About Alex Shaw

ALEX SHAW spent the second half of the 1990s in Kyiv, Ukraine, teaching Drama and running his own business consultancy before being headhunted for a division of Siemens. The next few years saw him doing business for the company across the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa.

Cold Blood, Cold Black and Cold East are commercially published by HarperCollins (HQ Digital) in English and Luzifer Verlag in German.

Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between homes in Kyiv, Ukraine, Worthing, England and Doha, Qatar. Follow Alex on twitter: @alexshawhetman or find him on Facebook.

Also by Alex Shaw

Cold Blood

Cold East

Cold Black
ALEX SHAW

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

This edition first published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Alex Shaw 2018

Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © Alex Shaw 2018 ISBN: 9780008306335

Version: 2018-07-17

Table of Contents

Cover

About Alex Shaw

Also by Alex Shaw

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

Dear Reader,

Dear Reader,

About the Publisher

To my wife, Galia, and my sons, Alexander & Jonathan.

To family in England and Ukraine.

Prologue

Harley Street, London, England

Aidan Snow sat on the examination table wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts. Dr Durrani poked Snow’s left leg with a gloved index finger, his large, bright eyes focusing intently.

‘Hmm. The incision seems to have healed nicely; the reduction in scar tissue is what we would have hoped for.’ Turning his attention to the right leg, Durrani continued. ‘I’m not as happy with this one, but then you did leave it rather a long time before coming to see me.’

Snow nodded. It hadn’t been his idea to visit the doctor, but a direct command from Jack Patchem, his handler at SIS. Patchem’s view was that no undercover operative could ‘blend in’ if he was riddled with scars. Snow saw no reason to complain.

‘Now the shoulder. Hmm. If you would just raise your arm for me… that will do fine. Any pain at all? Any discomfort?’

‘No.’

‘None?’

‘None,’ Snow lied. He got the occasional twinge from all his old injuries, especially those caused by bullets, but letting the SIS-contracted doctor know that wouldn’t help with his operational status.

Snow was fit – above average, even by army standards – but by the ripe old age of thirty-six, he’d had one leg crushed in a car crash and the other punctured with a round from an AK74. This was in addition to a recent bullet to the right shoulder. Ten years separated the first and second set of injuries, but they had been caused by the same ruthless former Spetsnaz member.

The first injury had led to Snow prematurely leaving the SAS and the second set had caused him to be recruited by Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), or as it was more widely but inaccurately known, ‘MI6’. After rehabilitation of his injuries and a refresher course in the Welsh mountains, competing against the newest SAS Selection hopefuls, he had been passed fit for service.

‘Medical over. You can get dressed now.’ Durrani walked to the sink, removed his gloves, and unnecessarily washed his hands. He straightened his blood-red bow tie. ‘How’s Jack these days?’

The question took Snow by surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Jack who?’

‘Good, good, just checking – “loose lips sink ships” as they used to say.’

‘They also make for very bad saxophonists,’ Snow replied as he quickly dressed.

‘What? Oh, very good. Mind if I use that one?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Thank you.’ Durrani smiled and opened the door. ‘Well, all being “well”, I’ll see you this time next year. Goodbye.’

Snow knew better than to shake the doctor’s hand. For a plastic surgeon, Durrani had a strange phobia of ‘personal contact’.

Snow exited Durrani’s examination room and couldn’t help but glance at the pretty receptionist, dressed in her pure white uniform; he could make out the line of a black bra beneath. She smiled at him as he self-consciously looked away and left the building.

Harley Street was busy with lunchtime traffic, businesspeople and a few lost tourists being given directions by a pair of Metropolitan Police officers. Snow headed north towards Regent’s Park and the nearest tube station; he had a meeting with Patchem at their Vauxhall Cross headquarters. Snow cared little for London, although living there was a necessity. It was too noisy and too scruffy, especially compared to some other capital cities. But not Paris. Snow remembered his friend, Arnaud, half-French and always defending the homeland of his mother.

Arnaud had argued that Paris was the ‘capital of Europe’ with its grand architecture. Snow had retorted that the ‘grand architecture’ didn’t make up for the pavements littered with dog shit and the stench of cheap cigarettes. He still blamed himself for what had happened. The events of eighteen months before, in Ukraine, had hit him harder than he had thought possible. Snow’s mental scars, too, had been ‘cosmetically repaired’. Involuntarily he touched his shoulder and felt for the bullet wound, now almost invisible but still aching. Snow had tried to save the life of a friend and failed.

A noise from behind broke his train of thought. A scream. Snow turned. A figure was standing outside Durrani’s building, Middle Eastern or Asian. A voice inside his head tried to tell him something. Snow retraced his steps back towards the doctor’s surgery, his eyes on the entrance. Another scream. Snow broke into a jog. Two men left the building in a hurry; one had his face obscured by bandages. They joined the first, who had now moved from the building and was holding open the door to a waiting Ford Mondeo. There was an object in the hand of the last man to exit the surgery: a handgun.

The gunman looked directly at Snow, who was still running towards him, and pulled the trigger. There was a ‘thud’ as a suppressed 9mm round left the weapon and raced towards the SIS operative. Snow instinctively dived left, down the basement steps of the nearest building, crashing into several bins.

A car door slammed. Winded, Snow raised his head. The Mondeo was now ‘four up’ and pulling away south into traffic. Snow sprinted to the surgery, straining his eyes to see the registration number of the Ford. He had a decision to make: follow the X-rays or check the building.

Snow took the steps up, two at a time. The door to the communal hall was open, as was that to the surgery. He’d hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t find what he did. The receptionist lay sprawled back on her chair, her dress ripped open to expose her breasts. There was a neat bullet hole in her forehead and an explosion of blood on the cream wall behind. Snow swore, fury rising within. He kicked open the doctor’s door and found that Durrani had also been executed. Lying at an acute angle across his desk, he had been double-tapped in the chest then shot once through the skull for good measure.

In a flash, Snow was back out on the street, mobile phone to his ear as he waited for the emergency services to connect him. There was a loud honking from further up the street. The Mondeo was still there, caught up at the traffic lights at New Cavendish Street. Snow had to reach it. He ran faster than before, switching his phone to video-capture mode. Snow heard raised voices from behind and turned. The two Metropolitan Police officers. One saw the open door and went up to investigate, the other followed Snow.

‘Excuse me, sir… sir, excuse me,’ the officer shouted.

Snow continued to intercept the car, while the policeman quickened his pace, one hand on his helmet in what looked like a scene from the ‘Keystone Cops’. Snow drew level with the Mondeo and looked in. Four men, Middle Eastern. The one with the bandages was now removing them; another held a handgun. As Snow aimed his cameraphone at them, a hand grabbed Snow’s shoulder. Snow pivoted and flung his unknown attacker to the ground, his phone dangling by its carry cord. The police officer hit the pavement with force, his helmet spinning off into the traffic.

‘Security Services,’ was all Snow managed to get out, before a round zipped past his face. He fell to the pavement, the lights changed, and the Mondeo moved off. Snow tried to get to his feet but was forcefully pushed flat by the second officer, who had now caught up.

‘Secret Intelligent Service. You’re stopping the wrong person.’

The second officer attempted to place his knee on Snow’s chest. ‘Stay still!’

‘For the love of God…’ Snow twisted and, using his right leg, swept the officer’s legs out from under him. He sprang to his feet. The first officer, now standing, had extended his folding truncheon and was holding it in his right hand.

‘Get down… down!’

‘Get out of the bloody way!’ Snow lurched forward and ducked inside the officer’s advancing arm. He kicked the man in the back of the knee before ripping the truncheon from his hand and hurling it into the street.

Snow sprinted to the end of the road and at the junction reacquired the Mondeo, fifty metres ahead on Wigmore Street, stopped this time by a taxi. He heard sirens now, from Harley Street behind him, an armed response unit arriving on the scene given the sensitive Central London location. As Snow watched, the target vehicle raced off, mounting the pavement and breaking the speed limit. Snow turned and was met with a cloud of CS gas…

‘You… sodding… idiots!’

Hands again tried to clamp him. Eyes streaming, Snow fought back, kicking out at the blurred shapes. One officer went down swearing, the other landed a punch. Snow lost control completely and shoulder-barged the second officer before delivering an uppercut to his unprotected jaw. Both officers were down, hurt.

‘Listen to me!’ Snow yelled. ‘There’s a kill team out there getting away. We need to call it in!’

‘Armed police! Drop your weapon and lie on the floor, facedown.’

Snow shut his still-streaming eyes in disbelief. He slowly placed his phone on the pavement and lay down beside it. A black tactical boot kicked the phone into the gutter.

‘That’s HM Government property. You’ll get a bill!’

‘Be quiet now, please, sir.’

Gloved hands grabbed Snow’s and pulled them behind his back.

His hands secured, Snow was searched before being hoisted to his feet. The tight plasticuffs bit into his wrists. The two ‘beat bobbies’ were looking none too happy.

‘My name is Aidan Snow, I’m an SIS operative. Call Vauxhall Cross – they’ll confirm who I am.’

‘I’m sure we’ll do that at the station,’ the CO19 member mocked.

‘Come along, please, sir,’ a second added.

‘An SIS officer is down and the shooter is getting away. Call it in!’

‘Move!’ The friendly tone evaporated.

Arriving at the secure police station, Snow was led to the front desk for processing. The duty desk officer looked up, unimpressed. The CO19 officer placed a clear plastic bag on the desk. It contained the contents of Snow’s pockets, wallet and phone.

‘Name?’

‘I’m an operative for SIS. Call them.’

‘Your name?’

Snow took a deep breath; they were only doing their jobs, all of them, if badly. ‘Aidan Snow.’

‘Right then, Mr Snow, if you’ll just press your fingers there for me, we’ll scan your prints.’

There was little point in resisting. Snow put his fingers on the scanner. He wasn’t a fan of anyone having his personal information, let alone his fingerprints.

The desk officer looked at the screen and frowned. ‘OK, we’re going to put you in a holding cell until we can confirm your identity.’

Snow shrugged. He had no idea what had been on the scanner screen or even which database had flagged up, but he knew either way he’d be in for a wait.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

‘Sure. How do you take it, shaken not stirred?’

Chapter 1

Shoreham-by-Sea, UK

A victim of the credit crunch they would call him, an unavoidable casualty of an unseen enemy: the recession. Paddy Fox swallowed his pint bitterly. He was no one’s victim. He looked at the jobs page for the third time before screwing it up in a ball. The anger he felt towards them hadn’t lessened in the six weeks since it had happened, the rage he had for his former boss. He had nothing to prove. He was James ‘Paddy’ Fox, a twenty-year veteran of the SAS and worth something. If no one saw that, then sod ’em.

Fox’s mobile rang and he grabbed for it. ‘Yes?’ His guttural Scottish hue hadn’t been lessened by years of living in Hereford and then Sussex. There was a pause, which instantly told him it was a company trying to sell him something, before a voice reading from a script spoke.

‘Can I speak to Mr James Fox?’

‘You could.’ He cut the connection.

Take, take, take! The world seemed to want something from him, but not him. He flattened out the paper and circled another job, the ‘Dymex’ logo blurring in front of his eyes. Tracey still worked for them, but why he had kept a corporate ballpoint pen he didn’t know. Was it his sackcloth?

Fox downed his pint of bitter and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Just the two for now; more later when he already knew he’d storm out of the house after arguing with Tracey. It had become an almost daily occurrence since he’d become, as he saw it, ‘redundant’. He looked across the Crown and Anchor’s dingy, deserted bar. Burt, the jowl-heavy landlord, was the only other person in the room, with the exception of ‘old Dave’, who sat in the corner like a fixture, with his paper and pint of Guinness. Fox shook his head; what a miserable pisshole of a pub. It was the only bar in Shoreham that had yet to be ‘neoned’, as he called it, to have a bit of paint slapped on, fancy lights added, and the price of the drinks doubled. As such, it was the only place where the average age of the punters was over twelve – in his mind anyway. He stood, placed his empty on the bar, and nodded at Burt as he left the pub. Outside it was rush hour, cars cutting through the narrow streets of the old town in an attempt to miss the traffic. In a way, the SAS veteran was glad he wasn’t part of the corporate world any more – the ‘rat-run rat race’. Nevertheless, he was still angry at how he had left it.

Summoned to a glass-walled meeting room, Fox had looked across with disgust at the younger man in his designer suit and signature dark-blue shirt. The man spoke as Fox’s stare remained locked onto his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Paddy, I really am, but as you were made aware at the start of the consultation process, cuts have to be made. We’ve been as fair as we can.’

There was a pause as Leo Sawyer waited for Fox’s reply. Unable to bear the awkward silence, Fox’s line manager, Janet Cope, coughed to clear her throat.

‘James, we really are sorry to let you go but it’s been decided we need two sales engineers, not three.’

Fox stared at each of ‘the suits’ in turn. ‘What about the position in Saudi?’ Fox’s voice was loud in the small, glass-walled room.

Cope flinched and Sawyer nervously straightened his tie

‘You weren’t suitable for the role. Sorry,’ Sawyer replied, in what he seemed to think was a sympathetic manner. He felt Fox’s green eyes bore into him.

‘But I speak Arabic! Can any of the other candidates?’ Fox had started to turn a shade redder than normal.

Cope gasped. ‘Now, James, I understand that you’re upset, but we don’t need to shout.’

