap. Mr Ludlow’s team has already proven it reacts quickly to situations and, without having to wait for a Parliamentary Committee to approve everything it does, it will be able to better serve this country.’
‘However,’ he said, looking at Dan and Mitch. ‘I’ll remind you that if you fail to obey orders and subsequently fail to prevent an attack on this country, you will be held fully accountable. No Committee hearing next time.’
‘Agreed,’ said David, and stood up before Dan could interrupt. ‘So, gentlemen – if you’ll excuse us,’ he signalled to Dan and Mitch to stand, ‘we’ll get back to work.’ He shook hands with the Prime Minister who was smiling broadly, turned to the Vice-Admiral, nodded at him, winked at Porchester, and left the room with Dan and Mitch in tow.
‘Holy shit,’ said Mitch under his breath as they left the room. ‘We’re under fire from all sides.’
Dan smiled. ‘Never let it be said that it’s boring around me.’
Chapter 9
Dan stood at ease, a comfortable pose not easily forgotten, but perhaps slightly out of place wearing a three-piece suit and standing in the reception area of a five-star hotel in Mayfair.
His eyes scanned the reception area as he waited. The polished grey slate floor reflected light from the chandeliers above, while four receptionists worked behind the granite reception desk, answering telephones and talking to guests in hushed, practised tones, their black uniforms set off by coloured ties in the hotel group’s signature green.
Opposite the wrap-around reception desk, two sets of black leather sofas were grouped around low glass-topped coffee tables, a water jug set on each, four glasses turned upside down at its base. Beyond, double panelled doors were propped open, the distinct clink of crystal glasses emanating from the innards of the dimly lit hotel bar.
Dan watched a couple of businessmen enter the bar, the elder of the two slapping the younger man on the back and laughing as they disappeared from view. He turned his attention back to the lift doors, and glanced up at the arrows pointing up and down above each. The left-hand side was showing a ‘down’ arrow. He waited.
Presently, there was a soft musical note as the lift finished its descent, and the doors slid smoothly open.
A slight pause preceded a stocky, well-dressed man of Middle Eastern origin, whose eyes swept the room then fell on Dan. The man turned back to the lift, nodded once, and led his employer out into the lobby, followed by a second bodyguard.
Dan drew himself up to his full height. Sheik Masoud Al-Shahiri was not an overly tall man himself, but the sort who demanded respect. His perfectly coiffed hair was jet black, all traces of grey wiped away, while he carried himself with the amused demeanour of the quietly confident, super-rich influential tycoon his reputation supported. As he drew closer, Dan noticed Al-Shahiri’s eyes never stopped moving and instead, they constantly switched from one side of the room to the other.
Dan suppressed a smirk. Either the man didn’t trust the capabilities of his own security detail or he was simply keeping a watchful eye out for the next business opportunity.
As he approached, Al-Shahiri appeared to relax a little. He stood and looked at Dan, which meant he had to raise his chin a little. A small scar on the man’s chin, no longer than a centimetre, echoed the old path of a knifepoint.
Al-Shahiri smiled ruefully before he spoke, a soft resonant voice which carried well without volume. ‘So Mr Taylor, you’re my security’s security tonight?’ he asked.
‘That’s correct ,sir,’ replied Dan.
‘Hmm.’ Al-Shahiri glanced away, raised his hand and signalled to his two bodyguards to distance themselves from the ensuing conversation. He turned back to Dan. ‘Let us sit.’
Dan pointed to the sofas against the furthest wall and indicated to the Sheik to take the one with its back to the lobby. He waited until the man had made himself comfortable, and then sat opposite him, still watching the lobby and the exits.
The Sheik smiled. ‘Good, good. I can see you haven’t forgotten your training.’
Dan arched an eyebrow. ‘Unlike some practising in the field of personal protection, mine’s a little more ingrained.’ He leaned forward, picked up a water jug from the glass table between them, and poured two glasses of water, pushing one towards the Sheik.
The Sheik laughed. ‘And not afraid to speak your mind. Excellent. David said we’d get on.’
Dan frowned. ‘I’m not here to be your friend. Someone somewhere thinks you’re in enough trouble that you need more than your usual security around you tonight. And given my Government has a vested interest in your latest gas project, you don’t get a choice in the matter.’ He nodded in the direction of the two bodyguards standing a little way from the Sheik and glaring at anyone who glanced in his direction. ‘How long have those two been with you?’
The Sheik glanced up sharply. ‘Since they were teenagers. I do not suspect people in my own household of plotting against me, Mr Taylor.’
‘Why ever not? Surely in your line of work, everyone could be a threat?’
