Guy Fawkes Day, Page 3

  Chapter 2: London: Late September

  ‘What’s the low-down on the Ramliyya story?’ asked Deputy Director-General of MI6, Max Clayton, with an expectant stare at Sam Kennedy, the head of Africa and Middle East Section.

  Kennedy shuffled the papers in his folder, looking intimidated by the man some fifteen years his junior, who was sitting at right angles to him across a modest desk, watching the traffic on the Thames drift by below his South Bank office. Clayton knew full well of the reputation he had acquired in the Service. The likes of Kennedy might use labels such as ‘debonair’, ‘unconventional’ and ‘arrogant’, no doubt, to describe him in their whispered, deskie conversations around the water cooler. But Clayton knew that he was as near to Bond as today’s MI6 got, although his own fame, he would be forced to concede, was built more on the restless drive and tenacity that had impelled him through every posting in his career, rather than high-octane stunts and explosive gadgetry of the screen legend.

  When it came, Kennedy’s reply was preceded by a shrug and a sigh.

  ‘We don’t expect much fall out from old Sultan Al-Janoubi’s death. No reason why anything should change with the accession of the eldest son, Faysal.’

  ‘And what sort of chap is our young Faysal?’

  ‘Modest and reclusive. Devoted to his wife and family. Quietly religious, by all accounts.’

  ‘Whose accounts? Have we got anybody in Ramliyya?’

  ‘Nobody permanent. Nearest outstation is Riyadh. We pick up anything from the ambassador’s staff at the embassy in Madinat Al-Aasima.’

  ‘So all I’ll have to tell the minister is what he will already have heard from the Foreign Office?’

  Clayton stood up to stare out of the window, pensive and distant. It was lunchtime. Outside, the Thames glimmered feebly in the frivolous mid-September sun. A barge heading downstream was overtaken by a pleasure cruiser.

  ‘So,’ Clayton sighed, ‘we can expect the new sultan to keep serving more of the same, eh? Oil coming our way, weapons theirs. But what’s really at issue here, Kennedy, is any other plans the young sultan might have. Will he want another squadron of Tornadoes, for example? Is he going to open his chequebook to fund any lavish development projects that may interest British companies? Who else may be trying to whisper in our young sultan’s ear, trying to steal his attention? What’s his position on Israel and Iran? That’s the kind of thing I really want to know, Kennedy.’

  Kennedy sighed, rustled his papers and buttock-shuffled awkwardly while Clayton continued to look askance, masking his loosely veiled contempt with his study of the river traffic until the balding ‘deskie’ could answer.

  ‘As I’ve already said,’ Kennedy continued, ‘we don’t think anything will change in Ramliyya. The monarchy is still paranoid since the attempted coup of ’93. Don’t forget the old man nearly lost everything. Three of his brothers were killed in the fighting. We Westerners are the only real friends the regime has got. All the old sultan’s friends showed their true colours in the coup attempt. South Yemen, as it then was, backed the rebels; the North Yemenis would have liked to, too, but remained neutral when they saw their southern enemies had got in ahead. The Saudis supported the sultan but were too frightened to offer more than some supportive words. After that the old man didn’t trust anyone else except us and the Americans, and there’s no reason why his son should be radically different.’

  ‘You said the son was religious,’ Clayton interrupted. ‘How religious?’

  ‘Pious, according to the embassy staff, but not fanatical. By that I mean he’s not the type for the Monte Carlo casinos, or smuggling planeloads of Scotch and hookers into his desert hideaway. At the worst, we reckon the young sultan might toughen up the strict ban on alcohol and immorality—you know, force our oil workers to close down their moonshine stills. But certainly no anti-Western jihad if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘Anything we’ve got on him? Any over-exuberant indiscretion unfortunately captured on camera by our boys?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever. He studied for three months in London three years ago—Islamic Studies at the London School of Oriental and African Studies. But Faysal seems to have been totally uncorrupted by ‘Western decadence’. Brought his wife with him. Dutifully attended the local mosque five times a day. All very dull, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So my word to the minister will be, ‘business as usual with a little extra attention to cultural sensitivity’,’ Clayton summed up, an observation intended more for his own benefit than Kennedy’s. As he had expected, this item was scarcely worth a footnote in his weekly ‘little chat’ with the foreign minister.

  ‘Oh, there is one interesting story I came across while poking through our Ramliyya stuff,’ Kennedy turned around, halfway to the door.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Concerns the coup. The British Defence Systems boys who were down there at the time claim that the fellow responsible for saving the old boy was a European mercenary, widely rumoured to be a Russian. Apparently, this ‘Boris’ character single-handedly turned the tables on General Madani’s units when the sultan had as good as lost. With only a handful of loyal troops, ‘Boris’ completely routed Madani’s troops in a set-piece desert extravaganza, before rescuing the sultan and his entire family, who were being held at gunpoint in a villa in Madinat Al-Aasima. Afterwards, the sultan adopted ‘Boris’ as one of his sons, making him a millionaire many times over.’

  ‘Hmm. The story sounds familiar. Heard about this character before, I believe. And what about this Ruskie? No plans to buy his own London football club?’

  For the first time a half-smile slipped across Kennedy’s face.

  ‘No, not in the slightest. And this is the interesting bit. According to a source I met a little while ago, it turns out that the sultan’s saviour wasn’t a Russian at all but a white South African mercenary. And he still retains considerable influence in Ramliyya, despite spending most of his time in Eritrea. He’s a bosom buddy of the regime in Asmara as well and flits around here and there in darkest secrecy all over Africa and the Middle East.’

  At the mention of South Africa, Clayton broke off from this study of the Thames.

  ‘South Africa, you say Kennedy? And travels widely in Africa?’

  Kennedy nodded with one hand on the door handle. Clayton left him there for some time while his brain swirled. Finally,

  ‘Let me know if and when you get any more on this enigmatic South African, will you?’

  Kennedy nodded and Clayton dismissed his colleague with a wave of hand to resume his study of the back end of the black barge, now seemingly stuck to the glutinous treacle hide of the river. As he gazed down below, he wondered if anything slower had ever floated on water, while he took himself to task: A South African? And wanders all over Africa? Spurious connection, totally spurious. There was nothing to read into Kennedy’s words, nothing at all. But despite the logical impossibility, a secret part of him had pricked up its ears at the mention of those locations and become interested in an old saga all over again that was long since dead and buried. Ridiculous! Get a grip, man!