Patchem half-smiled at his play on words; it hid his sadness at the loss of a colleague. ‘If Fox takes this job it would also get him well and truly away from the media. Whitehall are very keen to kill the story. Everything you need to know is in here. Any questions?’
Snow shook his head as Patchem handed him a second file.
‘Good. Call me with your progress. You have three days.’
Snow stood and left the office. He would have to be careful. Fox would be drawing much attention from the media and Snow didn’t want his face in print beside his old comrade’s.
Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex
A disgruntled DC Flynn had the police driver drop Fox off at Cabot Square in London’s banking hub, Docklands. Fox easily found the only branch in London of his new Swiss banker and, after passing their security process, was allowed to withdraw cash against his generous payment from the Saudis. After buying wrapping paper, with which he covered his sword, Fox entered Canary Wharf tube station, taking the Jubilee Line to Westminster, where he changed to the Circle Line for Victoria.
Now safely ensconced in his Southern Central train to Shoreham, he sat back and watched as the scenery outside the carriage changed from the bustle of London to Surrey suburbia, then the green of the Sussex countryside. Finally reunited with his mobile, he had made several calls home – none of which had been answered. There was no response from Tracey’s mobile either. It wasn’t that he wanted to talk to her, but that he wanted to let her know he was on his way home. Having relished his walk from Shoreham station, he stopped short on seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign in his front garden. He felt the anger bristle inside him but had to admire his wife’s spirit. She was wasting no time. The house was in her name, she had bought it, so she was going to sell it. He walked up Jim’s path and knocked on his front door.
‘Paddy.’ His neighbour’s face registered shock but also relief. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, thanks, Jim.’ Fox nodded at the sign. ‘What’s all this about then?’
‘She’s left, gone to her sister’s place, but I didn’t tell you that. Sorry.’ He looked at his feet.
‘Don’t be.’
Jim swallowed. ‘You know I spoke to the papers? Someone had to say what kind of bloke you were.’
This newspaper interview had angered Fox at first but no longer. As pensioners, any extra cash would make their lives easier. ‘Jim, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about, mate, and if it earned you a few quid or paid for that cruise Maureen wanted… well, just buy me a pint sometime. Is Maureen in?’
‘She’s out doing a bit of shopping. Didn’t want me to get under her feet at Tesco; you know what women are like.’
Jim hadn’t meant to be ironic. ‘I do indeed. How is she?’
‘Fine. She was a bit shaken at first but then she started telling all her friends about it. I think she’ll be telling that story for years!’ Jim smiled. ‘She got her best china out for that girl. And then when we found out who she was! Well, talk about all her dreams coming true – meeting royalty and that.’
Fox shook his head. ‘As long as you’re both all right?’
Jim nodded. ‘Paddy, there were a lot of paparazzi hanging around. One asked me to give him a call if you came back.’
Fox reached into his pocket. ‘How much did he offer you? I’ll match it.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. There’s been a couple of them hanging about. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘Thanks.’ The last thing Fox wanted was his face in the papers.
‘That bloke, the one you…’
‘Shot?’
‘I’m sorry. I saw him before but I didn’t feel I could tell you. Not my place.’
Fox tapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘Not my place either, by the look of it.’
Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt
‘Sharm el-Sheikh is known as the City of Peace, referring to the large number of international peace conferences that have been held here.’ The fat man’s voice carried on the breeze from the next boat. He continued reading from his guidebook. ‘Sharm el-Sheikh remained under Israeli control until the Sinai Peninsula was returned to Egypt in 1982 after the Israel-Egypt Peace Treaty of 1979. A prosperous Israeli settlement had been created there in the Seventies under the name “Ophira”, derived from biblical Ophir. Some of the buildings erected at the time are still in evidence.’
‘Is that where we’re going this afternoon, Dad?’
The boy, the Chechen guessed, was seven and still at the age where he hung on his father’s every word, even if he didn’t understand.
‘No, we’re going out on this boat to see the fishes.’
‘Can we eat them?’
‘Some of them, but some could eat us!’
The boy laughed. ‘Dad, that’s silly.’
The Chechen drank his iced tea and looked back at the shore. The cornice was crowded with cafés. Tourists took up tables, chatting loudly, eating ice creams, and getting sunburnt. On the sea, power cruisers and yachts mixed with day launches, glass-bottomed tourist barges, and fishing charters. It was the perfect place to have a meeting without being noticed. The neighbouring boat moved off, taking the British holidaymakers out of earshot.
‘I am listening,’ Khalid said quietly.
The Chechen smiled, although what he was about to say was not a joke. ‘We are in a position to be able to help each other. There are many true believers in your country who fear that the Kingdom is too lenient on the infidels; that the Kingdom is governed by those who seek to line their own pockets.’
‘This is the view of a growing number. It is not a secret.’
‘But what is a secret is that, among these true believers, there are those who are ready to take direct action.’
There was a pause as the Saudi sipped from his glass, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry. ‘There are such people.’
‘I would like to help them.’
The bluntness of the Chechen’s reply caused the normally composed Arab to frown. He had never met this man before; the meeting had been set up using a Soviet-era KGB sleeper channel. A channel that Khalid thought he would never have to answer again. ‘You are a believer, a true believer?’
The reply was in Arabic. ‘I am Chechen.’ It was a lie, but he had learnt his Arabic in Chechnya. ‘I know firsthand what it feels like to have one’s own beliefs subjugated by an occupying infidel force. I represent a powerful group who will no longer stand by and watch our Muslim brothers in the Kingdom mocked by their own rulers.’
‘And what could you offer, my brother?’ The Saudi did not switch his Oxford English for Arabic.
‘If certain targets