Fox cast her a contemptuous look. ‘Only my mother calls me James.’

Cope herself turned a shade of pink and looked down.

Sawyer pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Fox. ‘If you have a look at this you’ll see we’re paying you in full for your unused holiday time, three months’ redundancy pay – as per your contract – and an additional bonus for all your hard work over the last five years.’

‘Six years. I’ve been here since 2002.’ Fox picked up the sheet and scanned the thirty-eight lines.

‘Of course, six years. My mistake.’

‘Your redundancy is effective immediately, as of the end of today. That means you can start looking for work from tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to stop you from finding another job. We really are truly sorry.’ Cope smiled that ‘monkey smile’ Fox had hated ever since the day she’d become his boss six months earlier.

Fox folded the letter, placed it in his shirt pocket, and stood. He stared again at both suits. Sawyer was about to speak but Fox held up his hand.

‘Thank you for your sincerity.’

Heads turned as Fox crossed the open-plan office to his desk; some tried not to make eye contact, others tried to look sympathetic. Either way, to him they were just pathetic. His two sales colleagues, those that weren’t being pushed out, were, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen. He reached his desk and started to empty its drawers into his pilot case. Fox had always disliked Sawyer. Ever since the last Christmas do, when Tracey had let slip he’d been in ‘Desert Storm’, the man had constantly quizzed him about his past. Sawyer – a member, he claimed, of the ‘territorials’ – had then tried to take the whole of sales and marketing on a team-building paintballing weekend. As marketing director, Tracey had gone and according to her Leo was ‘such a laugh’. At the next work event, Fox had caught him staring at her and given him the nickname ‘Eagle-eyed Action Man’. In fact, the only real action Fox could envisage Sawyer getting was from behind at the local gay bar.

Looking up, Fox saw the security guard leave the MD’s office with a clipboard in his hand. He bore the man no ill will.

‘Hi, Mick. Are you going to march me off the premises? ‘

‘Sorry.’ He put the clipboard on Fox’s desk. ‘I’m going to need the car keys and your signature here.’

Shaking his head, Fox took the keys to his BMW three series and dropped them into Mick’s outstretched palm. ‘Of course you are, and I’m going to walk three miles to the train station.’

‘Thanks.’ Mick cast a glance around before saying, almost in a whisper, ‘I don’t suppose Mr Sawyer has offered to drive you in his Z4?’

‘I’m not queer.’

Mick suppressed a smile. ‘It’s my break in ten minutes – I’ll take you to the station.’

‘That would be good pal, thanks.’

It was the way of the world. Mick had more decency than all of them. He patted Fox on the shoulder and left him to finish his bags. Fox continued to shove his personal papers into the pockets of his case. Sawyer and Cope remained cocooned in the meeting room, eyes glued to documents, pretending to look busy and hoping he would leave. Fox closed the case and walked towards the stairs. As he passed the meeting room he tapped on the window, causing both occupants to snap their necks to the right. Fox smiled and held up his middle finger.

Fox tried to forget that awful day as he crossed the road towards the river and used the pedestrian bridge to make his way home. The tide was out as usual and the river had turned into a thick, muddy smudge. Bloody awful if you asked him, but then Tracey hadn’t when she’d bought the house that overlooked it. As he reached the opposite side he could hear them already, the local kids from the flats out again on their ‘mini motos’, zipping between cars. Jim would be outraged. Jim was always outraged.

‘Get off the bloody road! I’ll call the police!’ Jim Reynolds, retired decorator and moral voice of the street, yelled after the miniature motorbikes.

Fox laughed. ‘Good evening, Jim.’ He liked his neighbour, even if he made fun of him.

‘Is it? I’ve had them effing kids tormenting me for the last hour! Shouldn’t they be at school?’ He waved his hedge scissors.

‘Jim, it’s almost six.’

‘Oh, well, at work then, or doing their homework. At their age, I was painting houses.’

‘So are they, with spray cans.’

The area had been touted as the latest urban development for professional people with two point four children and a BMW. The truth, however, was that the kids from the local council flats saw the quiet, pothole-free roads of Shoreham beach as their private racetrack.

The old man removed his gardening gloves and scratched his head. ‘Any more news on the job front?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Who wants to employ an old soldier like me?’

‘That’s the problem – no gratitude. They should have given you a medal.’

Reynolds knew that, as a member of the SAS, Fox had been sent into Iraq. Fox hadn’t been a member of Bravo Two Zero, as all those who knew the truth of his past seemed to think, but a deep-penetration mission which had never been publicised. It had been their job to recce the approach to Baghdad in advance of the coalition’s arrival, an arrival which hadn’t come, at least not for ten years. This mission, he never talked about. Reynolds, himself a veteran of Suez, had great respect for Fox.

‘Maybe when we’re both dead they’ll put plaques on our houses?’ Fox smiled.

There was the sound of bass-heavy music from behind them and Tracey Fox, his wife of five years, raced up the road in her convertible Saab.

‘Here she comes, Ghetto Gertrude!’

Reynolds chuckled as Tracey pulled up onto the drive. ‘Hello, love.’

‘Hi, Jim.’ She smiled warmly then changed her face when she spoke to Fox. ‘The sooner you move that old heap of yours out of the garage the better. I don’t know why you keep it!’

‘It’s a classic, love.’ It was the conversation 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 Rolls Royces had been destroyed. The oldest had wooden wheels and had belonged to his grandfather. He stood. They were irreplaceable; this was why Prince Fouad Al Kabir was so angered and saddened. He had already ordered a new Phantom, but the others! Fouad kicked the remaining wall to the garage in despair. This was terrible on a personal level but an outrage on a national level. He, Prince Fouad Al Kabir of the House of Saud, had been attacked! It was unprecedented. He wasn’t fearful – the concept had never entered his head – but he was upset.

Twenty more members of the Saudi Arabian Royal Guard Regiment, the unit with the task of protecting the Royal House of Saud, now patrolled his ‘palace’. His brother had said he’d been foolish to stay at his small place in the desert, but security wasn’t a concept Fouad could fully understand. He was royalty, so why should he be in any danger? Unlike his brothers – especially Umar – Fouad didn’t like to leave the Kingdom. He was happy to stay within its borders and play at being a businessman and scholar…

There was a buzzing from under his robes. Puzzled, he retrieved his Vertu and answered. ‘Yes?’

‘Your Highness, peace be upon you. I hope you are well?’ the voice asked in classical Arabic.

‘And you. Who is this?’ Fouad noted the number was withheld.

‘I am a humble servant of God.’ The voice had a lyricism.

‘As I am. And?’ Every Muslim was a servant of God; the caller was stating the obvious.

‘He instructed me to burn your English cars.’

‘What?’ Fouad couldn’t have heard correctly. ‘You burnt my cars?’

‘That is correct, Your Highness.’

Fouad was incensed. ‘Then you will be punished.’

‘If it is “His” will.’ The caller paused; he could hear the prince breathing heavily on the other end. ‘Burning your precious cars was a way to get your attention. Now, do I have it?’

Fouad held onto a palm tree to steady himself. He couldn’t understand what was happening. ‘What do you want?’

‘You sit on the board of directors of Saudico, the world’s largest supplier of oil.’ The caller paused again.

Fouad didn’t know how to react; here was a stranger, speaking to him in a very impertinent manner. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You must order the company to immediately cease supplying oil to the infidels.’

Fouad paused then started to laugh heartily. ‘If you were not going to die for destroying royal property, I would find you a very funny man.’

The caller grew angry. ‘Do not mock me, you fool.’

‘What!’ Fouad ended the call. He had never been so insulted in all his life.

Fouad walked towards the terrace and snapped his fingers as a signal that he wanted a cold drink. Could he have the call traced? He would ask the police chief. Just as he was about to sit, the phone vibrated again.

‘Yes?’

‘That was unwise, to end the call in such a way.’

Fouad’s thumb hovered over the cancel button. ‘Any leniency I may have shown towards you has just been withdrawn. You will be executed for both your actions and your remarks.’ That would surely make this unknown person repent.

The caller was again calm. ‘Stop supplying oil to the West or your daughter will be the one to be executed.’

Fouad dropped his glass. It smashed on the tiled floor. Immediately a servant hurried to clean it up, but the prince pushed him away. ‘What did you say?’

‘Princess Jinan…’

‘Don’t you dare mention her name…’ He was redder than he had ever been before.

‘Princess Jinan is no longer at her school. We have her.’

Fouad felt dizzy. He spluttered with rage and waved his arms to attract the attention of his guards. ‘You lie.’

The line went dead; the caller had disconnected at his end. The prince’s brain tried to process the information. He had several people to call but didn’t know who to contact first. The commander of the guards arrived and bowed.

‘Call your men who protect my daughter! Immediately!’

The man bowed again and vanished into the house. Fouad dialled his brother’s number from memory and held the phone to his ear. As he did so the military officer reappeared holding a different handset.

‘Your Highness.’

Fouad snatched the Nokia and looked at the screen. What he saw made his heart stop. It was a picture of his daughter with a gun to her head. The prince could feel his heart racing; he clutched his right hand to his podgy chest… he couldn’t breathe. He slumped into a chair. His Vertu had now connected with his brother in England, who was calling his name. Panic set in as the prince’s entourage rushed to revive him.

‘Your Royal Highness.’ The voice of the commander of the guards was clear and precise as he spoke to Fouad’s brother, on the other end of the line in London. ‘Prince Fouad is unwell.’

‘How?’ Prince Umar was concerned for his favourite younger brother.

‘He has fainted, Your Highness, from learning of some bad news.’

‘Which is?’

Major Hammar didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Someone has kidnapped the princess.’

‘Kidnapped? But she is in Brighton, at Roedean.’ The prince in the Saudi Embassy was suddenly anxious.

Shoreham-by-Sea, UK

Fox checked his watch. The job interview in Central London had been a complete waste of time, in and out in less than an hour. The interviewer – some hair-gelled kid in his twenties – had attempted to grill Fox about his suitability for the job. A job he was overqualified for. The boy had seemed offended when Fox had refused point-blank to elaborate on his military career. His CV mentioned only his parent unit, the Gordon Highlanders, and not ‘the Regiment’.

On Fox’s way out he’d seen the other applicants, ten years younger and twenty pounds fatter. He had no chance and didn’t give a… He turned into his street and saw a familiar car. The dark-red BMW Z4 of his former boss, Leo Sawyer, parked four houses away on the bend – complete with a number plate that did indeed confirm he was a wanker: LE07 SAW. Fox frowned. Why would the jumped-up salesman be here? A dark thought struck him, and an anger of the type he hadn’t felt for years, deep inside. Fox stopped and retrieved his mobile. Dialling Tracey’s number, he continued up the street then saw her car in the drive. A mini moto buzzed past him from behind, making him flinch. Silly old git, getting jumpy.

‘Where are you?’ she answered.

‘Just getting on the train at Victoria,’ he lied, eyeing her car in the drive. ‘And you?’

‘Still in the office. Should be home when you are, though. I’m just seeing to something.’

Fox almost threw the phone but managed to control himself. He snapped it shut. ‘Eagle-eyed Action Man’ was shagging his wife. He walked down the path, dropping his jacket and briefcase on o the grass, then tried to open the door. It was closed from the inside – the key still in the lock. He could feel the anger rising as he pressed the bell. There was no answer. He started to bang, then pound with his fists. ‘Open the door!’

There was movement inside, a twitch from a curtain. Fox took a step back and was about to shout again when another mini moto shot past. He turned in the direction of the noise just as two saloon cars swept into the road. Both were going too fast for the bend.

As Fox watched, it felt as though he were seeing everything in slow motion. The first car swerved to avoid the youth on the mini moto. The bike bounced up onto the kerb and carried on, but the car hit the opposite kerb and the wall to the garage compound.

There was a heavy crunch and shrieking of metal as the Ford Mondeo hit the wall. The second car, some fifteen metres behind, slammed on its brakes and stopped sideways on. At the same time, there were noises and movement from his house. Fox ran across the road to the Ford; joyriders or not, they needed help. The driver’s side had hit first and what was left of the screen was covered in blood. Fox’s eyes scanned the vehicle; the driver was dead, he was sure of that, but the passenger was moving. He was reaching down to pull at the door when he saw a weapon in the footwell. There was a whimpering from the back.

Fox peered in. Lying half on the seat was a girl, an Arab-looking girl, with duct-tape over her mouth and arms fastened behind her back. A man was lying under her; he tried to push her off. Fox saw the second weapon, this one a semi-automatic. The girl locked eyes with him and Fox recognised the pleading look of fear.

Without hesitating, Fox grabbed the handgun from the front of the car, took a step back, and shot the passenger though the ear. The sound was like thunder in the enclosed space. Momentarily deafened, he pulled the rear door and the girl half-fell out. The second male passenger opened his eyes and reached for his weapon. Fox dragged the girl clear and put a double tap directly into his temple. His head exploded.

Shots from behind. Fox threw himself over the girl and pulled the door in front of him. It was the only protection they had. More rounds and now shouts. Fox sprang to his feet, weapon held in both hands, instantly acquiring a target. A passenger from the second car was running at full sprint towards him, with what looked like an assault rifle in his hands. Fox fired the first round, hitting the assaulter in the chest, and then a second, aimed at the head. The man span sideways and crashed to the ground.

