Cold Black. Alex Shaw

was in the forties and he immediately felt drowsy. Alcohol, heat, and tiredness did not a good mix make. The short drive to the terminal was cramped and hot. The terminal was also crowded, but cooler, as innumerable air-conditioning vents spat at travellers.

      At passport control there were several long queues, each for a different counter, one for KSA residents, another for diplomats, yet another for VIPs, and finally the one for the rest of the world. There had been another desk for ‘tourists’, meaning the Hajj pilgrims, until all Hajj flights had been redirected to Jeddah and a purpose-built terminal. Millions of the faithful, dressed in loincloths, would descend upon the Kingdom annually for the ritual of circling the pillars and throwing stones or something – Fox didn’t care for the facts; to him it was daft, pure and simple. The world’s largest and most dangerous pyjama party where, each year, hundreds were crushed to death. These thoughts, however, were highly offensive to Muslims and would get him arrested, if not worse, if he were to voice them. Fox joined the nearest and longest line. To his right was the sign for the toilets. It had two signs, one showing the head of a bearded man wearing robe and headdress and the other a woman’s veiled face. It looked like a prop from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

      ‘Any women here?’ Fox muttered to himself as he replayed the stoning scene in his head.

      The queue moved slowly forward and eventually Fox produced his passport. His visa was examined by a uniformed Saudi, whose eyes opened wide on seeing that he was to work directly for the royal family. It was stamped and returned. Just through the gates, Fox was greeted by an immaculately dressed military officer. He held out his hand.

      ‘Welcome to Saudi Arabia, Sergeant Fox.’

      Fox cringed and shook the proffered hand; the grip was firm. ‘Paddy will do fine.’

      ‘Paddy.’

      The eyes of the young officer gleamed. ‘His Royal Highness sent me personally to collect you and speed your entrance into the Kingdom. Now, if you will follow me, we shall expedite your luggage. I hope your flight was agreeable? I am Captain Barakat.’

      ‘Nice to meet you, Captain.’

      ‘Basil.’

      Fox looked amused and the captain shrugged. ‘I know that in your country it is a funny name. Basil Brush, Basil Fawlty, yes?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But in Arabic it means “brave”.’

      ‘I meant no offence.’ Fox spoke in Arabic.

      Basil smiled broadly. ‘Your Arabic is excellent.’

      ‘So is your English. Sandhurst?’

      ‘That is correct, Paddy; I believe your language skills stem from Hereford?’

      Inside, Fox swore. Who else knew he’d been in the Regiment? ‘Correct.’

      They walked along a corridor and reached the customs hall. The four conveyor belts were empty but the hall was packed with passengers from earlier flights, patiently waiting.

      Basil put his hand on Fox’s arm. ‘Stay here a moment.’

      The officer disappeared through a door and two minutes later the nearest conveyor belt started to whir, luggage from the BA flight tumbling down the chute. Fox saw his dark-red Samsonite case, always easy to spot, and grabbed it.

      Basil reappeared and took the handle. ‘Allow me.’

      Basil led Fox towards the customs area. The officials, on seeing Basil, waved them past and within seconds they were pushing through the swarms of taxi drivers, eager relatives, and chauffeurs, all waiting for their pickups. Fox fumbled inside his rucksack for his Ray-Bans and put them on as they exited the terminal building and were again assaulted by the heat. Basil seemed unaffected, even though he wore a uniform jacket, and strode towards a white Bentley Continental Flying Spur. He raised his arm and the boot popped open.

      ‘Nice.’ Fox was again taken aback. The car in front of him was the world’s fastest four-seat production car, capable of 0–60 mph in 4.9 seconds and a top speed of 195 mph. Basil lifted Fox’s heavy case and, showing an unexpected level of strength, swung it into the boot. He held his hand out for the rucksack and, once this was inside, closed the lid.

      ‘Shall we?’ Basil opened the front passenger door and Fox climbed into a world of cream leather, burnt oak, and walnut. ‘A good company car, yes?’

      ‘Your army pay must be better than mine ever was.’

      Basil nodded as he eased the large sports sedan away from the kerb. ‘Prince Fouad is a most generous employer. The car is, of course, his but I am to use it for important errands.’

      ‘Tell the prince I am most grateful.’

      ‘You will tell him in person when you arrive.’

      ‘Of course.’ Fox had momentarily forgotten he was due to meet his employer on arrival. Uncharacte‌ristically, he now felt shabby in his brown Merrells, sand-coloured cargo trousers, and check shirt. Sod it. He dressed like a lackey for no one, royal or no.

      The car joined the Riyadh highway and was soon cruising at over 100 mph. Basil flashed his lights at anyone who dared drive slower. There were speed limits in the Kingdom but not for the royal family or, indeed, important officials.

      ‘Have you read Bravo Two Zero or The One That Got Away?’

      ‘Yes.’ Fox knew what was coming.

      ‘You were in Iraq in ’91?’ Basil had read all there was to read about the legendary SAS and was thrilled to have a former member as his passenger.

      ‘I can’t tell you, Basil.’

      ‘I’m sorry – operational security, I expect?’

      ‘No,’ replied Fox dryly. ‘I’m an old man. I can’t remember.’

      Basil laughed loudly in the soundproofed interior of the Bentley. ‘That English sense of humour. That is why I like the English more than the Americans.’

      ‘The English are a funny lot.’ Fox didn’t bother to mention that he was actually Scottish.

      ‘For me, I prefer slightly the writing of Chris Ryan to Andy McNab, but that is just my personal preference. I have all the books of both men. Do you have a preference?’

      Fox shrugged. He didn’t want this subject to continue further.

      ‘Perhaps you should write a book also, Paddy?’

      ‘What would I write about? Gardening?’

      ‘Again the English humour.’ Basil’s laugh became a tone higher.

      There was a sudden wail of Islamic music and Basil reached into his trousers to retrieve his phone, all the while the Bentley continuing at over 100 mph. Basil spoke in Arabic. Fox listened to the conversation but was more interested in their progress. The car swerved slightly as Basil replaced the phone in his pocket. ‘That was the prince. He is glad you have arrived safely. ‘

      ‘Insha’Allah,’ Fox replied dryly.

      ‘Yes. God willing. We should be at the palace within the next ten minutes or so; it depends on the traffic.’

      ‘You mean how fast they can move out of our way?’ The needle had started to climb higher.

      ‘Yes. Exactly.’

      Twice more in the next ten minutes Basil received calls, not from the prince. Twice more Fox became a nervous passenger, which, for a man who loved fast cars, was rare. They pulled off the highway and headed into the desert along a road which led to a high wall, with steel gates and a security box on the outside. Basil sounded his horn and the gates opened without the occupants of the car being checked.

      Immediately inside the walls, Fox’s eyes became wide. In complete contrast to the desert outside, inside was the greenest grass he had ever seen, several fountains, and