Page 92 of An Eye for an Eye

‘Thank you, Mr Hogan,’ said Billy, sounding genuinelyrelieved as he watched the little pieces drop like confetti back into the briefcase. Only one thing remained in the briefcase which Billy couldn’t take his eyes off: a pair of handcuffs.

‘There are conditions I’ll expect you to keep to if you don’t want to go back inside,’ said Ross, ‘so listen carefully.’

The look of apprehension reappeared on Billy’s face.

‘I’ll be back next Tuesday at twelve o’clock with another warrant, and if the letter isn’t up to scratch, your feet won’t touch the ground until you’re safely back in your old cell at Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘I can promise you, Mr Hogan, you’ll get your letter, and even Mr Jefferson will think he wrote it.’

‘And one more thing, Billy, before I leave,’ said Ross. ‘If you’re stupid enough to get in touch with Mr Booth Watson, the deal is off, and I’ll personally deliver you to the Scrubs on the same day. And let me also warn you that should it cross your mind to scarper, I’ve instructed the local police to keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven, and when they catch up with you – and you can be sure they will – it won’t be twelve months you’ll be looking at.’ Billy began to tremble again. ‘Think about it,’ said Ross as he closed his briefcase, and delivered his parting words, ‘See you midday on Tuesday, Billy. Make sure you’re on time.’

‘I’ll be here waiting for you, Mr Hogan. You can rely on me.’

‘Let’s hope so, for your sake,’ said Ross as he got up and left the pub without another word.

As he began to walk back to the station, Ross checked his watch. With a bit of luck, he’d be home in time for tea with Jojo.

CHAPTER 25

PRINCEMAJID BINTALALALSaud checked his watch. This was one meeting he wasn’t going to be late for.

When he left his office on the forty-third floor, a lift that could only be occupied by one person whisked him to the ground floor without stopping. He stepped out and headed for the entrance where another door was being held open for him. He then strode out of the building to find his chauffeur standing by the car. He didn’t open the back door until the Minister was three paces away, as the intense, humid heat could turn the car into an oven in a matter of seconds.

As the car drove off, the Minister of Defence glanced out of the window and once again marvelled how much the skyline had changed in his lifetime. He had been born in a tent in a hot and freezing desert, and five decades later he was being driven along a six-lane highway in an air-conditioned car at seventy miles an hour through the most modern city on earth.

During the next twenty minutes, the Defence Minister considered a dozen scenarios for why the King would want to see him. Eleven of them were unfavourable. He stared at the phone in the armrest, but despite his fingers twitching, he left it in its place untouched.

He’d received a call from the King’s private secretary the previous evening, asking him to attend a meeting with His Majesty at 10 a.m. the following morning. He hadn’t slept. The King only requested an audience if you were about to be promoted or sacked, and Prince Majid was sure of one thing – he wasn’t about to be promoted.

But why? Could the stories about his son possibly be true? Because he’d dismissed them as tittle-tattle, was he about to lose his job?

At last, the palace gates came into sight, and he knew it would not be too much longer before he discovered his fate. The gates began to open slowly when the car was still a hundred yards away from the entrance. Two uniformed guards sprang to attention and saluted as the ministerial car swept by and continued along a drive that led up to the largest palace in the world.

Al Yamamah Palace made Buckingham Palace look like a semi-detached and the gardens of Versailles like an allotment. A vast marble building that housed one monarch, nine hundred and eighty-nine servants and four wives. The gardens stretched as far as the eye could see and the boundaries were surrounded by a thousand pines imported from Norway. A lake larger than the Serpentine contained four hundred Japanese carp that had to be fed twice a day.

Behind the trees, well out of sight, were four helicopter pads and a runway for the King’s three private jets. His Majesty didn’t visit airports.

When the limousine finally came to a halt outside the entrance, a tall, elegant man in a long white thawb stepped forward and opened the rear door. His only job.

Prince Majid got out of his car to see the King’s private secretary was waiting on the top step, but he turned his back on the Minister of Defence even before they could greet each other. Without a word passing between them, he led the Minister slowly down a long, wide, thickly carpeted corridor past full-length portraits of former rulers – some of whom had never lived in a palace – and on towards a stateroom he’d only entered once before. When he was still a few paces away, the two vast doors that led into the throne room opened like a trap door.

The Minister entered and walked slowly along the red carpet towards the King. When he reached the throne, he looked up at his monarch, bowed low and said, ‘Good morning Your Majesty.’

He received no salutation in reply, nor was there any suggestion that he might sit on one of the many comfortable cushions surrounding the throne.

‘Does the name Simon Hartley mean anything to you?’ asked the King.

‘He’s the British representative for the arms deal, Your Majesty.’

‘And where is he at the moment?’ the King asked.

The Minister of Defence hesitated.

‘You clearly know where he is, and it is your son who is responsible for him being there.’

Prince Majid didn’t suggest otherwise.

‘And Avril Dubois?’

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