Movement from his right. Another X-ray, this one using the houses for cover, was heading his way. Both men fired. Fox ducked again and looked at the girl. She was shaking beneath him. He took a breath and sprang back up. He let off a single shot at the target. The man was moving now, back towards the car as the driver shouted at him wildly. Another target came into view, blocking Fox’s line of fire to the retreating car; this figure was wearing a dark-blue shirt and was racing directly towards the Z4. Taking a millisecond to decide, Fox fired a round into the man’s back.

The second car spun its wheels in a ‘J-turn’ and screeched away. Fox, out of rounds, had no time to grab another weapon as he tried to catch the number plate. All around he saw curtains twitching. Two teenagers wearing hoodies were standing stunned, next to their mini motos, holding up mobile phones, videoing the whole event. On seeing Fox staring at them, they both legged it, carrying their toy bikes.

Fox bent down and pulled the girl to her feet; he spoke to her in Arabic. ‘You’re safe now. I’m going to take the tape off.’

The girl let out a moan of pain as the tape was removed, then started to sob as he undid her bonds. She was about seventeen and beautiful. She held her hands to her face.

‘Come with me.’ Fox reached out gently and took her by the arm. He walked her up his neighbour’s path. Reynolds opened the door, a shocked expression on his face. Fox pushed the girl at him.

‘Jim, look after her.’

Without waiting for a reply Fox moved back to the street and, bending down, checked the nearest X-ray for a pulse. There was none. He kicked the assault weapon away to the side of the road and then moved towards the man with the dark-blue shirt, his former boss, Leo Sawyer. The sales director lay on his back, eyes open, breathing laboured. Fox’s single round had ripped through him, puncturing a lung. Fox aimed the empty weapon at Sawyer’s head and let him hear the ‘dead man’s click’.

Fox felt no remorse; the man had tried to screw him and had screwed his wife. It had been a split-second but conscious decision, his anger and the urge for revenge manifesting itself in the single bullet. He didn’t care if Sawyer lived or died.

Fox didn’t need to check on the two X-rays in the car – he had drilled them at point-blank range; half their skulls were missing. He knew they were dead. Fox took out his mobile and dialled 999. The operator confirmed his mobile number and asked him which service he required, then transferred him. Before he could speak he heard sirens nearing. Fox sat on the kerb and waited to be arrested. He had once again demonstrated to the world that he was only good at one thing – killing.

Chapter 2

Presidential Dacha, Minsk Region, Belarus

Dark hair patted down, burgundy tie, crisp white shirt and dark-blue suit. Sverov admired himself in the mirror. It was important he make the right impression; he was, after all, going to be the first ever head of the Belarusian Intelligence Service – the KGB – to be interviewed by the BBC.

When the BBC had contacted him via the embassy, his initial reaction had been to refuse the journalist an entry visa into the country. However, after a moment’s thought, he’d decided that the potential positive publicity would greatly help the image of Belarus. So he’d replied yes and got his hands on the most recent reports filed by the same journalist to check his credibility.

It was going to be a full half-hour interview for the BBC World programme HARDtalk Extra. Sverov had read with much interest the list of former interviewees, some of whom he greatly admired, while others he would have shot on sight if they ever entered his country. He had advised the President of the benefits this interview would bring and then made him believe it had been his own idea all along. Megalomaniacs like the President, although he never would have admitted to anyone that he thought his leader was one, were easy to manipulate.

Sverov exited the bathroom in the presidential dacha and took his seat in the study. The BBC make-up girl had already applied his, something he found effeminate, but a necessary evil. The sound recordist clipped a microphone to his lapel, a ‘backup’, he had said, to the furry grey sound boom suspended out of shot above his head. The BBC journalist, Simon White, lived up to his name. He was possibly the pastiest individual Sverov had ever met. His thin frame actually looked bigger onscreen but his eyes had a dark intensity.

Sverov had demanded a list of questions a month in advance and made it clear he wouldn’t answer any new ones unless they’d been faxed and agreed. Sverov spoke, in his own opinion, ‘good English’, but had said that, for the actual interview, he would feel more ‘comfortable’ speaking in Belarusian. The producer, however, had asked if the interview could be in English, as this was the style of the HARDtalk series. Sverov accepted his reasoning that, to ‘woo the West’, one must speak their language. For the past month he had been practising with the KGB language instructors. His English was more than ‘good’ – he was in fact fluent – but he wouldn’t have passed for a native speaker. He still had an accent and sometimes paused to find the most appropriate words.

As the crew readied themselves, Sverov noted White’s professionalism, a trait lacking in all Belarusian journalists. This was with the exception of those, of course, who worked for the state-owned Golas Radzimy (Voice of the Motherland) and Narodnaja Volya (The People’s Will). The BBC crew were ready, he was told, to start taping the interview. Sverov nodded and composed himself. He knew in which order the questions were to be asked and had already rehearsed his replies, but he was still sweating and not because of the harsh TV lights. The director gave the cue and White started with his piece to camera.

‘Speaking in 2005, the then United States Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, identified six “outposts of tyranny” around the world. These were Cuba, Iran, Burma, North Korea, Zimbabwe, and Belarus. My guest today is someone who was not at all happy with this statement. Ivan Sverov, Director of the Belarusian State Security Service, the KGB. Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to speak to HARDtalk.’

Sverov nodded. He wasn’t happy with the introduction, either, but had his prepared response to it – the Americans would turn red.

‘Thank you for the opportunity to let me correct the lies perpetuated about my country by the former Bush administration.’

The reply was what White expected. ‘If I may start with what has been said about your President. He has been accused, allegedly, of crushing dissent, persecuting the independent media, political opposition, and rigging elections.’

Sverov frowned. ‘By whom? Certainly not credible governments. President Lukachev has led Belarus for more than fifteen years. He has given us more than fifteen years of stability. Can any of our former Soviet neighbours boast that? Indeed, President Lukachev came to power on his promise to “stop the Mafia”, to root out corruption in the former government. To make accusations of illegal activity against the President is a nonsense!’

Although impressed by the formality of his interviewee’s English, White cut in. ‘What about Secretary of State Rice’s comment labelling Belarus an outpost of tyranny?’

‘Secretary Rice’s assessment was very far from reality. We invited her to see our country for herself. These completely false stereotypes and prejudices were a poor basis for the formation of effective policy in the sphere of foreign relations. On behalf of my government I would like to invite her successor, Mrs Clinton, to visit. Now let us look at the word “tyrant”. What is a tyrant? A tyrant is an individual holding power through a state, a ruler who places the interests of a small group over the interests of others. In this context, President Lukachev has placed the interests of the Belarusian people above the interests of the rest of the world. Let us look at the original meaning of tyrant. In ancient Greece, tyrants were those who had gained power by getting the support of the poor by giving them land and freeing them from servitude or slavery. The word “tyrant” simply referred to those who overturned the established government through the use of popular support. President Lukachev has the popular support. Secretary Rice did not choose her words with care. Perhaps she did not fully understand them?’ Sverov folded his arms. He was very pleased with that reply, especially the wordplay.

White was not perturbed. ‘If I may? The 2007 referendum, which the President won, allowing him to run for a third term, was criticised for being rigged.’

Sverov shook his head in disbelief. ‘Observers were present and they say to the contrary.’

Sverov continued to set out the policies of the Belarusian government and their hopes for wider cooperation with Europe.

White nodded. He was no fool. He had seen the information on the subsequent demonstrations in Minsk, which had been violently dispersed by heavy-handed riot police. ‘Why did the Committee to Protect Journalists describe Belarus as one of the ten worst places to be a journalist?

‘Again, this is based on lies. Let us look at the facts. Since 1994 the President has doubled the minimum wage and combated inflation by reintroducing state control of prices. Is this a bad place to be?’

‘Freedom of the press, is that not important?’

‘All freedom is important. My purpose is to preserve freedom. The state security services exist to preserve freedom.’

White didn’t give up. ‘So why is there no independent press or media in Belarus?’

Sverov tried not to show his anger; the journalist was attempting to lead the interview away from the agreed parameters. Perhaps he had been too hasty to judge White as different from the activists who attempted to attack his government and their achievements? He calmed himself and answered the question.

‘We welcome the media in Belarus; you are evidence of this. Our book-publishing industry is another example of this; it is thriving and we export many Russian-language books to other CIS states.’

White looked at his notes for a moment; the answer had been as expected – evasive. No mention had been made of the many independent newspapers forced to close due to ‘bureaucratic irregularities’, including failure to keep to regular publication dates. He tried a different tack. ‘Is it not true that the problem in Belarus…’

‘Problem!’ Sverov had started to lose his composure.

‘If I may continue? The “problem” is not official censorship, which is explicitly forbidden by your national constitution, but the volume of legislation used to curtail freedom of expression and silence internal dissent?’

Sverov fixed the journalist in the eye, a move the camera did not miss. ‘Such as?’

‘“Discrediting Belarus abroad” and “insulting the President”. These are criminal offences punishable by up to two and five years in jail, respectively.’

‘Yes, they are.’ The KGB Director nodded. ‘These laws protect the reputation and good standing of our country.’

White tried to come in. ‘But…’

Sverov held up his hand. ‘If I may finish? Let me cite one of your own UK laws, “Incitement to racial hatred”. This law makes it illegal to “deliberately provoke hatred of a racial group by distributing racist material to the public or making inflammatory public speeches, creating racist websites, inciting inflammatory rumours about an individual or an ethnic group, for the purpose of spreading racial discontent”.’

There was a pause. Sverov was happy he had remembered the lines word for word. ‘This is exactly what our laws protect against. Inciting racial hatred, against Belarus and its President.’

‘But these laws are being interpreted in a very sweeping manner. Take, for instance, the case of Mikolai Markevich, the editor of the Den newspaper. He was sentenced to eighteen months forced labour in 2002 for allegedly insulting President Lukachev…’

Sverov leaned forward in his seat. ‘Our laws dictate that, for national security reasons, I cannot comment on individual cases.’

‘But would you like to hear what Mr Markevich himself had to say on the matter?’

‘I do not think your audience would want to hear the ranting of a convicted criminal.’

Sverov was on the brink of cancelling the interview but feared the repercussions from the President. He had started well, made some good, persuasive points, and now had to ensure he continued in the same manner. White wasn’t going to make him look small or weak.

White pursed his lips before continuing. ‘The EU has shut its doors to you. Are you not the lonely man of Europe?’

‘Since 1998 we have been an active member of the Non-Aligned Movement, which has some 116 member states. This is the majority of the world community. Belarus, as a NAM member state, is not alone. Belarus has an active 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 smirked at the second name; Mincer gave him a look that said, ‘I’ve heard it all before’.

‘Interviewee has declined the offer of counsel.’ Mincer started the interview. ‘Mr Fox. Can I call you James?’

‘Only my mother calls me James. My name’s Paddy.’

‘Can I call you Paddy?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

‘Paddy, we’ve checked the information you gave to our desk sergeant and I have a couple of questions.’

‘Fire away.’

Mincer ran his right index finger down a page of text. ‘You were in the army?’

‘Correct, man and boy.’

‘The Gordon Highlanders? You left the service in 2004.’

‘When I turned forty.’

‘Right, but after looking further at the army records you left the Highlanders in ’85 after serving four years. How do you account for this?’

Fox rolled his eyes. ‘I’m afraid that’s classified.’

‘Classified?’ Flynn snorted. ‘What do you mean?’

Paddy shrugged. ‘I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act. I can’t discuss that with you. I could tell you but I’d have to shoot you.’

Flynn blanched. ‘Is that an appropriate comment?’

Mincer placed his hand on Flynn’s shoulder. ‘Well, let’s move things on a bit. Ray?’

Flynn nodded and took over the questioning while Mincer listened. ‘You shot four men. Did you know them?’

‘No.’

‘What about Sawyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why did you shoot him?’

‘I didn’t know it was him.’

‘But you shot him.’ Flynn folded his arms.

The scene flashed in his mind. The cars, the girl, the X-rays, and then Leo Sawyer. ‘Yes. He was running, I thought he had a weapon.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘You shot an unarmed man. An innocent man.’

‘I also shot three X-rays. I thought Sawyer was the fourth. I made a mistake.’

‘You murdered three men and attempted to murder a fourth.’

Fox’s eyes flashed. So Sawyer was alive? ‘I rescued a girl. A girl who was the victim of a kidnapping. Where is she now? How is she?’

Mincer spoke. ‘She was taken away by her uncle. She’s safe.’

‘Who was she?’

Flynn undid his top button. ‘A schoolgirl studying at Roedean. Now back to you…’

‘What about the other two, in the other car. Are they in custody?’

Flynn took a deep breath but Mincer, playing ‘good cop’, spoke. ‘No.’

Fox shook his head. ‘If your officers had listened to me first, rather than arresting me, there wouldn’t be two terrorists running free on the south coast!’

Flynn was breathing deeply. Fox could tell this wasn’t a game to him; he really was ‘bad cop’. ‘You shot an innocent bystander who was your former boss. Coincidence?’

Fox smiled; he would not rise to the bait. In the jungles of South America he had been interrogated by people with no rules and was now being snarled at by a man wearing an M&S machine-washable suit. He spoke slowly. ‘Yes, Mr Flynn. It was a coincidence and an accident. I didn’t know it was Sawyer when I pulled the trigger. It was a decision I took, but it was wrong. Unless you’ve been in a firefight, Mr Flynn, you have no frame of reference.’