The other man shrugged. ‘Simply because these men’s families depend on their allegiance to me.’ He stared unblinking at Dan.
‘So where do you think a threat will come from?’
The Sheik impatiently waved a hand across his face. ‘Business. Always business. Some people just don’t know when to stop, when to – what is the saying?’
‘Quit while they’re ahead.’
‘Exactly. Exactly. Always more, more, more.’ He sighed, oblivious to the irony of his comments. ‘My country is entering the biggest phase of expanding our natural gas exports. We’re pouring billions of dollars into projects where our business partn
ers will make extensive profits over the next twenty years.’ He shrugged. ‘As you will appreciate, there are some who want to ruin us, to teach us a lesson for dealing so openly with the West. There are others who simply want some of our business for themselves.’ He sighed. ‘Throw in a handful of the usual crazy people and there you go – take your pick of suspects.’
‘Any specific threats recently?’
The Sheik waved his hands dismissively. ‘What you British call sabre-rattling, that’s all,’ he spat. ‘Comments to the press, opinions on regional television news, the internet. Trivial matters.’
Dan looked around the hotel lobby, watching guests and staff moving around as he listened. ‘Have your men recce’d the venue today?’
The Sheik looked over his shoulder and beckoned one of his men over. ‘The venue – was it satisfactory?’
The man glanced at the Sheik, straightened up and looked at Dan. ‘There are two main entrances. One open to the public, the other is a side access for caterers and waiting staff. There is a small car park underneath the building which we sealed off after all staff vehicles were accounted for. The entrance to that is at the back of the building and we have two men stationed at the barrier. We’ll have four men with His Highness at all times.’
As the man finished, the Sheik waved him away, then glanced at Dan. ‘Well?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Not bad. But he missed the possibility of an attack from the roof. I’ve advised them to increase the number of men there, as well as on the building next door. I don’t believe Browning’s done a complete check of the guest list or what other bodyguards might be present.’ He reached slowly into the inside pocket of his jacket to not alarm the Sheik’s bodyguards and drew out a folded A4 piece of paper. He held it up between two fingers to show the security men, before he slid it across the table to the Sheik. ‘These are my recommendations.’
The Sheik frowned, leaned forward and picked up the piece of paper. He unfolded it, read it, folded it back up and held it over his shoulder to one of the bodyguards. When the Sheik looked back at Dan, his eyes were sparkling with amusement.
‘You are very good,’ he laughed, shaking his finger at Dan. ‘Very good.’
Dan leaned forward and slammed his hand on the glass surface of the coffee table, making the empty glasses jump against the water jug with a loud crash. Immediately, the Sheik’s two security men were by his side. Dan ignored them, and glared at Al-Shahiri.
‘This isn’t a game,’ he said. ‘It might be for you, but there are going to be people there tonight, myself included, who are expected to defend you with their lives if something goes wrong. It would help therefore if you could start to take this a little more seriously.’
Silence surrounded the table. The Sheik looked across at Dan and stroked his moustache, apparently deep in thought. Finally, he leaned forward, managed to look a little contrite, and smiled. ‘Shall we be on our way?’
The Sheik stood up and turned to leave the lobby, flanked by his two bodyguards.
Dan lingered on the leather sofa, collected his thoughts, shook his head then stood up.
The Sheik glanced over his shoulder to the nearest bodyguard. ‘Make sure those notes are distributed to the rest of the team and have them briefed immediately.’
While the group walked through the lobby and out to the waiting cars, Dan allowed himself a small smile.
Chapter 10
Ras Laffan gas facility, Qatar
Rashid Nasour yawned as his hand automatically reached for the mug of coffee to the right of his workstation.
The screens in front of him flickered, two showing live video links to the busy liquid natural gas port glowing under overhead floodlights, the other two displaying the supervisory control and data acquisition programme Rashid and his team used to operate the ebb and flow of the enormous gas production and export facility on the edge of the Qatari empire.
He scowled as the liquid touched his lips, noting the office coffee tasted bad enough when first poured, let alone when it had grown cold. He glared at the viscous liquid at the bottom of the mug, cursed and pushed his chair back, one of the wheels squeaking audibly. He grunted to himself, bemoaning the fact he worked at a multi-billion dollar facility and still had to put up with a squeaky chair. He ambled across the office to the small kitchen provided for the employees. As he walked, lights turned on automatically – all part of the state-of-the-art offices the organisation had built to house the control centre for the export facility. He finished making the coffee and took a tentative sip. It still tasted lousy.
