the smaller Oman states.
Rubat had little to commend it except its oil. It didn’t have the interminable billions of the other states, but the wealth generated by Rashid Oil was enough to keep the small population happy. Sultan Ibrahim Rashid was chairman, and his nephew, Owen Rashid, was CEO, running the company from the Mayfair office and living in considerable comfort, especially as he’d managed to avoid marriage during his forty-five years.
His one mistake had been to get involved with Al Qaeda. He was not a jihadist and wasn’t interested in the religious side of things, but he’d reasoned that it would give him more muscle in the workplace and more power in the business world for Rashid Oil. He had been welcomed with open arms, but then found he had made a devil’s bargain, for he had to obey orders like everyone else.
Right now his task was to cultivate Jean Talbot, the chairman of Talbot International. Her son had been under Al Qaeda’s thumb – pure blackmail – until he died, and he had started by attending her son’s funeral. She had apparently known nothing about the connection, but Jack Kelly had, an old IRA hand who was itching to see some action again.
To meet Jean Talbot, he’d visited the Zion Gallery in Bond Street, where there was an exhibition of her art, and loitered until she’d turned up. A compliment on her famous portrait of her son had led to lunch at the Ivy.
The point of all this had only recently been made clear by his Al Qaeda masters. A single-track railway ran down from Saudi Arabia and ended up in Hazar next door to Rubat. It was called the Bacu. In modern times, it had been convenient to run pipes alongside the railway from the oil wells in southern Arabia, and over years of wheeler-dealing, the Bacu had ended up being owned by Talbot International.
Owen Rashid’s primary task was to persuade Jean Talbot to look favourably on the idea of extending the Bacu line through Rubat. The benefit to Yemen, a hotbed of Al Qaeda activity, was obvious: the possibility of instant access to the world’s biggest oil fields.
The truth was that he’d come to like Jean immensely, but that was just too bad. He had his orders, so he raised his glass and said, softly, ‘To you, Jean. Perhaps you’ll paint my portrait one day.’
At the same time in New York, Patrick Murphy was leaving his apartment and proceeding along the street to catch a cab. He hadn’t packed a suitcase. He’d decided he’d buy new clothes in Vegas, so he was just carrying the suitcase. He didn’t hear a thing, was just suddenly conscious of someone behind him and a needle point slicing into his clothes.
‘Just turn right into the next doorway.’ The voice was very calm.
Murphy did as he was told. ‘Please listen. If Cagney’s sent you, there’s no need for this. I’ve got money, lots of money. Just take it.’
The knife went right in under the ribs, finding the heart, killing him so quickly that he wasn’t even aware of the man picking up his suitcase and walking away, leaving him dead in the doorway.
2
A veteran of both Vietnam and the Secret Service, Blake Johnson had served a string of presidents as personal security adviser and was something of a White House institution. He’d known Ferguson and Miller for years.
Now he joined them in the rear of the limousine, closing the window that cut them off from the driver. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,’ he said. ‘Things are pretty rough for all of us these days. I wonder how the Prime Minister would cope if he didn’t have you.’
‘Oh, he’d manage, I’m sure,’ said Ferguson. ‘But my team is always ready to handle any situation with the appropriate response.’
‘Which usually means general mayhem,’ Harry Miller put in. Miller was the Prime Minister’s main troubleshooter and an under-secretary of state.
‘Well, you should know,’ Ferguson told Miller. ‘Mayhem is your general job description. When you’re not being used to frighten other Members of Parliament to death.’
‘A total exaggeration, as usual,’ Miller told Blake. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the President will be happy with our security arrangements for his brief visit to London. We wish it could be longer, but I know he’s expected in Paris and Berlin.’
Ferguson said, ‘I’m surprised he can find the time at all with everything going on in the Middle East and Africa.’
‘And Al Qaeda threatening worldwide spectaculars in capital cities,’ Miller put in. ‘In revenge for the death of bin Laden.’
‘We can’t just sit back and wait for things to happen,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ve got to go in hard, find those responsible for running the show these days, and take them out.’
‘Well, I think you’ll find that’s exactly what the President wants to talk to you about,’ Blake said. ‘You know he supports action when necessary. But I think you’ll find he favours a more conciliatory approach where possible.’
Ferguson frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
Miller put a warning hand on Ferguson’s knee. ‘Let’s just see what the President says.’
The general pulled himself together. ‘Yes, of course, we must hear what the President has to say.’
In the Oval Office, the President and Blake faced Ferguson and Miller across a large coffee table. Clancy Smith, the President’s favourite Secret Service man, stood back, ever watchful.
‘London, Paris, Berlin, Brussels – it’s going to be quite a stretch in four days,’ said the President. ‘But I’m really looking forward to London, particularly the luncheon reception at Parliament.’
‘It’ll be a great day, Mr President,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ve completely overhauled our security system for your visit. Major Miller is the coordinator.’
‘Yes, I’ve read your report. I couldn’t leave it in better hands. What I actually wanted to ask you about was your report of the inquiry into the Mirbat ambush in Afghanistan that cost us so many lives. It seems you were right when you supposed that British-born Muslims were fighting in the Taliban ranks.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘That’s bad enough in itself, but the fact that the man leading them was a decorated war hero, that he was chairman of one of the most respected arms corporations in the business – it defies belief.’
‘Talbot was a wild young man, hungry for war,’ Miller said. ‘Originally his supplying illegal arms to the Taliban across the border was strictly for kicks, but that led to Al Qaeda blackmailing him.’
‘As you can see from our report, he had Dillon’s bullet in him when he crashed his plane into the sea off the Irish coast,’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘An act of suicide to protect the family name.’
‘So his mother knew nothing about this Al Qaeda business?’
‘No. And she’s now chairman of Talbot International simply because she owns most of the shares.’
‘And in the world’s eyes, he just died in a tragic accident?’
Ferguson