Flynn fumed. ‘This was Shoreham beach not bloody Baghdad!’

‘But the guns were the same,’ Fox replied.

‘OK, OK.’ Good cop again. ‘Now, let’s go through your statement from the beginning.’

Residence of the President of Belarus, Minsk, Belarus

Crushing the sheet into a ball with his fist, the special adviser to the President of Belarus bellowed, ‘No… No… NO!’

Having never seen him so angry, the head of the Ministry of Energy shook as he spoke. ‘Eduard Alexeievich, what will be our response?’

Eduard Kozlov put his left hand on his hip and held the crushed memo up in his right. His eyes were burning with fury, his fist trembling as he spat. ‘Our response? They dare to prevent the nation of Belarus from receiving its gas? Our response will be to demand that they continue to supply us!’

Kushnerov hardly dared speak further but forced himself to do so. ‘I understand, Eduard Alexeievich, but what of the $500 million we owe them?’

‘They are thieves, Yarislav Ivanovich, thieves! Nothing more. When we were one country it was our shared gas, but now they expect us to pay $100 per 1,000 cubic meters! Our “strategic partner” wants to bankrupt us!’

Kozlov sat heavily at his desk. Kushnerov remained standing while the presidential adviser rubbed his eyes hard with his fists before gesturing that his visitor should take a seat. There was an uneasy silence. Both men had been part of the brokered agreement late the previous year that had fixed the price of gas for the next. Russia had already attempted to increase the price for several of her largest customers, including neighbouring Ukraine, stating that all such prices were based on ‘outdated Soviet agreements’. The result: Russia had turned off the supply to Ukraine for several days in late December. Deliveries to Russia’s largest European customers fell in turn as Ukraine allegedly ‘skimmed’ the gas it needed from an export pipeline transiting its territory.

Belarus, too, faced the taps being turned off. Under immense coercive pressure, and minutes before ringing in the New Year, they had hastily agreed a price: $100 per 1,000 cubic meters of gas – a massive increase from the previous price of $47. To soften the blow, however, Russia agreed that Belarus would pay just $55 per 1,000 cubic meters for the first half of the year, then make up the difference of nearly $500 million by the end of July.

It had been a delaying tactic – both sides knew this, but Russia had a further objective. Concerns were voiced in the EU parliament about the union’s reliance on Russian fuel; RusGaz supplied a quarter of Europe’s gas. Member states were starting to get nervous, looking into the possibility of finding alternative suppliers. In the Kremlin, worried words were exchanged. This was exactly the opposite image that RusGaz wanted to promote. In order to secure the transit of gas, thus allaying the fears of the Brussels ‘Eurocrats’, Russia threw Belarus a bone: sell half of your national pipeline company, Beltransgaz, to our gas company, RusGaz; your bill will then be paid and we will guarantee no more price increases. More importantly, the Russians didn’t need to add that the EU’s fears would be dismissed.

The ultra-nationalist President of Belarus was loath to sell off his country’s assets until told by his own people that they couldn’t afford to run them. Feigning indignity in public, but realising his lucky escape in private, he agreed. RusGaz purchased a percentage of Beltransgaz for $2.5 billion and, to show good faith, made initial instalments totalling $625 million. Yet by the due date for the Belarusian ‘gas bill’, the country had defaulted. RusGaz’s money had been transferred to the Belarusian Ministry of Finance and the $500 million went unpaid.

Kushnerov broke the silence. ‘We must ask the finance minister to pay up.’

Kozlov opened and closed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘That is what I shall advise the President.’

Kushnerov, by nature a timid and nervous man, clasped his hands tighter. He didn’t like this double-dealing and trickery. For him, a price was a price and a deal a deal – the old Soviet way – but now everything was skewed by capitalism, the need for greed. ‘So what is our response?’ The conversation, as he feared his lunch just might, had come full circle.

Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, UK

The international reporters and journalists sat and waited for the press conference to start. The ambassador’s press secretary had just finished going over the rules they must abide by: not to interrupt His Highness while he was speaking and not to address him unless he invited questions. The Saudis did press differently to almost everyone else. In their opinion the press were there to listen, accept, and report. The crews from the BBC and Sky News exchanged looks and rolled eyes.

His Highness Umar Al Kabir, Saudi ambassador to the United Kingdom, entered the conference room and sat. Behind him on the wall was a large banner emblazoned with the Saudi national emblem, the crossed swords above the palm tree. He looked at the amassed reporters from the international press and started his statement to them.

‘At approximately 11 a.m. today, my niece, Princess Jinan, was abducted from her place of education by a group of unknown men.’ There were deep intakes of breath around the room and camera flashes. Prince Umar continued. ‘She was gagged, bound, and placed in the back of a car. Her father, my brother Prince Fouad, was contacted this morning by the kidnappers, who made ridiculous demands.’ He paused and looked around the room, the flashbulbs of innumerable cameras painting his face. He nodded then continued. ‘I am happy to say that, as of 1 p.m. today, Princess Jinan is safe.’

There was a muttering around the room and several reporters threw up their hands, while others attempted to ask questions. Umar reined in his annoyance and instead addressed them directly. ‘Yes, you. Please ask your question.’

The reporter from Sky News started to speak. ‘Your Highness, can you please tell me if she was rescued or returned?’

Umar nodded. ‘She was rescued by a very honourable British citizen who happened to see her with the kidnappers.’ His lips curled up to form a smile; he was about to play his trump card. ‘You have video footage of the rescue already; you have been showing it on your networks for the past three hours.’

The room exploded as hands were thrown up; others left the room, retrieving mobile phones in order to call their networks.

Umar held up both hands. ‘Gentlemen, and ladies, on behalf of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia I wish to personally reward and thank my niece’s saviour. I will be meeting with him here within the next two days. All of you are invited.’

Prince Umar stood, nodded, and left the room. The press secretary was mobbed by reporters and camera crews wanting more clarification.

In Whitehall, Robert Holmcroft slammed his fists on the desktop and swore out loud for the first time in years. His friend, Umar, had just bamboozled him. He had publicly thanked a murder suspect for saving the life of Princess Jinan, a man who was currently being held pending charges! The deaths had been playing on international TV screens all afternoon. As Home Secretary he had the power to issue a ‘DA-Notice’, an official ‘request’ to news editors not to publish items on specified subjects, for reasons of national security. This story should have come under DA-Notice 05: United Kingdom Security & Intelligence Special Services. But he had been too late. The cat was well and truly out of the bag with this story thanks to a pair of juvenile delinquents with 3G mobile video telephones using YouTube.

The light on his desk phone flashed and he glared at it before pressing the answer button. ‘Yes!’

There was a pause; his secretary was taken aback by his angry tone. ‘The Prime Minister is on the line.’

Holmcroft let out a sigh. ‘Put him through.’ This was going to be a very difficult conversation.

Minsk, Belarus

The man with no official title was the first passenger to step off the Belavia flight from Moscow. He was greeted by a large black government sedan and driven away without completing any form of customs formalities. Maksim Gurov was the deadly hand of the Premier Minister of the Russian Federation.

A former member of the Russian KGB, the FSB as it had become in 1995, he had been in the First Chief Directorate, responsible for foreign operations and intelligence gathering; within this, he had commanded the ‘Vympel’, the most secretive and deadly of all the KGB Special Forces groups.

He didn’t appear officially on any staff list. He was known only within the Russian Premier Minister’s very small and select circle of advisers, the powerful and the deadly. This meeting was to be with Ivan Sverov, head of the Belarusian KGB. No official records would be kept; to all intents and purposes, the meeting wouldn’t have taken place because Gurov didn’t officially exist. He hadn’t done so since 1995.

Gurov sat in silence in the back of the sedan as they sped towards the presidential dacha in the Minsk woods. He had a simple proposal to deliver and expected a simple answer. He would be back in the air within three hours, the last passenger to be let onto the plane.

The Mercedes paused briefly as the heavy iron gates were drawn back, before continuing on into the grounds of the dacha. A light rain had started to fall, obscuring what was left of the weak daylight that attempted to penetrate the heavy tree cover.

Inside the dacha, Sverov stood by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth from the burning logs. Behind him on the wall, the eyes of the President seemed to peer from the large oil painting. It was August and the dacha felt unseasonably cool; a severe winter was expected for the people of Belarus. He heard his security team open the front door and straightened to receive his guest, the man from Moscow.

Gurov wasn’t a memorable man in terms of looks or stature. At just under six feet he was of average height, weight, and build. He had the look of a middle-level banker, except for his eyes, which were an unnerving dull grey that did little to hide the seriousness of the mind behind them.

Sverov extended his hand. ‘It is a privilege to finally make your acquaintance.’ The handshake was firm and he fought the urge to shiver. ‘Please take a seat.’

Gurov nodded and sat. ‘Director Sverov, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.’

‘My pleasure.’ There had been no choice; his President had been informed that this man was coming but Sverov saw no reason to be impolite. He sat opposite his visitor, a low table separating them. A pot of coffee sat in the middle.

‘It has been brought to the attention of my Premier Minister that your country has certain unpaid debts relating to the supply of gas.’

Sverov blinked but said nothing. This was not his area of expertise. The KGB had nothing to do with the Ministry of Energy.

Gurov continued. ‘It was necessary for RusGaz to terminate your supply. I am not here, however, to speak of unpaid bills or to collect payment. Please do not see me as an enforcer. I am here to deliver a suggestion, a proposal to you, which could write off the $500 million that your country owes mine. I have sent your President only the outline of the proposal. It is you, as Director of the KGB, who would implement it.’

‘I see.’ He didn’t. Who did this Russian think he was?

Gurov handed him a large envelope. ‘In here you will find detailed plans, methods of contact, and timelines.’

Incredulous, Sverov placed the contents on the table. ‘Forgive me, I do not quite understand. I report directly to the President of Belarus and it is from him that I take my orders.’

Gurov looked into the Belarusian’s eyes. ‘Once this meeting is over, call your President. Until then, accept what I say.’

Sverov folded his arms. He had nothing to lose. ‘Carry on.’

‘You have a man we need to use. Voloshin. Konstantin Andreyevich.’

Sverov’s eyes opened wide. Voloshin was one of the Belarusian KGB’s most closely guarded secrets. A Spetsnaz member trained to carry out international covert operations and acts of sabotage in his country’s name. A ‘deniable operative’ as the West liked to call them.

‘Do not be surprised that I know of this man, Director. Our paths have on occasion crossed. It is a tribute to you that I wish for this agent to be used.’

Sverov looked down at the papers. ‘You say that everything is laid out here?’

‘That is what I said. I do not have much time to brief you, Director, therefore I believe it would be advantageous if I were to speak while you listen.’

Sverov nodded, said nothing, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, London, UK

Paddy Fox pulled at his shirt collar in an attempt to loosen it slightly. He hated being dressed like ‘a monkey’ and had always managed to have his top button undone when working for Dymex. Now, however, in the Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, it had to be buttoned. Ironically, he was dressed as though he were attending a job interview. In the waiting room next to him sat DC Flynn, acting as a minder from Scotland Yard. Fox was under arrest for murder and attempted murder, even though there was a campaign in the media to have all charges dropped. The Sun had even nicknamed him the ‘Desert Fox’ for saving the Saudi princess. They had interviewed his neighbour Jim, who, without mentioning the Regiment, had implied that Fox had been a ‘special’ soldier.

On the advice of the Home Secretary, the press hadn’t been invited to the embassy a second time. There had been a group of ‘paps’ outside, but Fox’s minder and the embassy’s security detail had managed to shield his face. The media was desperate for a recent picture as the videophone footage had been pixelated too much for their liking. It was all fuss over nothing as far as he was concerned. He had done what he was trained to do: rescue hostages and neutralise X-rays. He hadn’t known at the time that the hostage was royalty and, frankly, it wasn’t important. He might have fought for ‘Queen and Country’ but he wasn’t particularly in awe of the first. Fox pulled at his shirt again – he was sure the police had bought him a size too small. As he hadn’t left the cells on bail, a shirt and suit had been ‘acquired’ for him.

The large double doors at the far end of the waiting room opened and a member of the embassy staff beckoned for him to follow. They turned a corner and walked down a long corridor which had various portraits hung on the walls: Saudi royals, camels, and racehorses. They reached another set of large double doors. The man knocked, opened them, and retreated back the way he had come.

Prince Umar stood and left his desk. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored dark-grey business suit, white shirt, and old school tie; his hair and perfectly kempt beard were jet black. He smiled broadly and stretched out his hand to take his visitor’s.

‘Mr Fox, I am extremely honoured to finally meet you.’ The handshake was firm.

‘Thank you for the invite, Your Highness.’

‘And this is?’ Umar looked at the minder.

‘DC Flynn, sir.’

Umar seemed puzzled but shook his hand nonetheless. ‘Please both take a seat.’

The three men crossed the room to an ornate fireplace where Umar sat in a large burgundy leather chair. Fox and Flynn sat on the matching settee opposite him. Umar clapped his hands and a servant brought in a tray of dates and a pot of black coffee. The two guests were given a cup each.

‘Mr Fox, on behalf of my brother Prince Fouad and the House of Saud, I want to thank you for rescuing my beloved niece, Princess Jinan. You are a man of honour and courage. You were unarmed yet you managed to stop four armed men and save Jinan. We will forever be indebted to you.’ He bowed his head, a mark of great respect for a Saudi royal.

