Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

C OMMANDER H AWKSBY AND C HIEF S UPERINTENDENT William Warwick left Old Scotland Yard at 8.30 a.m. and walked briskly across to King Charles Street. Their only topic of conversation was the latest score in the first Test match against the West Indies.

‘Walls may not have ears,' said the Hawk, ‘but passing strangers certainly do.'

Although they arrived at the Foreign Office long before the appointed hour, a young man was already waiting for them in reception.

‘Please follow me, gentlemen,' he said, before accompanying his visitors up a wide, thick, red-carpeted staircase. William glanced from side to side at the colourful ceramic tiles that graced the walls.

When they reached the first-floor landing, they were greeted by a bust of Charles James Fox along with portraits of former foreign secretaries – Palmerston, Pitt the Elder, Castlereagh, Bevin, Alec Douglas-Home and James Callaghan – before coming to a halt outside the door of the present holder of that high office.

The young man paused at a set of floor-to-ceiling oak doors with the royal coat of arms displayed above them. He knocked and waited for a moment before opening one of the doors and standing aside. The two visitors entered a room the size of a tennis court and made their way towards a diminutive figure with an unmistakable shock of red hair, who was seated behind a large oak desk at the far end of the room. A portrait of the monarch hung on the wall behind him with a bust of Churchill to his right, alongside an Enigma machine displayed in a glass cabinet. Two smartly dressed mandarins were perched like vultures on either side of their master, looking as if they were ready to swoop given the slightest opportunity.

The Foreign Secretary had risen from behind his desk long before his two guests had reached him. Robin Cook shook hands with them both before introducing a Mr Trevelyan, his private secretary, and Sir Geoffrey Cruickshank, the Permanent Secretary. It seemed to William that everyone in the Foreign Office was a secretary.

‘It was good of you both to come at such short notice,' Cook said, without any suggestion of irony.

William could only wonder how the Foreign Secretary would have reacted had the Commander told him, ‘My diary is a little crowded at the moment, but I feel sure I could fit you in towards the end of next week'.

‘There are two reasons I needed to see you so urgently,' said Cook, not wasting any time. ‘As you will know, the British government are currently involved in advanced negotiations with Saudi Arabia for an arms deal worth several billions, and to that end we are hosting a delegation from the Saudi Arabian Ministry of Defence next month. Until quite recently, we were considered the front runners for the contract. However, this has received a setback, to say the least, following the arrest of our chief negotiator, Mr Simon Hartley.'

‘Who's been charged with the murder of one of his rivals,' said the Hawk, one step ahead of him. ‘But it doesn't look to me like a case that would stand up in court.'

‘Depends which court you're standing up in,' countered the Foreign Secretary. ‘However, Sir Bernard Anscombe, our man in Riyadh, agrees with you. He finally managed to meet with Hartley in prison yesterday. He is certain not only that Hartley's innocent, but also who the guilty party is, which has only added to our problems.'

William wanted to ask who and why, but before he could speak, both questions were answered.

‘The guilty party is Prince Ahmed bin Majid,' said the Foreign Secretary. ‘He's the second son of Prince Majid, the Minister of Defence, who will be responsible for signing the arms agreement on behalf of his government.'

‘The King's cousin, no less,' said William.

‘No less,' repeated Cook. ‘And it's necessary, Chief Superintendent, to remember that – with the Saudis – "face" is all-important when they are dealing with a foreign country, particularly the British.

‘Sir Geoffrey,' he continued, looking to his right, ‘has already been in touch with the Saudi Ambassador in London – not an easy man – who is well aware of how much time and money the government has invested in the arms deal to ensure we remain ahead of the French, and so feels he has the whip hand. We suspect he knows only too well that Hartley is innocent and, more importantly, who the guilty party is. So, I'm faced with the double dilemma of trying to hold on to the contract, while remaining on good terms with the Saudi government, and at the same time getting Hartley out of jail without the press finding out what I'm up to. The fact that Hartley has been arrested and charged with murdering his Italian rival has already been well covered by the media, and rumours are already circulating in the press about who the real culprit might be.'

William recalled reading a recent article by Cook written in The Guardian , where he didn't leave the reader in any doubt about his strong views on presiding over an ‘ethical' foreign policy.

