Jeb Richards watched as Pete Olsen shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finally raising his eyes and locking them firmly onto Mason’s.
‘I can assure you,’ the general said in his deep voice, ‘that you have been made aware of everything you should have been made aware of.’
Mason smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said, hands up, ‘spoken like a true politician. Let me put it another way — is there any truth in the rumor that helicopters from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment have relocated to Dulong Airbase in China, right on the North Korean border?’
‘China is a security partner of the United States, Mr. Mason,’ Olsen said reasonably. ‘We are engaged in joint training exercises at all times. And the location of our assets, especially those involved in special operations is — if you’ll excuse me — none of your damned business, and even hinting at such a thing might well be regarded as a violation of national security.’
‘A violation of —!’ Mason’s face went red instantly. ‘How dare you! I —’
‘Clark,’ Abrams interjected, ‘Pete’s right on this, I’m afraid. The location of our special operations units — even in training — isn’t something to be discussed lightly. I would advise you to move on.’
Mason grunted. ‘And if some intelligence miraculously becomes available in the near future?’
Abrams smiled back at her secretary of state. ‘Then we shall all be very happy with our good fortune, won’t we?’
There was a mixture of stifled laughter and suspicious mutterings around the table, and Richards wondered whether he should bring up the matter of Mark Cole once again. He still couldn’t quite believe the story about the man simply escaping from an island full of Navy SEALs, but Commander Treyborne had been adamant that this was exactly what had happened. He said that he would have given orders for Cole to be pursued further, but with the limited men at his disposal he had apparently decided that securing the pirate hideout was his number one priority.
And now the Asset — this damned secret agent Mark Cole — was out there somewhere. What else would he find out? And how quickly? He had just decided to get back onto the issue of Cole’s arrest when he checked his watch and thought better of it; he had to be leaving soon, and wouldn’t have the time to be drawn into a protracted argument.
President Abrams noticed Richards checking his watch and turned to him. ‘Jeb,’ she said, ‘when’s your flight?’
‘About three hours,’ he said. ‘I should probably be on my way, actually.’
Abrams nodded. ‘Of course, and good luck with your meeting. Have you met this minister before?’
Richards nodded; there was no point lying about it. ‘Yes, I met Quraishi when he was living in the United States. He’s a good man; if anyone can help us find out more information about this Arabian Islamic Jihad, it’s him.’
With all the recent furor about the cargo ship hijacking, the potential threat of this new terrorist group had been somewhat overlooked. But Richards’ opposite number in Saudi Arabia, Assistant Minister for Security Affairs Abd al-Aziz Quraishi, had recently been in touch asking for a meeting; ostensibly he had some information on the group behind the beheading of Brad Butler that he wished to share.
Richards was glad to be leaving the rat’s nest of Washington, and the utter banality of these NSC meetings. But as he packed up his things from the conference table, he couldn’t help but wonder what Quraishi really wanted with him.
3
Although the exterior of the Saudi National Oil headquarters building in Dhahran was an unappealing mass of concrete, much like office blocks all over the world, inside was a different story altogether.
Cole entered the magnificent lobby, with its marble floors, priceless artworks and sweet-smelling orchids, and stopped to take it all in.
On the one hand, stopping to admire the foyer was probably what most first-time visitors would do; and on the other, it allowed him to assess the building’s security, its entrances and exits, and the staff who worked there.
He was dressed in an expensive Brioni suit, a gold Rolex on his wrist; he didn’t even have to guess what Dan Chadwick would wear, as he had all of the man’s clothes from his suitcases.
A smiling executive appeared instantly by his side. ‘Mr. Chadwick?’ he said in perfect, unaccented English.
Cole held out his hand and shook the man’s firmly, Texas-style. He was impressed by the strength of the man; under his tailored suit, the executive was built like a gorilla. ‘Mornin’,’ Cole said in a southern drawl. ‘How you doin’ today?’
‘I’m doing well thank you sir,’ the executive said. ‘My name is Abu. Please follow me, and I will take you to your meeting. Would you like something to drink?’
Abu was already walking, and Cole followed, leather heels clicking on the marble floor. ‘Black coffee,’ he said, and watched as the man spoke into a microphone at his lapel, putting the order through.
Abu made small talk with Cole about the flight and his hotel as they entered an elevator, which whisked them upwards to the finance department on the third floor.
Cole was impressed with the place; everything was smart, clean, efficient. Still, he considered as the elevator doors opened to an even more splendid lobby, if a trillion-dollar company couldn’t get it right, then who could?
Abu led Cole down a corridor which reminded him of the interior of a sultan’s palace, until they arrived in a private reception room. Cole took a seat on a leather couch which had an intricately carved wooden frame, and noticed that there was a black coffee waiting for him on the table.
‘Mr. al-Zayani will be with you shortly,’ Abu said, giving Cole another smile before turning on his heel and marching off back down the long marble corridor.
No sooner had the man disappeared than a large wooden door opened behind Cole, a middle-aged, well-dressed spectacled man standing there with his arms open.
‘Mr. Chadwick,’ he said welcomingly, ‘how lovely to meet you at last.’ Al-Zayani embraced Cole, and then shook his hand as they parted. ‘Your trip was good, I trust?’ he continued, ushering Cole into his office.
‘Very good, thank you,’ Cole said as he passed through the doorway. ‘Your country is as beautiful as everyone says.’
Cole knew that the size of the office shouldn’t surprise him, and yet it still did; the place was immense, and as highly decorated as the lobby outside. It was like the presidential suite at the Four Seasons.
There was a huge leather-inlaid mahogany desk in one corner, but Al-Zayani led Cole to a more comfortable living area and offered him a seat on another leather couch. Cole smiled as the man took a seat opposite him. ‘This is an incredible place you have here,’ he said honestly.
Al-Zayani shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘We do what we can,’ he said modestly. ‘It is better than sitting in the heat of the desert at any rate, eh?’
Cole laughed. ‘You got that right.’ The temperature outside had been over a hundred degrees even though it was still only morning, and the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Saudi National Oil headquarters offered wonderful relief. ‘But I’m from Texas, so I guess you learn to live with it.’
Al-Zayani nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he said as a handsome young man appeared, carrying a tray which he set down on the table. ‘I suppose that is true. Humans are amazingly adaptable, aren’t they? It is incredible what one can get used to.’ The man poured black coffee for both of them into the small and intricately designed cups. Cole remembered the coffee on the table outside; he’d not even had a chance to pick it up.
His hand moved to the cup straight away, and he smiled at the man. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and watched as al-Zayani merely nodded his head, excusing him from the room.