Fox tried not to look too uncomfortable. Like most Regiment men he found it hard to take praise. ‘I just did what anyone would have done, Your Highness.’

‘Anyone with Special Forces training, Mr Fox.’ Umar smiled widely and showed off a set of perfect white teeth. ‘You were in the SAS, if I recall?’

Fox momentarily looked down. ‘I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot confirm or deny your assumption.’

Umar moved his hand as if batting away a fly. ‘You do not have to.’

There was an awkward silence as the prince drank his coffee and his guests did likewise. An embassy staff member entered the room carrying something resting on his arms but covered by a ceremonial cloth. The prince stood abruptly. Fox and Flynn rose also. The man bowed, held out his arms, and Umar took off the sheet to reveal a large ceremonial sword. He held it up with both hands, took a step forward, and offered it to Fox. ‘On behalf of the House of Saud.’

‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ Fox took the sword into his own hands. It was heavier than it looked. The scabbard was ruby and emerald encrusted; the actual metal was a highly polished greyish white. Platinum.

Prince Umar continued to smile and picked up a booklet that had been lying on the table. ‘This is from my brother and me.’

The servant took the sword while Fox studied the booklet. It constituted details of a bank account in Zurich in the name of James Fox. He read on; the balance was two hundred thousand pounds. ‘Your Highness, I can’t accept this.’

Flynn looked over his shoulder. ‘It is the law, Your Highness. A criminal cannot legally profit from his crime.’

Fox felt his face burn. Flynn was a fool. That wasn’t what he’d meant.

Umar’s eyelids flickered and he slowly turned his head to look at Flynn. ‘What crime is that, officer?’

Flynn felt his own face flush. ‘Three counts of murder and one of attempted murder, Your Highness.’

Umar stared for several seconds at Flynn, who dared not move his eyes. ‘Mr Fox has not committed a crime in my country. Let me remind you, Mr Flynn, that you are in the Royal Embassy of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and, as such, on sovereign Saudi soil. If Mr Fox would like to, he could remain here and claim asylum, but I am afraid that you are no longer welcome.’

Inside Flynn bristled, but knew he was powerless. ‘But Your Highness… I…’

Umar held up his hand. ‘Officer Flynn, Mr Fox has committed no crime and he will not be prosecuted.’

Flynn had started to feel resentment. ‘I think that is up to the Crown Prosecution Service to decide.’

‘No. Mr Fox will not be prosecuted. Mr Fox, would you like to remain here?’

For a moment Fox couldn’t decide if the prince was joking or being serious. ‘Thank you for your kind offer but…’

Umar lowered his hand; his face had creased into an expression of reassurance. ‘Do not worry, Mr Fox. The CPS will not bring charges. And now I must take my leave of you.’ He held out his hand once more. ‘Mr Fox, we shall remain forever indebted to you.’

Umar ignored Flynn, turned, and moved towards his desk. The double doors opened behind them and both Englishmen were ushered out of the embassy, but not before Fox had been reunited with his sword. On the street outside, the ‘paps’ had multiplied and now a gang of twenty jostled to get photographs as Flynn, not too delicately, pushed Fox into the waiting unmarked Special Branch BMW 5 series.

‘Go,’ Flynn told the police driver. He turned to Fox, now making no attempt to hide his anger. ‘I suppose you found that funny?’

‘Hilarious.’

Before Flynn could reply his phone rang. He answered it and his jaw dropped. ‘He’s done what?’ In shock, Flynn stared blankly at the back of the driver’s seat for several seconds before closing the handset. ‘You’re free to go.’ Flynn looked like he was choking. ‘The CPS has dropped all charges.’

Fox started to laugh. ‘Drop me off at the nearest bank.’

Flynn spluttered, his face redder than ever. ‘You’re carrying an offensive weapon!’

‘So arrest me.’ Fox held out his hands, ready to be cuffed.

Flynn had no reply; he balled his fists as shock once again gave way to anger.

Chapter 3

Maidan Nezalejsnosti, Kyiv, Ukraine

Dudka stood with his dog on the edge of Maidan Nezalejsnosti and watched as Kyivites went about their daily routines of shopping, drinking, and falling in love. A hot August lunchtime on Kyiv’s Independence Square, and all those who could manage it were away on holiday or at their dachas. Those who stayed behind, however, enjoyed the sunshine.

Maidan Nezalejsnosti was the heart of the city and had been home to innumerable national celebrations. Every New Year’s Eve it was crammed with over a hundred thousand people waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Dudka had been at the festivities in London once, and been most unimpressed. Independence Day was another great celebration, as was Victory Day, the only hangover from the Soviet Union he enjoyed. In recent years, however, the square had been home to many political gatherings.

As the home of the Orange Revolution in 2004, well over two hundred thousand Ukrainians had camped and protested until they caused a rerun of the presidential election. One year later it became the home of those wishing to cause a rerun of the parliamentary elections. The ironic aspect to Dudka was that in the first event the then Prime Minister had illegally won the election while in the second he claimed he had illegally lost. And now? Well, now he was the President of Ukraine.

Such were the politics of Ukraine. In the past Dudka had tried to keep out of it all and had ‘supported’ the right person, regardless of his personal preferences. He had initially been appointed by Ukraine’s first President in 1992, and again kept his views to himself when promoted by his successor to the position of Deputy Head of the SBU, head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime (Director). However his boss – he hated to think of him as that – Yuri Zlotnik, was a highly political beast.

Zlotnik’s position as head of the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) was a parliamentary appointment, upon recommendation by the President. Directly under Zlotnik were deputies who were appointed, in turn, on his recommendation, again by the President of Ukraine. In normal circumstances this process would have resulted in a fair, impartial, and dedicated security service; however, in a government where the President and Prime Minister had been at war, problems arose.

Zlotnik was a compromise candidate, the President’s initial recommendation having been boycotted by the parliament, led by the then Prime Minister. It had been a bitter time as the two sides played a game of chess. Finally, as a ‘compromise’, Dudka took delight in remembering, Zlotnik had been confirmed as head of the SBU. Zlotnik then attempted to clean house by putting pressure on the President to appoint men close to him who were, no surprise to anyone, supporters of his sponsor, the Kremlin-favoured Prime Minister. Now, two years later, the former Prime Minister, originally a mechanic from the eastern city of Donetsk, had finally become the President of Ukraine. Zlotnik and his pro-Russian cronies were now cemented in power, the President’s men.

Zlotnik had decided to keep Dudka in place. Dudka was the oldest and most respected Director in the SBU, with years of distinguished service prior to that with the Soviet KGB. With age, however, Dudka had become less subtle and it was no secret that he wasn’t a fan of the new President and his men from Donetsk. If asked, Dudka no longer held back with his honest and sometimes blunt views.

Dudka reached down to stroke his dog, a grin on his face. He remembered how Zlotnik had turned red when, at an office party, Dudka had shared these views with him. Zlotnik had slammed his vodka glass down on the table and stormed off. As such, Dudka was, in essence, the enemy within. He was constantly butting heads with his boss but he had got results, more so than Zlotnik’s cronies. He was, as Zlotnik had told him to his face, ‘an oxymoron – a convenient inconvenience’.

Dudka turned and headed home, back up Karl Marx Street, or Horodetskoho Street as it had now been renamed, to his flat two minutes away on Zankovetskaya Street. Both streets, the first named after a political activist, the second after an apolitical actress, were busy with locals and tourists alike, shopping at the overpriced boutiques. No doubt his colleague and head of the SBU’s Anti-terrorist Centre, Pavel Utkin, would be looking at the summer crowds and worrying. He saw danger in everything.

Dudka and Utkin also did not see eye to eye. They were constantly colliding with each other over who had jurisdiction, his own Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organised Crime or Utkin’s Anti-terrorist Centre. Nowadays the distinction wasn’t clear; organised crime seemed to be increasingly carried out to fund terrorism. For his part, Dudka wanted things to be smooth. It was Utkin, the younger man by twenty years, with an eye on the top job, who wanted to take over. The problem was that Utkin, too, was one of the President’s men.

Dudka found himself working with the ‘Bandits from Donetsk’ – as the press, not he, had labelled them. The consensus had been that January’s presidential elections would oust the bandits. Consensus had been wrong. The election had given them the most powerful position of all, that of President of Ukraine.

Dudka reached his building, entered the lift, and rose to the third floor. His official lunch hour over, he settled his dog back down and left for his office. He would walk, not bothering to use his car, an advantage of living in the very heart of the city. He’d be there within sixteen minutes, taking a circuitous route to bypass the crowds on the central square. He put his tie and jacket back on, both bought from the state-owned central store, Tzum, and shut the front door.

Since secession from the Soviet Union, Ukraine had changed greatly and yet not at all, he mused as he journeyed back down Zankovetskaya. The shops lining the capital’s streets were full of expensive imported goods and the city bustled with a tenfold increase in traffic, but beneath the surface many of the same people were running the country. They might have renounced communism but they were still Soviet in mentality. The faces hadn’t changed either. It was the new generation that would really change the place and he feared that, at seventy-two, he wouldn’t live long enough to see his dear country become fully grown. His day had gone and all he could do now was ensure his homeland didn’t implode before he could hand it over. His own protégé, Blazhevich, was one of the people who would shape the future of the SBU. He was young, not yet thirty-five, and untarnished by the Soviet past. He had first proved himself to be a worthy officer two years before, when, working together, they had halted an international arms trading network. If Dudka had to name one good man in the nest of vipers that the SBU had become, it would be Vitaly Blazhevich.

Dudka crossed Kyiv’s main boulevard, Khreshatik, by means of the underpass and puffed as he walked up Prorizna Street. The hills kept him trim. He thought of himself as solid. Certainly not fat. Yet his late wife, the ballerina, had always been putting him on a diet! Two American businessmen passed him walking downhill. One was gesticulating to the other, who was nodding and looking serious. Dudka took this in his stride. Fifteen years ago all foreigners would have been stared at, but today, although still undiscovered by international tourism, more and more foreign businessmen were in Ukraine.

The criminal element, too, seemed to understand the value of ‘foreign business diversity’. In the early days his caseload had been heavy with instances of attempted or actual extortion on and against foreign business interests. Now these were few and far between as the criminals themselves tried to expand abroad. This, however, caused new headaches as he laboured to improve ties with foreign agencies and Interpol. But Dudka’s current caseload was surprisingly light. Not much had happened in the last two months; perhaps the bandits were watching and waiting for the political situation to settle before deciding on the most profitable type of ‘business’? Or perhaps, he mused once more, they, too, were just on holiday?

SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, UK

Snow climbed the stairs to stretch his thigh muscles. Sitting for too long in traffic, his left leg had become stiff. He reached Patchem’s floor, his thighs gently warmed, crossed the open-plan section, and pushed the door that led to the reception area for the ‘Soviet Desk’, as it was still affectionately called by the longer-serving officers. Patchem’s overly serious secretary nodded that he should enter. Patchem gestured for Snow to sit. Through the large thick glass window, the Thames below reflected the mid-morning sun.

‘Paddy Fox.’ Patchem didn’t waste his words.

Snow nodded. The dramatic rescue footage, which some overexcited journalists were saying was the most sensational since the Iranian Embassy siege, had made Fox something of a media sensation. The royal endorsement of Umar Al Kabir had only added to this. It had been leaked that Fox was an SAS veteran of both Iraq wars. The media, who liked nothing more than a real-life ‘action hero’, clamoured for more information and pictures like a pack of feral dogs. Even Britain’s most well-known former SAS member turned author had commented on Fox’s actions in his newspaper column.

‘I know you were in different squadrons, generations, but you must have met over the years?’

‘We have met.’

Snow didn’t mention the freezing nights spent in a hedgerow in South Armagh’s ‘Bandit Country’ while on attachment to ‘The Det’, the Royal Ulster Constabulary’s intelligence unit. The pair of them had been deployed to relay information on a suspected new IRA cell.

‘What do you think of him?’ Patchem’s bright-blue eyes burned into Snow’s. ‘Liked by most, respected by all, I assume?’ Patchem continued, with mild sarcasm.

‘Yes.’ What was he getting at?

‘But in possession of a short temper. He wouldn’t get past the psych test in today’s Regiment selection. Six weren’t interested in him either, even though he spoke Arabic. Here, have a look.’ Patchem removed a buff-coloured file from his briefcase on the table in front of him.

Snow took the file and opened it. It was a censored version of the military record of one James Celtic Fox. A boy soldier in the Gordon Highlanders, he had passed selection at the age of twenty-one and into B Squadron 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. Mobility Troop. Specialist: demolition. The file listed some of the campaigns he had undertaken, many not known outside the confines of Whitehall and Stirling Lines. Large areas had been blacked out when the file had been photocopied.

‘Fox made corporal in the Highlanders but was demoted back to private.’

Snow looked up from the page. ‘Oh?’

Patchem spoke, matter-of-fact. ‘He threw his sergeant major out of a window.’

Snow wasn’t surprised; he’d believe anything of Paddy.

‘Evidently he found the bugger in bed with his wife. Luckily for both men the room was on the first floor! So, to business.’ Patchem held his hand out for Snow to return the file. ‘As the media has been so keen to broadcast to the world, an unknown terrorist organisation attempted to abduct the daughter of a member of the Saudi royal family. Fox stopped them, shot three of the kidnappers, and rescued the girl. Unfortunately he also seriously wounded a bystander – you’ll have seen all this on TV’

Snow nodded.

