sleep on it if I were you,’ Miller told him.
‘You clown, Harry, it’s breakfast time here.’
The screen went dark and Ferguson promptly fell asleep. Sara was in the rear of the cabin and Holley took the next seat.
‘Are you tired?’
‘I certainly should be.’
‘Because it’s all so exciting.’ He said it as a statement.
‘Disturbing, Daniel, that’s what I’d say, and rather frightening.’
Holley smiled through the half-light. ‘We’ll have to do something about that.’
In front of them, Dillon muttered, ‘For God’s sake, kiss the girl goodnight, and let’s get some sleep.’
Sara smiled and murmured to Holley, ‘See you in the morning.’
She pulled a blanket over her knees, closed her eyes, and lay back. Holley watched her for a while, wondering what was happening to him, then he also closed his eyes.
The drone of the engines in flight was the only sound now. Parry peered in from the cockpit and dimmed the lights even further.
Dillon wasn’t sleeping, just lying back considering what the day had brought. A lovely young woman, Sara Gideon, and she’d obviously had a profound effect on Holley, but they were in entirely the wrong profession for that kind of thing. A pity, but there it was.
He moved on to analysing the new situation in Ulster. Always the same. Reactionary dissidents who would never be satisfied till the sound of gunfire echoed in the streets and the killing began once more. What the hell was Jack Kelly playing at? He’d lost his only son to the conflict, spent years in jail.
‘Christ,’ Dillon murmured, ‘you’d think he’d have learned some sense by now.’
But there was no forgiveness in this world, and he remembered Jean Talbot in the Zion Gallery. She’d appreciated why he’d had to shoot her son, but couldn’t possibly forgive, and had put out a contract on him – one of the advantages of being rich, she’d said.
Nothing to be done about that. People had been trying to kill him for years. He remembered the old days, going to the horns in the bullring in Ibiza, waiting for the bull to rush out of the gate of fear. It comes as God wills, the toreros used to say, which just about summed it up.
One-thirty over the Atlantic, but 7.30 in London, where Jean Talbot was already enjoying the first cup of coffee of the day. She’d lived in the Regency House in Marley Court in Mayfair for years. It was just off Curzon Street, convenient for Hyde Park, and only ten minutes’ walk away from Owen Rashid’s flat, a decided plus in view of the way their relationship was developing.
Her mobile sounded and there he was. ‘Are you up for lunch today? There’s something I wanted to run by you.’
‘Sorry, Owen, I’ve got a meeting with the vice-chancellor.’ Though she was head of Talbot International, she mostly let her nephew, Gregory, handle things as CEO while she pursued an academic career. ‘Are you going for a run in the park?’
‘Just about to leave.’
‘I’ll join you if you like. I’ll be at the Hilton end of the subway.’
Which she was, and they walked through, entered Hyde Park, and had a brisk 30-minute jog which ended with coffee by the café at the Serpentine. As always, she thoroughly enjoyed his company. No silly ideas of romance at her age. In a sense, he was filling her son’s place, and he was well aware of the fact.
‘How did your flight to Rubat go the other day?’ she asked, for another link between them was that Rashid Oil kept its private aircraft at Frensham Aero Club, as did Talbot International. Owen had been a private pilot for three years, Jean for considerably longer.
‘Now that I’ve got my rating for jets, it was great fun. I was able to fly the Lear.’
‘What was it you wanted to run by me?’
‘I wondered if you’d thought any more about my suggestion that Talbot International might consider extending the Bacu Railway line into Rubat.’
She said, ‘I’ve raised the matter with Gregory, and he seems to think that the instability with Yemen next door might raise difficulties.’
Owen said, ‘All we’re asking for is an extension of the track and the pipelines. It would give us access to Southport and its tankers, and that would be more efficient for us. Remember that one-third of the world’s oil from southern Arabia passes through the system. To interfere with that, Yemen would have to invade Rubat, a sovereign state. Any interference with oil supplies would cause chaos on an international scale. If the UN didn’t put a stop to it, the Americans would, backed by powerful Arab interests. Yemen would be ground into the dust.’
‘I like it when you’re this way, Owen, full of enthusiasm.’ She smiled. ‘You certainly make a good case. I’ll speak to Gregory again.’
As they started the return run, he realized with some surprise that she was absolutely right. The idea as put forward by his Al Qaeda masters was totally misconceived.
They crossed Park Lane and he said, ‘Tell Gregory there will be a Saudi delegation arriving on Thursday to be here for the President’s visit on Friday. Powerful sheikhs involved in the oil business, but also a general or two, possibly looking for interesting arms deals. I’d be happy to help with introductions.’ He frowned. ‘But what am I thinking of? There’s the reception on the terrace at Parliament.’
‘I heard,’ she said. ‘It’s the social event of the year.’
‘Well, I’ve been invited and partners are allowed. Why not come with me?’
She was actually quite thrilled at the idea, but said, ‘Good heavens, Owen, are you sure?’
‘Talbot International supplies military hardware to half the countries on earth and has an excellent reputation for integrity in the Arab world. Who better to represent it at such an affair than the chairman?’
‘I admit I’m tempted.’
‘Dinner tonight at San Lorenzo. We’ll discuss it then. I’ll pick you up at 7.30.’
He half-ran along the pavement. She watched him enter his apartment block, then turned and walked away, suddenly absurdly happy.
As Owen crossed the sitting room, making for the bedroom suite, pulling his sweater over his head, a phone sounded. He hurried into his office and took a mobile from the top drawer. It was his sole link with Al Qaeda through an individual he’d come to know only as Abu. The man spoke the perfect dry and precise English of an academic, with no clue as to age or nationality.
‘Good morning, Owen,’ Abu said. ‘Did you enjoy your run in Hyde Park with Jean?’
Owen had got past being surprised at how up-to-date Abu’s information was, particularly about Rubat. He had got used to the idea that he was under some sort of surveillance.
‘She’s excellent company!’
‘What’s