‘The French aren't helping,' said Sir Geoffrey, speaking for the first time, ‘but I can't pretend we would have behaved any differently had our roles been reversed.'

‘However,' continued the Foreign Secretary, ‘to our surprise, the Saudi Defence Minister has not cancelled his planned trip to the Farnborough Air Show next month to check on the state-of-the-art equipment we have on offer. However, we should anticipate more protests once the public find out the truth, and the situation isn't being helped by the fact that the Minister's son, Prince Ahmed, despite the Foreign Office's advice to the contrary, intends to accompany him on the trip. So, this is, in political terms, a somewhat' – he paused – ‘delicate situation.'

Only the Foreign Office could describe it thus, thought William.

‘Hartley told our man that the key witness in the Hartley defence is a Ms Jenny Prescott,' said Sir Geoffrey, ‘or at least that's the name on her passport, which the Saudis confiscated when she recently tried to leave the country.'

‘Ms Prescott's working name,' said Trevelyan, ‘and I use the word advisedly, is Avril Dubois, and she was at the nightclub on the evening Paolo Conti was murdered.'

‘And more important,' came back Sir Geoffrey, ‘she is inconveniently refusing to confirm the Saudi police's version of events, which rather suggests not only that Hartley is innocent, but also that everyone knows he is.'

‘If she's the only witness who might be willing to testify to the fact it was Prince Ahmed and not Hartley who committed the murder,' said William, ‘her life must be in danger.'

‘Our Ambassador and Hartley have already made that point,' said Cook.

‘So what role do you expect us to play?' asked the Hawk, cutting to the chase.

‘We need someone to go to Saudi,' said Sir Geoffrey, ‘track down Ms Prescott, check if she can prove Hartley is innocent, and see if she still wants to leave the country and come home, because if she does we can use her as a pawn in our negotiations with the Saudis.'

‘I used to think politics was a dubious profession,' said Cook, ‘but that was before I joined the Foreign Office, and I can assure you, Commander, they make the Mafia look like a bunch of Sunday school teachers.'

Both the Hawk and William laughed, while the two mandarins didn't even blink.

‘If such a person exists,' said Sir Geoffrey, as if he hadn't heard the Foreign Secretary, ‘we might still be in with a chance of defeating the French, or at least of finding out if we're just wasting our time,' he paused. ‘And money.'

The Hawk nodded. ‘When do you need this man?'

‘Yesterday,' said Sir Geoffrey.

‘He was on holiday in Italy yesterday,' said William, well aware who the Hawk had in mind. ‘But I know he's flying back to London later today, so I could be at the airport and meet him off the plane.'

The other mandarin came in on cue. ‘Then bring him straight to my office, Chief Superintendent,' Trevelyan said, handing William his card. ‘Because I'll need to brief him before the day is out.'

‘Understood,' said the Hawk. ‘By the way, his name is—'

‘I don't want to know his name,' said the Foreign Secretary, who rose from his place and shook hands with both of them to indicate the meeting was over. The Hawk and William left without another word.

Once the door had closed behind them, they walked briskly back along the corridor, jogged down the wide staircase and out onto King Charles Street to find Danny, seated behind the wheel of the Commander's car, waiting for them.

‘You take the car,' said the Hawk, ‘and go directly to Heathrow. As soon as I'm back at the Yard, I'll make sure his flight gets priority landing and that he isn't held up by customs.'

William was opening the back door of the car when the Hawk added, ‘And bring him straight to my office. I want to see Hogan before the Foreign Office get their hands on him.'

···

‘Are you Inspector Ross Hogan?' whispered the senior cabin steward as he leant down to address a passenger seated in economy.

Ross looked up from the novel he was reading and nodded.

‘Once we've landed, sir, would you be kind enough to join me at the front of the aircraft. There will be a car waiting for you at the bottom of the steps.'

‘Crew prepare for landing,' announced a voice over the intercom. ‘Will all passengers please return to their seats and fasten your seat belts.'

‘Are you about to be arrested?' asked Jojo, as the steward left them.

‘Seems unlikely,' said Ross, as he helped his daughter on with her seat belt. ‘The police don't usually give you prior notice if they're going to arrest you.'

‘Then who have you annoyed this time?' asked Alice, smiling.