‘Well, this person, the “innocent passer-by”, happened to be having an affair with Fox’s second wife.’

‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘That’s exactly what the CPS thought. However, it has been decided, though not made public yet, that he’s not to be charged with attempted murder. It turns out the Saudis have some friends in very high places. These people “persuaded” the Home Secretary to drop all charges against Fox.’

It would be put down to the ‘special relationship’ between Saudi and the UK, which in reality had far more to do with arms contracts. Patchem had heard that Saudi Arabia had threatened to nullify the latest contract if Fox were prosecuted. Al Kabir was the Saudi signatory.

‘What’s more, Fouad Al Kabir is to offer Fox a position in Riyadh, as head of security, to show his gratitude. What I want you to do is persuade Fox to take it.’ Patchem pressed a button on his keyboard and an image was projected on the blank, light-blue wall behind Snow’s head. ‘Recognise him?’

Snow swivelled in his chair and saw an image of a dead body. The picture zoomed in and Snow recognised the man. A second image, this one a still from Snow’s mobile video footage taken in Harley Street, appeared next to the face.

‘The same person.’

‘I agree. He has yet to be identified, but this is one of the abductors Fox neutralised. The attack on Durrani and the abduction are linked.’

Snow frowned. ‘Are you saying that Dr Durrani had links or dealings with terrorists?’

‘Absolutely not. He had a higher security clearance than you. He’d worked for us for years and was fully vetted. He trained in the UK but was a Pashtun, originally from Quetta. His family came to the UK when the Soviets invaded neighbouring Afghanistan. Due to his contact with us, we monitored all his patients. We know they included members of the Saudi royal family. With regard to whoever perpetrated these two acts, to be candid, we have no leads whatsoever. Furthermore, the media and the PM are asking “why”. The last thing we need is someone putting the desert wind up the Saudis.’ 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 were to be presented, I would be able to assist in both the funding and equipping of any attack.’

‘Training?’

‘Special Forces training, my brother.’

There was a pause as the wash of a jet ski caused the launch to rock. Khalid looked the man in the eye. ‘This is an interesting proposal.’

‘One that you should accept.’

‘How is it that you came to know of my beliefs?’ Khalid was still not completely trusting of this Chechen. He could have accessed his handler’s file to entrap him, part of the Christian crusaders’ war against the true believers.

‘Alexander Williamovich wanted me to say “my love for my country is as pure as the vodka that has replaced the love of my wife”.’

Khalid grunted, reassured. The odd sentence was confirmation that this man had indeed come from, or had the blessing of, his former Soviet handler. An amateurish and clichéd device which was effective for that very reason.

‘How is the vodka-soaked fool?’

‘Dead. He was murdered by the very Russians he served. Did you know that his grandfather was also Chechen?’

Khalid was saddened. It had been this man who had recruited him out of Oxford, masquerading as a fellow undergraduate. ‘My brother, I should like to accept your kind offer of assistance.’

The Chechen nodded and smiled briefly. ‘We can make immediate preparations, my brother. I have a list of targets that I assume you would want to attack.’

‘I have my own target list.’ Khalid frowned. He didn’t like taking orders and wanted to make it quite clear that he, even if funded by this man and his people, would be in charge.

The Chechen had expected this. The Arabs were a proud race, much like the Russians, he mused, but both were easy to lead, if hard to control. ‘I assure you, my brother, that I only suggest my targets because I have intelligence on them and it could be that some of our targets are the same.’

‘Perhaps then we should compare lists?’

‘I see you have already targeted the Al Kabir family.’

Khalid’s eyebrow twitched with surprise. ‘An unfortunate mistake caused the girl to be rescued.’

‘I am here to prevent unfortunate mistakes. Next time we may meet in Dubai, in a more fitting environment.’

‘Insha’Allah’

Shoreham Beach, UK

A shiny green Mini Cooper, plastered with company decals, pulled up outside Fox’s house and the driver got out.

‘Mr McDonald?’ The estate agent was young, suited, and eager.

‘Aye, that’s me.’ Fox, now wearing a baseball cap, shook with his right hand, a small carrier bag of shopping swaying gently in his left.

‘John, John Edgar.’

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice, John.’ Fox had made his accent thicker than normal.

‘That’s no problem at all, Mr McDonald.’ Edgar twiddled the keys on his finger nervously. ‘Well, as you can see, it’s a nice, quiet street. What brings you to the area?’

‘I’m looking for somewhere nearer to my work.’

Edgar nodded, to show his understanding. ‘Good. Well, it’s a new development, just over three years old, I believe. Shall we go inside?’

‘Let’s.’

The man from Andrews & Son opened the front door and stepped back to let Fox inside. As Fox passed, he swiped the keys from the door.

‘Thanks. I’ll take it.’

Edgar was confused but smiled nevertheless until the door closed and he was locked out. Fox winked at himself in the hall mirror as he made for the kitchen, ignoring the doorbell, which the bemused estate agent now rang. Reaching under the sink he turned the water back on then opened the understairs cupboard and did the same with the electricity supply. The doorbell had stopped ringing. Fox filled the kettle with water. Edgar’s face appeared at the back window; Fox held up the kettle and gave a ‘thumbs up’ before lowering the roller blind.

Tracey had really done a number on him. The house was bare except for the odd items that had been left strategically to ‘sell it’. The kettle in the kitchen, expensive cooking utensils hanging on their pegs, and magazines, of the type they never read, on the coffee table in the lounge. Luckily, both the TV and three-piece suite had also been used for staging.

A thought suddenly occurred to Fox. He moved quickly to the internal garage door and opened it. There she was, his beloved Porsche, stubbornly standing stock-still and refusing to move until she had been fully restored. She was where he had left her but was now surrounded by boxes. Fox opened the nearest one to find it full of clothes – his. He was relieved; at least she hadn’t thrown them away. Picking up the box he made his way upstairs and took a shower, again ignoring the front door, and now his mobile.

Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

Khalid stared at the desert. Was there no greater example of Allah’s greatness? He was doing His work on earth, carrying out His divine will. It was time to start the new jihad against the infidels, who, in league with the corrupt royals, would defile the house of Islam.

Khalid had received a target list from ‘the Chechen’ and some suggestions. He had found them most acceptable. His men had been instructed and soon, Insha’Allah, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia would be cleansed of the infidel plague and become the true house of Islam.

Wellness Fitness Club, Brighton Marina, UK

The three ‘meats’ were in again, pumping themselves up to ridiculous proportions. Fox shook his head. What a trio of tits! Each in their early twenties, one was well over six foot, the second just under, while the third – who Fox had nicknamed ‘mini-meat’ – was scraping five. As they passed, Fox kept his eyes on the monitor in front of his treadmill and the main report on Sky News, some sort of demonstration in Ukraine. Looking down again he saw that the two larger meats were now loading up the leg press machine for ‘mini-meat’, who as usual was making grunting noises as he pushed the plates away from his body under the ever-increasing pressure.

The guy really was comical, thought Fox. He was square. His shoulders were broader than Fox’s and his chest fuller; the sad thing was that this actually made him look shorter. Meat One and Meat Two egged him on and threw him a bottle of water when he had finished his set.

Fox had seen all sorts in his time, from the wiry types who were happy to run all day to the meatheads who thought they were invincible. These were usually Paras, huge, hulking men who ran into bullets like they were rain but died none the less. Strength was a great thing to have but flexibility and speed were just as important. Fox reached the five-mile mark and slowed down the machine before stepping off.

At forty-five he was in as fine a shape as he had been at twenty-five, or so he claimed. Not for him the beer belly and saggy skin. True, his joints ached more now, but he took a perverse pleasure in confronting the pain and battling through it. He drank greedily at the water fountain before heading for the pull-up bar directly in front of the leg press station and ‘the meats’. Resting between sets, they gave the older man sideways glances. Fox knew they were watching so decided to show off. He jumped up for the bar and, pausing only for a second to get his grip, snapped off ten very fast pull-ups. Dropping back to the floor he noticed their stunned expressions.

‘Bit tired today,’ he said in their general direction as he made for the bench press.

Snow showed a member’s pass and was let in. He followed the signs for the gym. Mid-afternoon and the place was busy with young mums and those who, he supposed, worked shifts. He looked around before spotting the man he wanted to talk to, pumping his arms into the air.

‘Is that a warm-up set?’ Snow looked down at Fox.

It took a second for the old soldier to register the face, then his own creased into a broad smile. ‘Wouldn’t be for you, you English poof!’ Fox rested the weight on the stand and rose to his feet, extending his hand. It had been more than fourteen years since he’d seen the young trooper he’d shared a cold ditch with.

‘It’s good to see you, Paddy.’ Snow shook the large hand.

‘You too, mate.’ Fox jerked his head and implied they should move.

Snow followed him to the personal trainer area in the corner, away from the other gym users. They both sat on different pieces of exercise equipment.

‘So, what are you doing here?’

‘I came to see you.’

‘Well, you see me.’ Fox took a gulp of water.

Snow gave a quick look over his shoulder to see that no one was within earshot. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

Fox wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You still Regiment?’

‘Not quite.’

Fox raised his eyebrows; he knew better than to question any further here at the gym. ‘Listen, let me get a shower and meet me outside. You got a car?’

Snow nodded.

Snow brought his Audi round to the entrance. Five minutes later, he and Fox were leaving Brighton Marina and heading back to Shoreham.

‘You’re a celebrity.’ Snow cast Fox a wry look as they pulled out into the seafront traffic.

‘Apparently I’m very popular on Al-Jazeera.’

‘So what happened?’ Snow wanted to hear it firsthand.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Just me, Paddy.’

Fox folded his arms and leant back in the seat. It was a relief to recount the story to someone without fear of either prosecution or publication. He trusted Snow. As they headed towards Shoreham, Fox gave a full account of his actions on that eventful afternoon.

‘Did you see it was Sawyer before you pulled the trigger?’

Fox kept his eyes on the road. ‘He was in my line of sight.’

‘But did you see it was him?’

‘Yes, I saw him.’ Fox gripped the leather armrest. ‘He was shagging my wife.’

Snow slowed as they reached the outskirts of Shoreham. ‘You didn’t get the job then?’

‘What?’ Fox chuckled. ‘No, I did not.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Take the next on the right; you should be able to park at the Co-op.’

Snow turned and within a minute eased the car into a space.

‘So, who are you working for?’ Fox was blunt.

‘Six.’ Snow had no need to hide the fact.

Fox nodded knowingly. ‘I could tell.’ He tapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘Has this got machineguns and rotating number plates?’

‘No, but it’s got an ejector seat especially for passengers of the Scottish persuasion.’

Fox held up his middle finger in reply as they exited the car.

Snow followed Fox out of the car park and onto the narrow high street. Both men stayed quiet until they’d reached the pub and were sitting with a pint. As usual, the Crown and Anchor was empty except for Burt and Dave. Burt pointed to the newspaper in his hand and gave a thumbs up.

‘So what can I do for you?’ Fox had an idea what his old comrade in arms had been sent to ask.

‘I heard you got offered a big job?’

Fox nodded. ‘Aye, I did that.’

‘I think you should take it.’ Snow sipped his lager.

‘You mean “Six” thinks I should take it?’

‘Yep.’ Patchem had known all along about Snow’s operational relationship with Fox, which was why he had chosen him to make the approach.

Fox downed his pint. ‘Training makes me thirsty. You’ll have to persuade me.’

Snow took the hint and got Fox another pint of bitter and a Diet Coke for himself.

‘What, you become bent or something? Where’s yours?’

‘I’m driving.’

‘You are not. I said you’ll have to persuade me. Now get yourself another. You’re staying the night at mine.’

Snow returned to the bar; he hadn’t needed much encouragement. This time, in addition to his pint, he plonked two double whiskys on the table. ‘If we’re drinking, we’re drinking.’

Fox lifted the spirit glass. ‘Up the arse, no bebies!’

‘You’d know.’

Fox narrowed his eyes. Not many could get away with saying that to him. They both downed the whisky. Dave looked up from his newspaper but said nothing. Fox sipped his pint. ‘So what’ve you been doing for the last decade and a bit?’

Snow recounted his own story, from his return to the Regiment after his assignment with The Det, to assisting the Ukrainian SBU, getting shot, and then ‘joining’ Six.

Fox whistled. ‘Me? After the Regiment I worked for a bunch of tossers for six years, got made redundant, and then, I nearly forgot, killed three bad guys and saved a princess.’

Neither story was the usual ‘reacquainting yourself with your mate’ chat, but then neither man was a normal ‘mate’. Although of different generations, they had worked and almost died together in the SAS. Snow thought back to the night in Armagh when they’d been dragged out of the ditch by Jimmy McKracken, the IRA’s newest and, by reputation, hardest ‘hard man’. Fox, having an Irish father from whom he had inherited the nickname ‘Paddy’, had played the local trump and claimed to be from another cell. He had knocked Snow about with blow after blow to give his story credibility, while using his best Ulster accent.

After McKracken’s men finished planting the roadside bomb, Fox and Snow were taken back to a farmhouse, where, in a world before mass mobile phones, the IRA cell leader wanted to corroborate Fox’s story. Snow was thrown – bruised, head covered in a Hessian sack – into the barn, while Fox was marched to the kitchen. Neither man knew where the other was but both acted as one.

