Edge of Danger (2 page)

‘So what happened?’ Michael asked.

‘Ah, as you are the one who’s been to Harvard Business School, you mean how much?’ He leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Mother, as usual, has been very naughty and did not prepare me.’

‘For what?’ Michael asked.

‘The extent of grandfather’s position. I never knew that he owned large portions of Mayfair. About half of Park Lane, for starters.’

George whispered, ‘What are we talking about?’

‘Three hundred and fifty million.’

There was a gasp from his sister. His mother simply smiled.

‘And it gives me an idea,’ Paul said. ‘A way to put this money to good use.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Michael asked.

‘I did Irish time after Sandhurst,’ Paul said. ‘Then the Gulf with the SAS. My right shoulder still aches on a bad day from the Armalite bullet that

drove through it. You did Sandhurst, Michael, and Harvard Business School; George a year in Ireland with One Para. Kate has yet to make her bones, but I think we can count on her.’

Michael said, ‘You still haven’t told us your idea.’

‘It’s this. It’s time we banded together, made ourselves a family business, a force to be reckoned with. Who are we? We are Dauncey - and we are also Rashid. Nobody has more influence in the Gulf than we do, and what does the world want most from the Gulf right now? Oil. The Americans and Russians in particular have been nosing around the Gulf for months, trying to buy up exploration leases. But to get to that oil, they have to acquire the goodwill of the Bedu. And to get to the Bedu, they have to get through us. They must come to us, my family.’

George said, ‘What are we talking about here?’ Their mother laughed. ‘I think I know.’ Paul said, ‘Tell them.’ ‘Two billion?’

‘Three,’ he said. ‘Sterling, of course, not dollars.’ He picked up a bottle of champagne. ‘I am, after all, a very British Arab.’

With shrewd investment and the muscle of the Bedu behind them, the Rashids pushed the development of new oilfields north of the Dhofar. Money poured in, unbelievable amounts. The Americans and Russians did indeed have to deal with them, albeit unwillingly, and the Rashids helped Iraq restore its oil industry as well.

The first billion was realized in three years, the second in two, and they were well on their way to the third. George and Michael were named joint managing directors of Rashid Investments, and young Kate Rashid, now with her Oxford MA, became Executive Chairman. Any businessman who thought her simply a lovely young woman in an Armani suit and Manolo Blahnik shoes was swiftly disabused of the notion.

Paul himself preferred to remain a shadowy figure, behind the scenes. He spent much time in Hazar with the Bedu. To the Rashid, he was a great warrior, who would appear every so often to roam the desert by camel; to live in the old Bedu way in the Empty Quarter, guarded by fellow tribesmen burned by the fierce sun; to eat dates and dried meat with them.

Often he was accompanied by his brothers, or by Kate, who scandalized the locals with her Western

ways, but no one could deny her, for by now her brother was a legend with more power than even the Sultan in Hazar, to whom he was a second cousin. It was whispered that some day he would be voted Sultan himself by the Council of Elders, but for now the old Sultan still held power, his chief strength the Hazar Scouts, a contingent of soldiers officered by British volunteers.

And then came the night when at an encampment at the Oasis of Shabwa as he was seated by a blazing fire, a Hawk helicopter came roaring in and settled in a cloud of sand.

Camels and donkeys milled around, children cried out in delight and women scolded them. Michael, George and Kate emerged in Arab dress, and Paul greeted them.

‘What is this, a family reunion?’ Kate said, ‘We’ve got trouble.’ He took her hand, led her to the fire and waved to one of the women to bring coffee.

Kate nodded to Michael. ‘Tell him your bit first.’

Michael said, ‘We’ve cracked three billion.’ ‘So we finally made it.’ Paul turned. ‘I’d be happier about it if I wasn’t waiting for the bad

news. Go on, Kate. I only have to look at your face to know if the weather is bad, and I’d say it’s raining.’

‘Have you seen the Sultan recently?’

‘No, he’s been on a pilgrimage to the Holy Wells.’

‘The Holy Wells? That’s a laugh. His only pilgrimage was to Dubai to meet with American and Russian government and businessmen. They’ve agreed on joint exploration rights in Hazar -without us.’

Paul said, ‘But they couldn’t possibly do it without Bedu cooperation. And they can’t get that without us.’

