economy. We export more than 55% of our gross national product and 80% of our industrial production. There are not many countries in the world with the same coefficients of the export share. By “shutting the door”, the EU is losing a huge amount of trade with us. Therefore, while I would favour Belarus working more closely with EU member states, I believe we would not have much to gain by becoming a member – rather that the EU would gain more.’
‘Surely you can’t mean that?’ White was surprised. This response had been tantamount to Belarus turning her back on the EU.
‘Belarus is fortunate. We have old friends, such as Russia and Ukraine, new friends, such as the other NAM member states, and those whom we are not averse to becoming acquainted with, the EU and the US. However, we are perfectly happy at the moment and certainly not “lonely”. “Our dance card is full,” as you would say.’
‘What about the standard of living in Belarus? Is it not lower than in the West?’
‘By what measure? The number of US-imported goods?’ Sverov shook his head and smiled in what he thought was a scholarly manner. ‘Let us look at the findings of the “Save the Children” report, which compared 167 countries. Belarus has the highest rating for quality of life for women and children among all countries in the former Soviet Union. This is higher even than the new EU member states. Belarus is the leader, in the post-Soviet era, in the production and supply of agricultural goods per person, the GNP share for education, and the share of students of further education among the population. Belarus exceeds all CIS states in the generalised index of human development calculated by the UN. How can we have a “lower standard of living”? Is the UN incorrect?’
White nodded. The Belarusian had an answer for everything, which would make for amusing, if not politically astute, television. He wanted to move the interview on. He would ask about tourism next, then bring up the government ban on certain ‘rock groups’ performing in Belarus.
The interview over, the sound man removed the mic and thanked the Belarusian. Sverov stared at White, who was exchanging words with his unit director. They had far more people than he would have thought necessary recording this programme, but then they were the BBC and, he surmised, must be experts at what they did.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Fouad Al Kabir held his diamond-encrusted Vertu mobile phone in his right hand and counted his worry beads with his left. The call had come directly from his brother, the Saudi ambassador in London. His eldest daughter, Jinan, was safe! Al Kabir gazed out over the city from his high office window and thanked Allah for his daughter’s deliverance.
‘But what of those who took her?’ They had to be punished.
‘Two escaped, the rest are dead,’ replied Umar Al Kabir.
‘You are certain she is not in danger?’ The younger brother wanted the elder’s reassurance.
‘Fouad, it was Jinan who called me herself.’
The sun reflected heavily off the window as it set in the desert sky, a mixture of reds and gold filling the room. Fouad finally let himself relax as Umar relayed what Jinan had told him about how she had been snatched from school and how a man had come from nowhere and saved her.
‘This is a man of honour, brother. He must be rewarded.’
‘I agree,’ replied the ambassador.
‘Where is my daughter now?’
‘She is safe. I will personally collect her, brother; as her uncle I will not leave that to another. I will be with her in an hour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do not thank me, brother. We are family.’
Flanked by two large bodyguards on each side, Umar Al Kabir entered his diplomatic Mercedes and ordered the driver to head for Brighton as fast as he could. They would pay no heed to speed limits, enforcement cameras, or traffic police. There had been an attempted kidnapping of a member of the Saudi royal family! Sitting comfortably in his leather seat, Umar Al Kabir dialled a Whitehall number very few people had, and was immediately connected to the British Foreign Secretary.
‘Robert, this is Umar. I have some strange and worrying news to tell you. Someone has tried to kidnap my niece.’
Paddington Green Secure Police Station, London
Left alone in the cell while his details were checked, Fox tried to make sense of the day’s events. He had killed three men, wounded a fourth, saved a child, and ended his marriage, all in the space of a minute. The police had arrived and cordoned off the street, forming a barrier. Arms raised above his head, Fox had approached them and given a description of the remaining X-rays and the Mondeo; however, they seemed more concerned with arresting him, the man responsible for the bodies on the ground. Now, three hours later, he sat in the secure police station being treated like a criminal.
His thoughts again wandered to Sawyer as he relived the scene in his head. Fox had seen the man’s face, had recognised him, and in that moment all his anger, all his frustration, had shot down his arm to his trigger finger. It wasn’t an accident; it had been a conscious decision. However, that would be difficult to prove. Sawyer had been in the way – in his line of sight during a firefight – and was an unfortunate victim of crossfire.
What about the kids’ videos? The fact that Sawyer had decided to run, to leave Tracey, proved he wasn’t a real man. What of his Tracey? This, he regretted – losing her. He could never be with her again, not now she had betrayed him, even if she forgave him for shooting her lover. It was his code: loyalty. Fox wasn’t a man to forgive betrayal; he hadn’t done in the past and he wouldn’t now. Shooting Sawyer was rough justice but in his mind was just that – ‘just’. Tracey would have to accept this and move on.
Fox shook his head and chuckled to himself demonically. Shit, he had felt more alive in that minute than at any other time since leaving the Regiment. Like a boxer making a successful comeback for the world title, he had felt elated. He had killed but more importantly he had saved. Saved the life of an innocent schoolgirl. In the Almighty’s book of ‘good and bad deeds’, he was sure saving her cancelled out ending the life of a terrorist or even a philanderer. Sawyer, a pathetic little man who hadn’t only cheated on his own wife, but taken another’s?
Fox felt bad for Sawyer’s wife, that was all; the man had no children. Fox wasn’t religious but in situations like this, after he had killed, he would sit and reason it out. This, however, had been the first time he had shot a man who wasn’t endangering his own life, an unarmed civilian. His first attempted murder? Perhaps Sawyer was dead; he had been told nothing.
The cell door opened, breaking his train of thought. A uniformed police officer, with greying temples, pointed at Fox. ‘Get up and follow me.’
Fox rose and walked out of the cell; the door was shut behind him by a second officer. The three men walked down a harshly lit corridor to an interview room. The door opened and he was ushered inside. A further two officers were sitting at the metal table.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Fox.’ DCI Mincer was fifty-five and had a round face that tended to put those he questioned at ease. These were enviable traits in a member of the anti-terrorist squad. Fox sat and Mincer started the tape recorder.
‘Interview with James Celtic Fox. Officers present, DC Flynn and DCI Mincer.’
Fox