Snow pretended to be more injured than he was and, just as his IRA guard was removing his sack, he lunged out with his leg, sweeping the man to the floor. The young Irishman was winded and dropped his handgun. Snow rolled on top of him and using his head as a weapon, broke the Irishman’s nose before clamping his still-bound hands around the youth’s neck. He had only meant to render him unconscious but the adrenaline of the situation meant he’d pressed too hard.

This was Snow’s first kill, a hard kill, but he had had no time for remorse. Using the volunteer’s knife, he cut through his bonds, collected the gun, and made, as stealthily as possible, for the farmhouse.

In the kitchen, Fox wasn’t tied to the chair but had the eyes of two men on him, while McKracken had moved away to make his call. Having spent his summers with his grandparents, who hadn’t lived far away, Fox was regaling his watchers with stories when one of them sensed movement outside. Fox sprang to his feet and kicked the nearest man in the groin. The first terrorist crumpled and Fox grabbed his assault rifle. As he did, Snow sent two 9mm rounds through the window and into the skull of the second. Fox ventured further into the house, as Snow moved through the door, pistol trained on number one, lying on the floor clutching his groin.

Fox heard shots but McKracken hadn’t stayed to fight. He had taken his Cavalier and was making good his escape. The night had been a success. The bomb was defused and the remaining IRA cell member turned ‘grass’, delivering valuable intelligence. Fox and Snow had made an effective team.

Fox stood. ‘Come on, let’s get some grub.’

‘What about here?’ Snow fancied the homemade steak and kidney pudding.

Fox looked at him as though he was mad. ‘Do you enjoy living?’

Dave, who was collecting the glasses, stared at Fox. ‘Think about me. You get to walk away, but the missus insists on cooking for me every bloody day!’

They exited the pub and moved down the high street. ‘You wanna move the car?’

Snow shook his head. ‘No, it’s a pool car. If it gets towed I’ll get another.’

‘“MI6 takes on clampers” – that’d look good in the Evening Argus.’ Fox enjoyed his own quip. ‘Right, I fancy an Indian.’

Fox marched the pair of them around the corner to the Indian Cottage restaurant, a sixteenth-century cottage converted to become Shoreham’s best Indian. The fact that, like most Indian restaurants, it was owned and staffed by Bangladeshis was lost on the two former soldiers.

*

The noise of a seagull outside the bedroom window woke Snow with a start. Head throbbing, he unzipped the ‘maggot’ Fox had lent him and rolled off the mattress. Wearing only his boxers and T-shirt, he walked to the window and looked out. The house had a view of the street opposite and, if he craned his neck to the left, Shoreham beach and the English Channel. The early morning sunlight danced on the surface of the sea. Snow pulled on his jeans and made his way downstairs in search of ibuprofen, aspirin, or paracetamol – anything to avert the hangover which would soon fully manifest itself.

The sound of a kettle boiling and the smell of bacon met him halfway. As he reached the bottom Fox greeted him with a broad smile. ‘Have a nice lie-in? You must be getting soft in your old age.’

Snow checked the time on the microwave: it read 7:15. Fox grabbed the kettle and poured the scalding water into a pair of mugs. ‘Here, regulation brew. Milk’s in the fridge.’

‘Cheers.’ Snow poured a measure then handed it to Fox. ‘You got any…’

Fox cut him off. ‘Second cupboard. Still got some horse tablets they gave Tracey for her back.’

Snow took two painkillers and gulped them down with hot tea. ‘How are you feeling?’

Fox cracked an egg. ‘Me? Right as rain, but then I’m not an English poof. Sunnyside up?’

‘Yeah,’ Snow nodded, although truth be told he was still full from the previous night’s curry.

‘What time are they expecting you back at spy central?’

‘It’s flexible.’ Snow took another swig of tea. ‘So?’

Fox spread his arms. ‘You want me to give up all this for a fistful of sand?’ Snow remained silent as a smile spread across Fox’s creased face. ‘Did you think I’d actually say no?’

‘No.’

‘Eat.’ Fox slapped two eggs, three rashers of bacon, and a pair of sausages onto a plate. ‘For tomorrow we may die.’

Arizona Bar and Grill, Kyiv, Ukraine

Gennady Dudka was looking forward to seeing his oldest friend, Leonid Sukhoi. He crossed his arms and smiled, reminiscing about times long ago. They had been conscripts together in the Red Army before being selected for the KGB Border Guards, where they had both stayed and risen through the ranks until Sukhoi transferred back to his native Belarus and Dudka returned to his homeland of Ukraine. They had met up as frequently as work would allow over the years and had enabled as much collaboration as possible between their two KGB divisions.

Then, however, 1991 happened and the mighty Soviet Union imploded. The two friends found themselves working for different countries, Sukhoi now employed by the Belarusian KGB and Dudka by the Ukrainian SBU, Ukraine having dropped the Soviet name but not much else. As the Nineties and the new millennium passed, Ukraine had gradually stepped out of the shadows of the former Soviet Union and was walking, if slowly, towards the West and the EU. Belarus, on the other hand, had tried to rebuild the Union and sought to create, first, a ‘Belarusian and Russian Union’ and then a ‘Greater Slavic State’ with Russia, Yugoslavia – as was – and Ukraine. Yugoslavia had crumbled into civil war before they had a chance to sign up, and Ukraine hadn’t answered the door to their neighbour; they were busy entertaining their new visitor – the West. Now isolated by all but the infamous ‘Axis of Evil’ and Russia, Belarus was alone and mainly ignored, a remnant of the Soviet Union that neither fitted into the past nor the new democratic future of Europe.

Dudka hadn’t seen his friend for… he counted on his fingers… close to three years. He frowned. Had it really been so long since Leonid’s granddaughter married her own ambitious KGB officer from Minsk? Time had passed in an instant; now both in their early seventies, Dudka had started to realise that Leonid and he didn’t have all that much time left. Dudka was in as rude health as ever, but he feared for his friend, who, although taller, had always been ‘delicate’. He made a resolution to keep in touch more, in future, with those who mattered to him most.

The restaurant had started to fill up with early Sunday customers; it was just after twelve and Leonid was due any moment. The waitress again asked Dudka if he was ready to order, and for the second time he told her he was waiting for someone and could she just bring him a glass of water and turn the air conditioning down? He shivered; outside it was a balmy, early September day, but here it felt like the midst of winter. His water arrived, complete with ice cubes – an American idea. He gave the waitress a withering look. Not taking the hint, she left as he noticed his old friend enter the room.

Dudka smiled broadly and held out his arms, shook Leonid’s hand, and then embraced him. ‘My dear friend. How good it is to see you!’ He meant it; he loved Leonid like a brother.

Sukhoi also smiled but not quite as warmly. ‘You too, old rogue.’

Dudka took a step back and regarded his friend; he had put on some weight, his shirt and jacket seemed a bit tight, and he did not seem at ease. They sat.

‘I trust it was a good flight from Minsk International?’ It was a joke; neither the airport nor the airline were truly international.

Sukhoi smiled half-heartedly.

Dudka frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

They paused while the waitress brought more water and ordered quickly before she had a chance to leave.

Sukhoi drank his water then mopped his brow; he was sweating. ‘Genna, you are the only one I can speak to. You are the only one I trust.’

Dudka’s expression turned serious. ‘Whatever I can do to help, I will – you know that, Leonya.’

The head of the Belarusian KGB’s third directorate nodded. He was in a dangerous position; so dangerous, in fact, that he had had to leave the country he commanded and enter Ukraine to seek help. He glanced around the restaurant. He had initially chosen it at random but was later happy to find it was an ex-pat favourite – not many old Soviets.

‘There are certain elements in my government that would seek to destroy my country.’ Sukhoi’s tone was serious. His words hung in the air as their soup arrived, Borsch being one of the only Ukrainian dishes on the menu.

‘Lukachev has done a good job so far; I say let him finish.’ Dudka dipped his roll then took a soggy bite; his comment was laced with sarcasm.

Sukhoi noticed a crumb fall onto his friend’s tie. It was no secret between them that neither was enamoured of the Belarusian leader. The problem was that like-minded men in Belarus were hard to find. All those of their age had too much to lose and the younger generations had been indoctrinated during the overlong years of Lukachev’s rule.

‘Something terrible is being planned, something that would almost certainly bring about the destruction of the Belarusian nation.’

Dudka’s spoon stopped and its contents fell back into the bowl, splattering his tie. His friend was being even more alarmist than usual. ‘What is this about?’

The KGB man swallowed hard. The restaurant was fine for making contact but he couldn’t take any more chances. ‘Is there somewhere we can go that is secure?’

Dudka narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes. You are serious?’

Sukhoi nodded. ‘I need help, Genna.’

Dudka knew not to push the matter any further. Both men sat in silence and finished their soup, neither having an appetite for a main course.

Dudka paid and they left. He had parked his government-issue Volga outside. The SBU’s younger men had been given new Volkswagen Passats but he preferred his Volga. He nodded at the restaurant’s security guard, who, dressed in full urban grey and blue camouflaged fatigues, looked more like a commando than a glorified doorman, and unlocked the car parked just outside. Traffic rumbled past them along the Naberezhno-Khreshatik, the riverside highway that neatly dissected Kyiv.

Sukhoi looked around nervously as he opened the passenger door. Suddenly he groaned and fell forward onto the bonnet before sliding off and onto the asphalt.

‘Leonya!’ Dudka moved swiftly, for a man of his age, around the far side of the car. He heard a sound like heavy hailstones and saw Sukhoi’s body convulse. Dudka threw himself to the floor. Someone with a silenced weapon was shooting at them! Lying flat on his face, he reached out to grab Sukhoi’s hand. Something hit him and there was a sharp, stinging sensation on his face. Dudka winced but reached out again. He couldn’t feel a pulse. Raising his head, he saw an Audi 80 parked on the other side of the road pull off in the direction of the new bridge and the city’s left bank.

Moving with more speed than he had done in twenty years, Dudka was up and firing his service-issue Glock 9mm at the disappearing target. The shots were wild except for one, which smashed the rear windscreen. Dudka turned back to his best friend, who lay motionless at his feet; there were specks of blood behind his head.

Chapter 4

King Khalid Airport, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

For the past ten minutes the passengers around Fox had formed long queues for the toilets on the Riyadh-bound Boeing 747. Once in the tiny cubicles they removed their Western clothes and replaced them with Arab robes. The cabin changed from a sea of coloured shirts to an almost monochrome of men in white thobes and women in jet-black abayas. The only flashes of colour now came from the red-chequered headdresses of the Saudi men and the few remaining Westerners.

Just before they entered Saudi airspace the chief flight attendant announced that, to comply with the law of the land, the bar would now be closed. The cabin crew would collect all miniatures and empty glasses. Unlike other flights, no one here dared hide a bottle in their pocket for later. Alcohol was strictly forbidden in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was a good job the content of the passengers’ stomachs wasn’t scanned, Fox thought to himself. He had never seen so much booze being put away on a commercial flight; it had been like a knees-up at Stirling Lines!

Thirty-five minutes later, his seat upright and tray stowed, Fox braced himself for landing. He didn’t fear flying; he feared crashing. As the plane touched down there was applause from the locals returning to the Kingdom; the ex-pats, however, didn’t look pleased. No sooner had the aircraft come to a halt than the Saudis were standing and removing their bags from overhead lockers. The flight crew asked for all passengers to remain seated once, then a second time, then gave up.

Fox collected his rucksack from the overhead locker and exited the plane. He looked wistfully at the grinning cabin crew, realising this was probably the last time he would see female flesh for a while. Stepping out of the fuselage, the heat hit him like a wall. The temperature was in the forties and he immediately felt drowsy. Alcohol, heat, and tiredness did not a good mix make. The short drive to the terminal was cramped and hot. The terminal was also crowded, but cooler, as innumerable air-conditioning vents spat at travellers.

At passport control there were several long queues, each for a different counter, one for KSA residents, another for diplomats, yet another for VIPs, and finally the one for the rest of the world. There had been another desk for ‘tourists’, meaning the Hajj pilgrims, until all Hajj flights had been redirected to Jeddah and a purpose-built terminal. Millions of the faithful, dressed in loincloths, would descend upon the Kingdom annually for the ritual of circling the pillars and throwing stones or something – Fox didn’t care for the facts; to him it was daft, pure and simple. The world’s largest and most dangerous pyjama party where, each year, hundreds were crushed to death. These thoughts, however, were highly offensive to Muslims and would get him arrested, if not worse, if he were to voice them. Fox joined the nearest and longest line. To his right was the sign for the toilets. It had two signs, one showing the head of a bearded man wearing robe and headdress and the other a woman’s veiled face. It looked like a prop from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

‘Any women here?’ Fox muttered to himself as he replayed the stoning scene in his head.

The queue moved slowly forward and eventually Fox produced his passport. His visa was examined by a uniformed Saudi, whose eyes opened wide on seeing that he was to work directly for the royal family. It was stamped and returned. Just through the gates, Fox was greeted by an immaculately dressed military officer. He held out his hand.

‘Welcome to Saudi Arabia, Sergeant Fox.’

Fox cringed and shook the proffered hand; the grip was firm. ‘Paddy will do fine.’

‘Paddy.’