‘Paul,’ Kate said, ‘they can and they have. The Sultan’s sold us out. You know how much the Americans and Russians have disliked dealing with us. Well, now they’ve cut us out. They’re going to walk all over us - and walk all over the Bedu in the process. Without us, those damned oilmen are going to drill wherever they please, and the Arabs can go to hell.’

Paul said, ‘Is this true, Michael?’

Michael nodded. ‘They are going to rape the desert, Paul. And there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.’

Paul nodded thoughtfully and stirred the fire. ‘Do not speak in haste, Michael. There are always things that can be done - if one has the will.’ ‘What do you mean?’ George asked. ‘Not now,’ said Paul. He turned to Kate. ‘Do you have the Gulfstream at the air force base in Haman?’ ‘Yes,’ Kate said.

He drew her up and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Have a good night. Tomorrow we will speak.’

He nodded to his brothers, and they all rose.

Kate turned and began to walk away, and it was

then that it happened. Beyond, from the shadows,

a Bedu emerged screaming, a curved jambiya raised

above his head, running straight at them, with Kate

in his way. Paul’s guards were caught momentarily

unaware, their AK-47S at their feet, coffee cups

in their hands, and it was Paul Rashid who flung

himself forward, knocked his sister to the ground

and pulled a Browning from his waistband. He

fired four times quickly and the assassin was driven

to the sand.

There was another shrill cry and a second man,

jambiya raised, emerged from the darkness, but this

time he was instantly overwhelmed by the guards.

‘Alive!’ Paul called in Arabic. ‘Alive!’ He turned

to George. ‘Who is he, where does he come from -find out.’

George ran to the struggling group as they held the man down, and Paul helped Kate up. ‘Are you all right? You’re not harmed?’

She held him close and spoke in Arabic. ‘No, my brother, thanks to you.’

He embraced her. ‘Leave this to me. Go to bed.’

She turned reluctantly and Paul Rashid went into the shadows and squatted beside the second assassin, now pegged out on the ground. The man’s face was lined and drawn. The pupils of his eyes were like pinpricks and there was foam around his mouth.

‘A hired assassin drugged with quat,’ George said.

Paul Rashid lit a cigarette and nodded. Quat was a narcotic found in the leaves of shrubs in Hazar. Many of his people were addicted to it. For some, it lent false courage.

For this man, it would lend only death.

‘Do what you have to do,’ he said to George.

He went back and sat by the fire, drank more coffee, and Kate appeared and sat at his side. A cry of pain came from the shadows, a sudden scream, then silence. George and Michael appeared.

‘So?’ Paul asked.

‘The Sultan arranged it for the Americans and Russians. They couldn’t afford us staying alive.’

‘What a pity for them,’ Paul Rashid said, ‘that they failed.’

There was a pause. Michael and George sat down. ‘What happens now?’ George asked.

‘First, I think it’s time for a new Sultan. Your speciality is working with our people in Hazar,’ Paul told him. ‘See to it. But there’s a larger issue at stake. Do we let these mighty powers do this to our people? Do we let them destroy our land? Do we let them strike at us? No, I think we must strike at them.’

At that moment, his mobile phone rang. He took it from his robe. ‘Rashid.’

He sat there in the firelight and his face changed before them, his eyes turning to bleak holes. He said, ‘We’ll be there as soon as possible.’ He switched off the phone and handed it to Kate. ‘Call Haman. Tell them to have the Gulfstream ready for immediate departure. We’re leaving in the helicopter now.’

‘But Paul, why? What happened?’ Kate demanded. ‘That was Betty Moody. Something terrible has happened to Mother.’

Something terrible indeed. Driving home to Dauncey Place, Lady Kate had been involved in a head-on collision with a car driving on the wrong side of the road. The Rashids made it to the hospital ten minutes before she died, time enough only to stand, the four of them, and hold her hands.

‘My lovely boys,’ Lady Kate said in her bad Arabic, always the family joke. ‘My gorgeous girl. Always love each other.’ And she was gone.

Michael and George broke into a storm of weeping, but not Kate. She clutched Paul’s hand as he leaned down to kiss his mother’s forehead and her eyes burned, but there were no tears. Those would come later - after she discovered the man responsible for this.

But when the name came, there was only more bad news. A Chief Inspector of the Hampshire Police told them that, yes, the other driver, one

Igor Gatov, had been driving on the wrong side of the road on his way to London from Knotsley Hall, which was owned by the Russian Embassy. And, yes, he had most certainly been drunk, and miraculously had been able to walk away from the crash with only minor injuries. But unfortunately, he was also a commercial attache at the Russian Embassy in London, which meant that he had diplomatic immunity. Their mother’s killer could not be tried in an English court.

