they had each evening when she was forced to park her new car on the drive.
‘Help me with my bags then.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Fox winked at Reynolds and made for the car.
Reynolds picked up his hedge scissors and continued to trim his already perfect shrubs.
Fox followed his wife inside with her laptop bag, which she complained was too heavy to carry. He found her looking through the mail.
‘So, tell me, what have you been up to today while I’ve been out at work?’ It was a daily question, thrown at him with growing disdain.
Fox placed the bag on the floor and took a breath. ‘I went online, put my CV on Monster, checked my email, and fixed the tap in the kitchen.’
Tracey nodded. ‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Did you call any of those agents I gave you details of?’ Her hands were now on her hips.
He looked at the gap between her blouse buttons and the red of her bra. She had a great pair of tits. ‘No. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
Her expression grew sour. ‘You’ve been saying that for the past week, Paddy!’
‘I know, love, I know.’ Here came the lecture.
‘You’re not going to get a new job sitting on your arse all day long.’
‘Then how can I use the computer?’
She ignored his attempt at levity. ‘It’s been almost two months now.’
‘It’s been six weeks.’
‘Exactly. When the redundancy money runs out, what then?’ Her eyes narrowed.
Fox sighed. They had met at Dymex, where she at least still worked. ‘I’ve got enough saved and, besides, you earn twice as much as I did.’
‘What? You want to live off me; you, a man, want to live off me?’ The argument wasn’t new and their lines were well rehearsed.
‘Don’t be sexist.’ He loved to goad his oh so PC wife. ‘I’m not going to “ponce” off you. I’ll find something.’
She turned and headed upstairs. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’
Fox watched her arse twitch beneath her tight skirt; even when she was angry he still fancied her. He spoke beneath his breath. ‘Hi, dear, how are you? Have a nice day? Don’t worry…’ He smirked to himself. Right, he’d bung a risotto into the microwave and uncork a bottle of the Chilean Merlot she liked, that’d calm her down for a bit.
Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London
Snow signed for his belongings at the front desk. ‘Should I be honoured you came in person?’
‘Yes,’ Patchem said flatly.
The desk officer gave Snow a stern look. ‘You’re free to go.’
‘Much obliged.’
‘In future, for heaven’s sake, if someone says they’re an SIS officer, call us to ask.’
‘Very well, sir.’ The desk officer showed no sign of accepting Patchem’s reprimand. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
Outside they got into Patchem’s Lexus and drove away.
‘Thanks, Jack. So why did you come?’
The Secret Intelligence Service section head looked over his shoulder as they pulled into traffic. ‘I didn’t want to waste any more time. Something is happening, Aidan. GCHQ has picked up increased chatter referring to some sort of attack and soon. MI5 have been going through possible targets but as yet with no success. According to my counterpart at Five, it’s like looking for a grain of salt in the desert.’
‘So why is Six interested?’
‘We’re interested because most of the chatter is emanating from Saudi Arabia. This impacts us because, in addition to my role at the “Russian Desk”, I’ve just been assigned caretaker of the “Arab Desk” until the boss appoints a permanent replacement.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I don’t need your congratulations, I need your help.’ Patchem paused as they exited a roundabout. ‘Look, I’m a Russian specialist; our Director General knows this but she insisted. Aidan, to be candid, I know bugger all about the Middle East, that’s why I need operatives I can rely on. I brought you into Six because I was impressed by what you did in Kyiv and how you did it.’
‘Thanks, Jack, but I’m no Middle East expert either.’
‘The “Arab Desk” is in a mess and I don’t know who I can trust there.’ Patchem had yet to fully assess the desk staff. ‘I need my own team.’
They arrived at Snow’s flat. ‘So what’s my assignment?’
‘There isn’t one, yet.’
Patchem brought the Lexus to a halt. There was a silence. He stared into the distance.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Durrani was a friend.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What? Oh, I see. Yes. It’s been a trying day.’
‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Thanks for listening.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Want, yes. Allowed, no. Jacquelyn is expecting me home.’
Riyadh. Saudi Arabia
There was a strange noise in the air and a familiar smell in his nostrils he couldn’t quite place. Burning oil! The Saudi whipped off his thin bedsheet and rushed to the window.
Flames were leaping from his garage; worse still, they were moving towards his Rolls Royce Phantom! Struck dumb, he was unable to call out to his security guard as the flickering flames reflected hypnotically off his bedroom window. He opened completely the French windows and nervously moved onto the balcony, the heat like an oven on his face.
Finding his voice, Al Kabir yelled for his guard. Two shadows darted beyond the perimeter wall towards a pick-up truck. Without lights, the truck moved away into the darkness of the desert. There was a rushing sound and suddenly an explosion from the garage, quickly followed by another. A wall of flames raced towards Al Kabir’s newest car. His hands gripped the railings on his balcony but before he could move or utter another word the Rolls Royce was engulfed.
Fouad Al Kabir awoke from his mid-morning snooze with a start. It hadn’t been a dream. The fire had caused over a million dollars’ worth of damage. In addition to the Phantom, two much more expensive vintage