The eyes of the young officer gleamed. ‘His Royal Highness sent me personally to collect you and speed your entrance into the Kingdom. Now, if you will follow me, we shall expedite your luggage. I hope your flight was agreeable? I am Captain Barakat.’

‘Nice to meet you, Captain.’

‘Basil.’

Fox looked amused and the captain shrugged. ‘I know that in your country it is a funny name. Basil Brush, Basil Fawlty, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘But in Arabic it means “brave”.’

‘I meant no offence.’ Fox spoke in Arabic.

Basil smiled broadly. ‘Your Arabic is excellent.’

‘So is your English. Sandhurst?’

‘That is correct, Paddy; I believe your language skills stem from Hereford?’

Inside, Fox swore. Who else knew he’d been in the Regiment? ‘Correct.’

They walked along a corridor and reached the customs hall. The four conveyor belts were empty but the hall was packed with passengers from earlier flights, patiently waiting.

Basil put his hand on Fox’s arm. ‘Stay here a moment.’

The officer disappeared through a door and two minutes later the nearest conveyor belt started to whir, luggage from the BA flight tumbling down the chute. Fox saw his dark-red Samsonite case, always easy to spot, and grabbed it.

Basil reappeared and took the handle. ‘Allow me.’

Basil led Fox towards the customs area. The officials, on seeing Basil, waved them past and within seconds they were pushing through the swarms of taxi drivers, eager relatives, and chauffeurs, all waiting for their pickups. Fox fumbled inside his rucksack for his Ray-Bans and put them on as they exited the terminal building and were again assaulted by the heat. Basil seemed unaffected, even though he wore a uniform jacket, and strode towards a white Bentley Continental Flying Spur. He raised his arm and the boot popped open.

‘Nice.’ Fox was again taken aback. The car in front of him was the world’s fastest four-seat production car, capable of 0–60 mph in 4.9 seconds and a top speed of 195 mph. Basil lifted Fox’s heavy case and, showing an unexpected level of strength, swung it into the boot. He held his hand out for the rucksack and, once this was inside, closed the lid.

‘Shall we?’ Basil opened the front passenger door and Fox climbed into a world of cream leather, burnt oak, and walnut. ‘A good company car, yes?’

‘Your army pay must be better than mine ever was.’

Basil nodded as he eased the large sports sedan away from the kerb. ‘Prince Fouad is a most generous employer. The car is, of course, his but I am to use it for important errands.’

‘Tell the prince I am most grateful.’

‘You will tell him in person when you arrive.’

‘Of course.’ Fox had momentarily forgotten he was due to meet his employer on arrival. Uncharacte‌ristically, he now felt shabby in his brown Merrells, sand-coloured cargo trousers, and check shirt. Sod it. He dressed like a lackey for no one, royal or no.

The car joined the Riyadh highway and was soon cruising at over 100 mph. Basil flashed his lights at anyone who dared drive slower. There were speed limits in the Kingdom but not for the royal family or, indeed, important officials.

‘Have you read Bravo Two Zero or The One That Got Away?’

‘Yes.’ Fox knew what was coming.

‘You were in Iraq in ’91?’ Basil had read all there was to read about the legendary SAS and was thrilled to have a former member as his passenger.

‘I can’t tell you, Basil.’

‘I’m sorry – operational security, I expect?’

‘No,’ replied Fox dryly. ‘I’m an old man. I can’t remember.’

Basil laughed loudly in the soundproofed interior of the Bentley. ‘That English sense of humour. That is why I like the English more than the Americans.’

‘The English are a funny lot.’ Fox didn’t bother to mention that he was actually Scottish.

‘For me, I prefer slightly the writing of Chris Ryan to Andy McNab, but that is just my personal preference. I have all the books of both men. Do you have a preference?’

Fox shrugged. He didn’t want this subject to continue further.

‘Perhaps you should write a book also, Paddy?’

‘What would I write about? Gardening?’

‘Again the English humour.’ Basil’s laugh became a tone higher.

There was a sudden wail of Islamic music and Basil reached into his trousers to retrieve his phone, all the while the Bentley continuing at over 100 mph. Basil spoke in Arabic. Fox listened to the conversation but was more interested in their progress. The car swerved slightly as Basil replaced the phone in his pocket. ‘That was the prince. He is glad you have arrived safely. ‘

‘Insha’Allah,’ Fox replied dryly.

‘Yes. God willing. We should be at the palace within the next ten minutes or so; it depends on the traffic.’

‘You mean how fast they can move out of our way?’ The needle had started to climb higher.

‘Yes. Exactly.’

Twice more in the next ten minutes Basil received calls, not from the prince. Twice more Fox became a nervous passenger, which, for a man who loved fast cars, was rare. They pulled off the highway and headed into the desert along a road which led to a high wall, with steel gates and a security box on the outside. Basil sounded his horn and the gates opened without the occupants of the car being checked.

Immediately inside the walls, Fox’s eyes became wide. In complete contrast to the desert outside, inside was the greenest grass he had ever seen, several fountains, and a large, white, Mediterranean-style villa. The Bentley glided up the mirror-flat granite drive and stopped in front of the house. Basil got out and quickly moved around the car to open the passenger door. The warmer air entered but this time it was moist and bearable. A man in a white jacket appeared and was handed the keys. Basil then gestured that Fox should follow him and they walked around the house and into a large area at the back. To the left a huge, white, single-storey building sat apart from the rest of the house, and on the right a large swimming pool nestled perfectly amidst a landscaped garden. Basil ushered Fox towards the canopy to one side and the portly, robed figure who sat there.

‘Your Highness.’ Basil bowed.

Prince Fouad Al Kabir rose from the lounger and extended his right hand.

‘Mr Fox. How pleased I am to welcome you here.’ His English was accented, but not Sandhurst, unlike both his brother’s and Basil’s.

Fox took a step forward and bent at the waist to meet the royal hand. The grip was limp, as though Fouad didn’t quite know how to shake hands. ‘It is an honour to be invited, Your Highness.’

‘Sit, please, Mr Fox.’

Fouad sat back on the white linen lounger and Fox sat on a lower one to his left while Basil remained standing. ‘That will be all, Captain Barakat.’

Basil bowed and headed back to the house as members of the serving staff appeared with a pitcher of fruit juice, trays of fruit and pastries, dates, and an urn of Arabic coffee. A coffee cup was filled and presented to Fouad then a second was handed to Fox. The staff retreated out of earshot. Fouad leaned forward.

‘I really am very grateful for what you did for my daughter. I will forever be in your debt.’

‘I did what anyone would have done, Your Highness.’

Fouad held up his finger. ‘Now, I know that is not true. You are a man of honour and of discipline, Mr Fox. My brother speaks highly of you.’ He drank his coffee and Fox did the same. ‘So, what do you think of my humble home?’

Fox let his eyes wander before answering. ‘I like it.’ He could think of nothing else to say; as far as houses of the Saudi royal family went, it was the first he had been in.

Fouad stood and Fox hastily followed.

‘I like it here because there is a lesser need for air conditioning than the city. We have our own micro climate thanks to my very clever gardener.’ Fouad gestured towards the many palm trees lining the walls before he started to walk towards the other building. ‘This is not your first time in the Kingdom? I believe you were here when there were troubled times for our neighbours?’

‘Yes, your Highness.’ Fox didn’t want to elaborate but knew what the prince was alluding to. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and followed his new employer. Between the heat, alcohol, and sheer fatigue, he was finding it hard to stay polite, however grateful he might be.

The prince abruptly stopped and turned. ‘Mr Fox. What happened to my daughter in England was outrageous.’ He turned back and continued along the path. He waved his arm. ‘What happened to me here in my own home was also unacceptable. This is something that I have not experienced before. Allah be praised, you were my daughter’s saviour, but now I also need you to ensure my continued safety.’ At the door to the building he again faced Fox, as if to express the severity of the matter. ‘Much damage was done to my most prized pieces but my general collection was untouched.’

Fouad pushed the door and stepped into the building. Fox entered behind him and could hardly believe what he saw. The room was vast, like a giant aircraft hangar, and full of rows upon rows of cars. Fouad smiled like a kid showing off a new toy to a friend as he watched Fox look around. ‘Do you like cars, Mr Fox?’

‘Yes, Your Highness, they are a hobby of mine.’

‘Indeed?’ Fouad was happy and clasped his hands together. ‘How so?’

‘When I left school I wanted to be a mechanic like my dad; that’s why I joined the army.’ He had, however, been placed in the infantry and not the Royal Engineers as requested, so had had to learn the inner workings of the internal combustion engine in his spare time. A knowledge that had served him well in the Regiment’s Mobility Troop.

‘What car do you drive in England?’

‘I have a Porsche 930 Flachbau.’

‘What is that?’ Fouad looked earnest.

‘It’s the 930 with a 935-style “slantnose” conversion, Your Highness.’

The prince nodded enthusiastically. ‘Of course, yes. You must forgive me, my German is not very good – I did not know the word. If I remember rightly, that had the uprated 330 bhp performance kit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah, I can see you ask how I would know such things? Well, I am one of the founding members of the Porsche Club of Riyadh. Porsches are a particular fondness of mine. Let me show you.’ They crossed to the other side of the room, passing as they did so a ‘Who’s Who’ of twentieth- and twenty-first-century sports cars.

‘Here!’

With a flick of the arm he unfurled a dustsheet that had been covering a silver Porsche Carrera GT, the fastest road-going Porsche yet built. Fouad glanced back at his new employee to gauge his reaction. Fox was smiling and shaking his head slowly from side to side.

‘Each year we have a race from Riyadh to Bahrain. I fly out three engineers from Porsche Germany in Stuttgart to check the cars before we leave. The race starts at 3 a.m., when the tarmac is coolest, otherwise the tyres would not be able to cope. I hold the current record at three hours and five minutes.’ He smiled conspiratorially. ‘But then I do have the fastest Porsche in the race.’

Fox leant forward and looked in the ‘cockpit’. He was beginning to like his new boss. ‘You have great taste, Your Highness.’

‘True. Some collect art, but to me this is art. Working art.’ The prince suddenly clapped his hands. ‘We shall speak at another time. I see you are tired after your journey. I fear first class is not what it once was. Captain Barakat will take you to your rooms. You shall start work tomorrow.’

Basil appeared at the door and the prince bade Fox farewell. In the Bentley once more, they made swift progress back towards the city suburbs. Fox’s driver was, he knew, eager to make further conversation but sensed that Fox was beyond speech. Fox started to nod off, despite the speed they were travelling at, but within twenty minutes they had reached a residential area. The Bentley slowed at another high wall and gate combination; again it was ushered in unchecked.

They stopped and Fox looked around. They were inside what looked like an upmarket holiday park made up of one- and two-storey villas, some terraced, some detached, which were built in two horseshoes, the two-storey buildings making up the outer ring. In the centre was a swimming pool and what looked to be a barbecue area. To one side were three tennis courts and landscaped lawns. At the barbecue area the residents were cooking or standing drinking.

‘This is where all the Riyadh-based foreign employees of the Al Kabir Group live.’

‘How many are there?’

‘In Riyadh there are about one hundred or so. There are many more in Dammam, of course, for the oil refineries, and in Jeddah. The Al Kabir Group is one of the Kingdom’s largest and most successful employers.’

‘Really? That’s interesting.’ Fox didn’t add that, as it was owned by a branch of the royal family, of course it would be successful.

‘Let me show you to your house.’

Basil unloaded the car and headed for the larger outer row of villas.

‘This one, Paddy.’

He pointed to a two-storey villa at the end, nearest the gates. The villa, as did all the others, had a three-feet-high white picket fence around it and a small, very green lawn. It was painted brilliant white and Fox took a guess that the interior colour would be the same. On entering he wasn’t disappointed. Basil heaved both case and rucksack with ease up the flight of stairs and into the front bedroom.

‘I hope you will feel happy here, but if you need anything please don’t hesitate to call me.’ Basil flashed him a large smile with brilliant white teeth that matched the paintwork, and produced a business card from his inside pocket.

‘Shukran.’

Basil shook Paddy’s hand – again the strong grip. ‘You will be collected at 8 a.m. tomorrow. Have a nice first night!’

Basil left the villa. Fox looked around the very white room. It had an American-sized double bed, two walk-in wardrobes, an en-suite shower, and a balcony. He looked at his watch – still on London time, two hours behind Saudi. It was early afternoon in the UK but mid-afternoon here; if he had a nap now he wouldn’t be able to get a proper sleep later on. Fox shook his head. ‘Come on, you old git, only two bloody hours difference,’ he muttered to himself as he unpacked his case, took his washbag, and entered the shower.

Central Moscow, Russian Federation

The office was in an unassuming riverside residential apartment block within walking distance of the Kremlin. From the exterior, the balcony looked like any other, but the glass in this was an inch thick and bulletproof. The double doors that led from the communal hallway to the flat were also armoured, made from heavy, reinforced steel designed to withstand a direct hit from an RPG.

In his high-security Moscow residence, Maksim Gurov spoke over the secure phone to Ivan Sverov in Minsk. Both men had been monitoring the Ukrainian news channels. The report of a shooting was high on the schedule, just after the most recent exchanges from the ‘President vs opposition leader’ battle. However, the reports couldn’t confirm who the victim had been; the Militia had yet to release details. This was what Gurov had expected of the Ukrainians.

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