‘I'll know the moment I see who's standing at the bottom of the steps,' said Ross as the plane made its descent through a bank of fluffy white clouds, causing it to bump.

Jojo held onto her father's hand.

‘But you're not due back at work until Monday,' Alice reminded him. ‘So …'

‘It has to be an emergency. But to be honest, I don't know any more than you do.'

‘Does that mean I won't be seeing you for a long time?' asked Jojo, still clutching onto her father's hand.

‘I'll phone you every day,' promised Ross, ‘wherever I am.'

‘Even convicted criminals are allowed the occasional phone call,' quipped Alice as the wheels of the plane touched down on the runway and the engines were thrust into reverse.

Ross accepted that any speculation was pointless, and he'd have to wait and see who was waiting for him when they landed. He couldn't help recalling the last time this had happened, he'd had to fly on to Paris and assist the Prince of Wales in bringing Princess Diana's coffin back to England.

The plane taxied to a halt at the stand.

‘Whoever it is waiting for you,' said Alice as she unbuckled her seat belt, ‘thank you for a memorable holiday. And if I never see you again, Inspector, it's been nice knowing you.'

‘You won't get rid of me quite that easily,' said Ross. He leant across and kissed her, and Jojo pretended not to notice.

Ross leapt up the moment the fasten seat belts sign was turned off, grabbed his carry-on bag from the overhead locker and joined the steward at the front of the plane almost before anyone else had stirred. He waited impatiently for the door to be opened; when he stepped out of the aircraft, the first person he saw was Danny, holding open the door of an unmarked car. But he couldn't make out who was sitting on the back seat.

He jogged down the steps and peered inside to see William waiting for him. The expression on his face gave nothing away.

Even before he'd pulled the door closed, the car sped off. He glanced back out of the rear window to see the second passenger standing on the top step of the aircraft was waving. It was Jojo. He returned her wave.

Before he said a word, William touched a button and a glass partition was raised, alerting Ross that what he was about to be told couldn't even be shared with Danny.

‘Have you heard of a Simon Hartley?' were William's first words. No ‘did you have a good holiday, Ross,' or ‘how's Jojo?'

‘Only what I've read in the press,' admitted Ross. ‘The guy who's been arrested in Saudi Arabia for a murder he didn't commit.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Motive, motive and motive, Chief Superintendent,' came back Ross's immediate response. ‘According to The Guardian – Alice's paper of choice – he hardly knew the man he's been accused of murdering. He has no past criminal record, and I'm bound to ask, why would a man on the verge of securing a huge arms deal murder a man in full view of several witnesses, when in truth he wasn't even a rival?'

William couldn't disagree.

Ross looked his friend in the eye and said, ‘Perhaps it's time to stop playing games, William, and tell me where I fit in to all of this.'

William took him slowly through the meeting he and the Hawk had just had with the Foreign Secretary earlier that morning, concluding with the words, ‘They need someone to fly to Riyadh immediately, track down Jenny Prescott, aka Avril Dubois, and find out why she won't talk. As we're now certain she witnessed the murder, we have to somehow get her back to England, as her evidence could prove vital if we hope to get Hartley released. And there are no prizes for guessing who the Hawk thought was the ideal person for the job.'

Ross felt a familiar rush of adrenalin that always came when his particular skills were required.

‘Where are we heading now?' was all he asked.

‘Back to the Yard. The Hawk wants to see you before you go on to the Foreign Office, where you'll be briefed by a Mr Trevelyan.'

‘Who's he?'

‘The Foreign Secretary's private secretary.'

‘Typical of the Hawk,' said Ross, ‘to want to stay one step ahead of the FCO. And then what?'

‘I've already booked you onto an evening flight to Riyadh,' said William as he touched a button and the screen slid back down. ‘So how was your holiday, Ross?'

‘I thought you'd never ask.'

···

Seven hours later, Ross took his seat in business class. The first thing he did was to study the menu, as he hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning on another plane. His mind hadn't stopped whirling after he'd left a three-hour briefing with Mr Trevelyan, along with two experts from the Middle Eastern desk. Later, they were joined by two officers from MI6, who supplied him with his cover story and explained in great detail why he was officially visiting the Middle East and how they had taken advantage of his background, even his mother.