He wandered over to the large floor-to-ceiling window which served as an observation deck for the office workers. A few chairs were scattered around the floor space directly next to the window, offering an opportunity for the control teams to sit and watch the activity below during their meal breaks. Rashid pulled one of the chairs closer to the window and sat down, cradling the mug between his hands.
He scanned the sea out beyond the port. Two large natural breakwaters acted as filters for the enormous LNG tankers which entered the approach channel leading to the port. He could see a tanker coming into the port, its bulk sitting high in the water while its storage tanks remained empty.
Rashid lifted the coffee mug to his mouth and blew gently across the surface of the liquid, then stood and wandered back to his workstation, letting his gaze fall back to the computer monitors. The screens flickered with a constant stream of measurements and data, issuing reports from each of the LNG processing plants as natural gas entered the facility, became super-cooled, then pumped out through a series of jetties to the LNG tankers ready to transport the volatile cargo to Qatar’s clients throughout the world.
He leaned back in his chair, scratched his ear and looked up at the display of CCTV screens which covered the wall above his desk.
He jumped as a hand grasped his shoulder.
‘Relax, Rashid, it’s only me.’
Rashid turned in his chair as a man in his early twenties threw himself down in the chair next to his and began to log into the system.
‘I swear you’re going to give me a heart attack one day, Adil,’ Rashid growled.
The young engineer laughed. ‘You’re old, but not that old.’
‘Where the hell have you been anyway? Your shift started an hour ago.’
‘I overslept. You won’t tell?’ Adil glanced at the older man.
‘If you get caught, it won’t be because of me. But I won’t lie for you if you’re caught.’
‘You’re lucky I made it in at all.’
‘Was she worth it?’
Adil laughed. ‘Yes. If her father catches me though, I’m a dead man.’
‘If your father catches you, you’re a dead man.’ Rashid shook his head.
Adil glanced at his computer as it went through its start-up routine, then bent down and picked up the carry bag tucked under Rashid’s desk and tested the weight. ‘What did Shareen cook us for supper tonight?’
‘Nothing for you,’ said Rashid. ‘Not even leftovers.’ He smiled and turned back to the CCTV screens.
‘It’s not fair you know,’ complained Adil. ‘She always gives you far too much.’ He gently shook the bag before putting it back under the desk. ‘All my mum gives me is…’
‘Not now.’ Rashid held up a hand and frowned, looking back at the screens. Each one flicked spasmodically in turn, and then settled as if nothing had happened.
‘What was that?’ asked Adil, getting out of his chair and standing behind his colleague.
‘I’m not sure.’ Rashid reached out and moved the computer mouse slowly across his control screen. The pointer juddered as he moved it from left to right, the cursor moving backwards for every forward movement Rashid made. He lifted his hand off the mouse and both men watched in amazement as the cursor travelled backwards across the screen.
The screen displayed a schematic of the gas facility – a working drawing of the parts and systems which enabled the Qataris to sup
er-cool the gas into its liquid state then pump it onto the waiting ships.
Rashid rolled up his sleeves, inched his chair closer to the desk and began typing a string of commands. He hit the ‘enter’ button and sat back, satisfied.
He blinked.
Adil gasped as the text started to disappear.
Rashid glanced down at the keyboard – nothing touched the ‘delete’ or ‘backspace’ buttons. He looked up at the screen and watched in amazement as the mouse pointer began to click on a set of valves within the pumping system, repeatedly turning them on and off in rapid succession.
‘What is this?’ asked Adil, his hands gripping the back of Rashid’s chair. ‘What’s going on?’
Rashid shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’ He looked up at the other man. ‘Who’s working in the main control centre tonight?’
Adil leaned across the desk and picked up a clipboard with a roster sheet attached to it. He checked his watch, then glanced down the page. ‘Here you go – Samir’s up there.’
Rashid leaned forward and picked up the phone. It rang twice before being picked up, the man at the other end breathless. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you doing this?’ asked Rashid.
‘No! What’s going on?’
‘I’m coming up.’ Rashid put down the phone and turned to Adil. ‘Come on – let’s go.’
Both men ran to the stairs leading up to the next level, Rashid clearing them two at a time. As he rounded the top stair, Samir came running towards him. ‘Whoever it is has changed the automated settings for the vapour return arms on the jetty,’ he said, his breath labouring. ‘If the valves keep getting turned on and off, they’re going to fail and we won’t be able to stop the gas flow.’
Rashid pushed past him and ran to the man’s desk. He pulled up the view of the controls data and read through the strings of information in disbelief.
Samir and Adil stood either side of his chair, their eyes searching the data for clues.
Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 6
