Legacy. James Steel

…’ Alex said slowly, avoiding commitment as he desperately tried to think if he wanted to go. He knew he did not have any alternative, and the Ritz was about as unthreatening a place as one could meet in.

      ‘Very well, Mr Devereux. Just ask for my table, Mr Al-Khouri, and it’s jacket and tie,’ he said in a smug tone.

      ‘Right, OK. Thank you,’ Alex tried to end the conversation sounding as if he was in control.

      As usual, Alex arrived early; army habits died hard.

      He was wearing highly polished black Oxfords, his bespoke blue pinstripe suit with a crisply ironed white shirt, and his Cavalry and Guards blue and red striped tie.

      He didn’t like being so obvious about his regiment — ‘cabbage’ was their derisory term for flaunting the connection too overtly — but this was business, and he knew it was one of the few British army symbols that foreigners in his line of work recognised and valued.

      He walked up the side entrance steps on Arlington Street and was greeted by a smartly uniformed porter with white gloves tucked into one of the epaulettes of his overcoat.

      He was shown along the broad entrance hall by an overly suave waiter in black tie and a white dinner jacket. The middle of the Palm Court tearoom was dominated by an enormous gilt urn decorated with palms. A lady in a sequined dress tinkled away at a piano on one side.

      Alex cringed; the whole effect was one of stifling fussiness. The sparse clientele included grandmothers being taken out on their birthdays, aspirational fathers fulfilling their dreams by bringing cowed wives and children out for tea at the Ritz. Conversation was reduced to a subdued level by the formality.

      ‘Mr Al-Khouri is over there, sir,’ said the officious waiter, his arm extended grandly to point to a table in the far corner of the room. Alex straightened his shoulders and walked over slowly, eyeing his potential business partner carefully.

      On first sight Mr Al-Khouri looked the epitome of a wealthy playboy: about thirty-five, blow-dried black hair, average height, slim build and cleanshaven. He was wearing a white shirt with a black Armani suit and tie.

      The man stood up as Alex approached, all slick smiles and competitive bonhomie. ‘Mr Devereux. Please come, sit down, sit down.’

      ‘Alexander Devereux,’ said Alex unnecessarily, and gave his firmest handshake as he towered over the smaller man. It was all part of the male posturing, manoeuvring to show who was in charge.

      ‘Yes, yes. Kalil Al-Khouri. Thank you for coming, Mr Devereux. Tea for two, please.’ He signalled to the waiter hovering behind Alex. ‘Your finest Earl Grey,’ he added fastidiously.

      ‘A nice location.’ He swept his hand around the room.

      ‘Splendid,’ replied Alex.

      ‘I like to come to the Ritz when I am in town; it has a very … established feel. I do a lot of business in London.’ Kalil spread his hands and his voice dropped to a quieter conspiratorial tone. The word ‘business’ was deliberately vague, implying things far too important and secret to be spoken about in detail.

      ‘Right,’ Alex nodded, and waited for the posturing to stop.

      ‘So,’ Kalil tilted his head to one side, ‘my contacts tell me that you’ve been in Angola recently.’

      Alex was not sure who Kalil’s contacts were but there was nothing secret in what he had said so far. Alex’s work was sanctioned tacitly by the Foreign Office so he had nothing to hide.

      ‘Yes, a contract on the Lucapa field in the north. Mine defence and security team training,’ said Alex.

      ‘And how did that go?’

      ‘It went well,’ he replied cautiously. ‘We had good support from the government,’ which was a lie, but he was always careful to sound positive about his employers. ‘We did a lot of clearing-up ops on the bandit groups in the area. Counterinsurgency, some armoured recce work.’ He wasn’t prepared to go into any more detail, and looked at Kalil, who was watching him carefully.

      ‘Well, that’s very much the line of work that we are interested in.’ He glanced around to see that the grandmother and her family two tables away were not taking notes. He steepled his fingers together and leaned towards Alex.

      ‘Can I confirm, in the first instance, that you would be free to be involved in a six-month project starting with immediate effect? The compensation package will be,’ again he paused for effect, ‘… extremely competitive.’

      The waiter arrived with a triple-layered stand of cakes and a silver tea set on a tray. He fussed around laying them out and then left with a simpering smile.

      Alex and Kalil resumed their conspiratorial huddle.

      Alex nodded. ‘It would depend on the nature of the project, but yes, in theory, I would be available.’

      ‘Good.’ Kalil poured tea for them both and then sipped it slowly. Eventually he put his cup down and leaned over the table.

      ‘I represent a cartel of Lebanese diamond dealers,’ he continued quietly. ‘We are interested in hiring you to lead an operation involving a mechanised battle group in Africa. My understanding from your file is that this is your area of expertise?’

      Alex stared him in the eye and nodded slowly.

      Lebanese. They ran the diamond-trading networks in Africa and were famously secretive, but it sounded like a big job so in principle he was interested. The money would be good.

      ‘The cartel was extremely impressed with your file. You understand our position in the trade?’

      ‘In broad terms, yes.’ Alex had been involved in the business for long enough to have a good understanding of their role but he did not want to prevent any revelations so he held his hands out in a gesture inviting further comment.

      ‘We are the comptoirs — the middlemen on the ground — in Africa, who supply the markets in Amsterdam and the Far East. De Beers, Steinmetz and the rest have been getting very antsy about CSR and blood diamonds of late, but we’re not too angst-ridden about all that.’ He tossed his head dismissively.

      Alex was pleased that Kalil was dropping the bullshit and speaking more openly.

      Corporate Social Responsibility was a buzzword of all the multinationals. It was supposed to be about ethical behaviour towards indigenous peoples and the environment, and generally not behaving like rapacious capitalists. All well and good, but for small fry like Alex it meant that big firms were no longer prepared to operate in the sort of lawless areas where his skills would be in demand. He was not bothered to hear it denigrated.

      ‘I mean, we can’t afford to be.’ Kalil looked at Alex with his eyebrows raised to see if he was going to get precious.

      Alex shrugged to indicate that he was not bothered about exact adherence to the codes of practice that the larger security firms followed these days. He was not in a position to be picky.

      ‘Let me be plain, Mr Devereux.’ Kalil took on a serious expression. ‘This operation would be illegal by all international law codes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not about genocide, but it does involve an attack across sovereign borders. Not that that means squat in the parts of the world we’re talking about. It’s basically a dispute between two private enterprises over a diamond field in the Central African Republic. If you don’t feel comfortable in that situation, please tell me now.’

      Alex looked at him. He didn’t know the man from Adam. Was he a plant sent to trap him into an admission of illegality? Was he wired? He couldn’t tell. He needed the money. He shrugged again.

      ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry, Mr Devereux, the cartel is a bona fide organisation and we are as concerned to protect ourselves from outside scrutiny on this as you would be, so we are doing things very carefully. I think that is about as far as we can go on the operational details for now.’ He indicated the incongruous surroundings