He had to admit the idea the young whizz kid from MI6 – who looked as if he should still be in short trousers – had come up with was nothing short of brilliant. Where did they find these people, Ross wondered. Once they were convinced he knew what was expected of him, Ross was driven back to the airport just in time to catch the evening flight to Riyadh. He was the last passenger to board the plane.

It had quickly become clear to Ross that the first thing he needed to do was somehow make contact – without it being too obvious – with Avril Dubois/Jenny Prescott, and if, as the Foreign Office had suggested, her passport had been confiscated when she tried to leave the country soon after the murder of Paolo Conti, he'd already come up with a way of getting around that problem. Trevelyan had immediately accepted his suggestion, and even managed a slight bow of recognition.

Ross had agreed only to call the embassy in an emergency, and under no circumstances was he to attempt to visit Hartley in prison, as others were handling that particular problem. Ross had also been told about one of the Foreign Office's secret weapons, a Mr Jim Fellows MBE. A hotel concierge by day, a spy by night. Fellows had already been fully briefed about the arrival of Declan O'Reilly from Dublin, who was hoping to close an oil deal on behalf of the Irish government.

Once he'd given the flight attendant his dinner order, Ross set about reading the thick file that Trevelyan had supplied, aware he needed to have completed his prep by the time he landed, as he'd been instructed to hand the file over to the courier who would be meeting him at the airport, in exchange for the two passports he'd requested. ‘If you're not familiar with the contents by then, you won't be given a second chance,' were Trevelyan's uncompromising words just before he left for the airport.

As the flight was over eight hours, and Trevelyan had made sure no one was seated next to him, Ross was confident he would have become his new persona long before they landed in Riyadh. Hani Khalil looked like his biggest problem, because if he became suspicious, even for one moment, that Ross was working for the British, it would not only put Avril's life in danger, but possibly Hartley's as well, not to mention that it would most assuredly mean the loss of a three-billion-pound contract.

‘No pressure,' said Ross out loud.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?' said an attentive flight attendant.

‘Just a black coffee, please,' said Ross, before returning to the file.

The Hawk had insisted he must always call him before he spoke to Trevelyan, while the Foreign Office mandarin had made him sign a document confirming he wouldn't contact anyone in England until he returned.

He had lied to one of them.

Ross ate the four-course meal slowly, and only drank water – despite being reminded several times that once they arrived in Riyadh, he'd only be able to get a soft drink until he stepped back on board – with or without Ms Dubois. While others slept or watched a film, he continued to devour the contents of the Foreign Office directive, making only slight adjustments to his back story.

By the time his meal tray had been removed, Ross knew exactly what was expected of him once they landed in Riyadh. He dozed off for a couple of hours, but woke in time for breakfast and one final reading of the file.

Ross recalled the names that would decide if the long weekend would be a success or failure:

Declan O'Reilly

Sir Bernard Anscombe

Jim Fellows

Hani Khalil

And, most important of all, Avril Dubois, née Jenny Prescott.

Pawns on a chessboard, but would the Queen have to be brought into play?

By the time the plane landed in Riyadh, Ross should have been exhausted but had never felt more alert. He'd once done a training course with a dozen other operatives to see how long they could stay awake under pressure. After forty-nine hours, he'd collapsed, but he had been the last man standing.

When Ross entered the terminal, he was met by a young man who could only have worked for the Foreign Office. The Harris tweed jacket, old school tie and highly polished leather shoes wouldn't have fooled a rookie detective. The young man handed over the file in exchange for two passports: one Ross pocketed, the other he presented to passport control.

After a short inspection, Mr Declan O'Reilly, the Irish government's Minister for Marine and Natural Resources, was waved through without being questioned.

A Jaguar and driver were parked outside Arrivals and whisked Ross off to the Palace Hotel, where he had been booked into the presidential suite.

‘A car and driver will be outside the hotel waiting for you whenever you need them,' were the parting words of the man from the FCO before he took a taxi back to the embassy. It had quickly become clear that the young man had no idea who he was, or even why he was in Riyadh, and Ross had no intention of enlightening him.

When he walked into the hotel, he went straight to the check-in desk.

‘Good evening Mr O'Reilly,' said the concierge, ‘welcome to the Palace Hotel.'

Ross looked at the label on his jacket and said, ‘Good evening Mr Fellows.'