In deference to their mother’s Christianity, they buried her in the mausoleum at Dauncey village church on a March afternoon. One of the most important Imams in London graced the proceedings with his presence and, standing there, the three Rashid brothers and young Kate had never felt closer.

Later, at the reception in the Great Hall at Dauncey Place, Paul Rashid was approached by Charles Ferguson. The Brigadier said, ‘This is a rotten business, Paul. I’m so sorry. She was a great lady.’

Kate said, ‘Do you know something you’re not telling us, Brigadier?’

Ferguson looked at her. ‘Give me a call sometime.’

He walked away. Kate said, ‘Paul?’

‘As soon as we’re done here,’ her brother said, ‘we’ll go and see him.’

Two days later, Paul and Kate Rashid arrived at Charles Ferguson’s Georgian flat in Cavendish Place, London. They were admitted by Ferguson’s Gurkha manservant, Kim, and found that Ferguson was not alone. Two other people were there, one of them a small man, his hair so fair that it was almost white.

‘Lady Kate, this is Sean Dillon, who works for my department,’ Ferguson said, then introduced the other, a red-haired woman. ‘Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch. Lord Loch Dhu, how can I help? May we offer you a glass of champagne?’

‘No, thank you. My sister perhaps, but I would prefer a Bushmills Irish whiskey like the one Mr Dillon is pouring.’

‘Good man yourself,’ Dillon told him, ‘but first, the ladies,’ and he poured champagne.

Hannah Bernstein said to Kate, ‘You went to Oxford, I believe? I was at Cambridge myself.’

‘Well, that’s not your fault,’ Kate said and gave a small smile.

Her brother said, ‘I did Irish time, with the Grenadier Guards and the SAS. I heard many things about Sean Dillon there.’

‘Probably all true,’ Hannah Bernstein told him, with an undertone Rashid could not decipher.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll always be the man in the black hat to her, but to you and me, Major, to soldiers everywhere, we’re the men who handle the crap the general public can’t. That’s a showstopper,’ Dillon added and turned to Kate. ‘Wouldn’t you agree that’s a showstopper?’ She wasn’t in the least offended. ‘Absolutely.’ ‘So,’ Paul Rashid said, ‘Igor Gatov, a commercial attache at the Russian Embassy, kills my mother while driving on the wrong side of the road, drunk. The police say he has diplomatic immunity.’ ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘And he’s gone back to Moscow?’ ‘No, he’s needed here,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Needed?’ Rashid asked.

‘The Secret Security Services would not thank me for telling you this, but they’re not my best friends. Tell him, Superintendent.’ ‘But how far do I go?’ she asked. ‘As far as it takes,’ Dillon said. ‘This Russian shite takes out a great lady and walks away.’ He poured

another Bushmills, toasted young Kate, turned to Paul Rashid, and said in good Arabic, ‘Gatov is a dog of the first water. If the Superintendent hesitates, don’t hold it against her. She has delicate sensibilities. Her grandfather is a rabbi.’

‘And my father was a sheik,’ Paul Rashid said to her in Hebrew. ‘Perhaps we have much in common.’

Her surprise was obvious. ‘I’m not sure what to say,’ she replied in the same.

‘Well, I am,’ Dillon cut between them in English. ‘It’s not just the Russian Embassy that’s keeping Gatov from justice. There’s the American connection.’

There was a pause. ‘What would that be?’ Paul Rashid asked.

Hannah said to Rashid, ‘As you know, the Americans and Russians are great rivals in southern Arabia, but they will work together if it suits them.’

Paul said, ‘I know all this, but what has it to do with my mother’s death?’

It was Dillon who told him, and in Arabic. ‘This piece of dung is a double agent. He worked for the Americans on the other side of the coin. It’s not only the Russians who don’t want him in court, but the Yanks as well. He’s too important.’

‘Too important for what?’ Paul Rashid asked.

It was Ferguson who said, ‘The Americans and Russians are working on some kind of oil deal - and Gatov was brokering it. He’s right in the middle. There are billions to be made down there.’

Dillon said, ‘He’s right. Arabia Felix, Happy Arabia, that’s what they called it in the old days.’

Kate Rashid, who had listened in silence, said, ‘So we’re talking about money here?’ ‘I’d say so,’ Dillon said.