Devil’s Harvest Page 6

‘You English call it the most important meal of the day and then you sit and nibble like a mouse. You should drink less beer in the evening and eat good food earlier in the day. It’ll do wonders for you, I assure you.’ Hussein patted his stomach, which, though not obviously protruding, was not quite the torso of a man in the prime of health.

  Bartholomew winced as another cramp seared across his own abdomen and dived down into his left groin, if not his testicle. His ailments seemed to be worsening, but he still hadn’t made an appointment to see the gastroenterologist. Lilly would be furious if she knew; he’d assured her that he had been given the all-clear by Maurice. But meeting with Hussein in public made him nervous and his symptoms were aggravated by his anxiety. He preferred as little contact with the Saudi as possible, but was increasingly being drawn into the brokering of the deal. In truth, his position was untenable: his rash decision to invest in an apartment in Corfu on promises of a rental income had placed heavy financial pressure on him as the Greek economy remained in free fall. Now he found himself in the clutches of a man who was not subject to the rank of the military, or the rules of civilian society. Instead, he operated in the shadows of diplomatic and international relations.

  Bartholomew wondered quite how he had reached this point. He could neither flee nor realistically take the negotiation to its conclusion. He was trapped in a no-man’s land, like an adulterer who can neither terminate his unhappy affair nor leave his increasingly suspicious spouse. He was drifting towards disaster, target-fixated and without the control to avoid it. At times he felt angry towards Lilly, as if her disinterest in his career had destined him to travel down this cul-de-sac. But her indolence was as much a product of his own domineering manner as it was of her inherent personality. There was always a danger of blaming every personal disappointment and failed expectation on one’s spouse. He knew that. But he had the desperate sense of time running out, of his life slowing down, and that soon he would be redundant, the discarded warhorse on its way to the glue factory.

  Hussein’s deal was meant to be his panacea, his opportunity to claw back something for himself. Yet all he wished was for the man to disappear, for the meeting to be over, for his extrication. The Saudi, however, seemed to revel in his discomfort, insisting on meeting in the open, determined to make small talk and draw out the breakfast. Neither one of them had said a word of business, despite being together for close on half an hour. The conversation had meandered from the weather (dire) to the state of the British economy (equally dire) to some petty dissatisfaction that Hussein had experienced when checking into his luxury room upon his arrival several days before.

  The man attacked his eggs with relish, bringing a large forkful of muffin up to his mouth, dripping yoke and Hollandaise sauce. Despite his sartorial appearance, Hussein was a messy eater and soon his chin was smeared with food. Bartholomew buttered his piece of toast from corner to corner, without actually taking a bite, and waited for the gluttonous frenzy across from him to subside.

  Only once the last remnants of egg had been cleaned from the plate, and his chin wiped using no fewer than three napkins, did Hussein raise the first of the issues at hand.

  ‘I’m assuming that the last outing for the Reaper Project was successful,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘I haven’t had word from my client, but silence is sometimes the message we like best.’ He gave the air marshal a dark wink. Before Bartholomew could answer, mulling over the safest response, Hussein turned his attention to a passing waiter. ‘Coffee, George?’ When Bartholomew shook his head, the Saudi took some time ordering coffee for himself, with elaborate instructions concerning temperature, cup size and accoutrements on the side. By the time he had finished, it seemed that the topic had moved on.

  ‘I’m still looking at the contract for the African Union, by the way. I know it’s been a while, but the AU is terribly slow, as you know. You must be patient on that one. And they are bad payers. So your government will probably be paying for it anyway.’ Hussein found this amusing and started laughing. ‘Come, George, why so serious this morning?’

  Bartholomew waited as the waiter returned with a small cup of espresso and a jug of frothed milk. More instructions followed, with sugar sticks and honey being requested. The waiter left again, visibly irritated.

  ‘Khalid, I need some assurances,’ Bartholomew said. ‘Some guarantee that the Reaper Project isn’t being used for … inappropriate aims.’

  Hussein’s eyes darkened and the thin smile lines around them smoothed. He allowed his guest to feel the full blast of his disdain before replying: ‘Air Marshal, please. You and I have worked together in the past. And the reward to you has been … handsome, I think you’ll agree. But the biggest undertaking awaits us: the African Union contract is nothing compared to this deal. The client’s very serious about buying aircraft, including the helicopters. BAE Systems might be its preferred contractor at the moment, but you face competition from the Chinese and Ukraine. Even Denel is interested. These are big players in the field. This is new empire-building, George, and the stakes are high. You’re here to promote the interests of your British contractor. To do that, you must offer something extra. The Reaper Project is that something.’

  Bartholomew had heard this all before. It gave him no comfort, nor did Hussein’s next comment.

  ‘Ultimately, my client may be interested in becoming self-sufficient in regard to such … capabilities. We would then be dealing with your department directly, George.’

  The idea of dealing with the Saudi directly on drone capacity was horrifying, and Bartholomew sought to interject.

  Hussein held up his hand, sipping at his coffee at the same time. ‘But let us be clear on one thing: we’re not going to buy off the prime minister as happened with al Yamamah. Or the entire greedy cabinet like South Africa. This isn’t going to be a feeding frenzy. This is a much more competitive deal. If the off-contract price is too high, my client will go elsewhere. Either way, they’ll get their aircraft.’

  ‘And wherever these aircraft are to be used by your client, the world will need the British-financed peacekeeping troops all the more,’ Bartholomew retorted.

  Hussein laughed again. ‘Come, George. Don’t look so glum about it. It’s the circularity of war. It’s what keeps us all in business. The Americans have been selling weapons to their enemies for centuries. You just feel bad because you English are slow starters.’

  More coffee accoutrements arrived and Hussein took some time to doctor another miniature cup of espresso. He sipped at it, wiping the line of brown foam from his moustache with the back of his hand. His gold chains jingled on his wrist.

  ‘My sense is that if we move decisively on this deal, BAE Systems can conclude the contract within a few months. With your contacts and standing at Filton, I’ll be able to finalise things quickly. Your remuneration is not inconsiderable. And your retirement is looming: when you’re relaxing on the Greek beaches enjoying your pension, you’ll thank me, George.’

  ‘Khalid, nothing can happen until the client is taken off that bloody American list. That has to be a precondition for any deal, whether with the ministry or BAE. We can’t be seen to be supplying anything to a country on that list. We’ve said this before.’

  ‘Yes, yes, and that development is imminent, I assure you.’ Hussein waved at the air dismissively. ‘The Saudi Royal Family are personal friends of the American president. But no one pays the slightest attention to that silly list anyway. And as we discussed, payment will either be via an oil offset or we’ll use the Saudi defence force as the buyer and on-sell. Your precious morals will be quite protected and the Americans will be entirely unaware of the end-user.’

  ‘Yes, until there are bloody British-sourced helicopters blasting away in the combat zone.’

  ‘Stop fussing, George,’ Hussein sighed. ‘For a soldier you are far too risk-averse. They need helicopters, your country needs oil, and you personally could do with some assistance on your Greek investments, as
I understand.’

  Bartholomew smarted at the reference, but said nothing.

  ‘You should’ve invested in Dubai or Abu Dhabi.’ Hussein grinned while he finished off his coffee, his thick finger scooping out the last of the foam. He wiped his finger off on the tablecloth, staining the linen. Perhaps the meeting was over, Bartholomew thought.

  ‘There’s one last requirement from my client before we can press for the green light, George.’

  Bartholomew took a deep breath. He knew there was something; he had sensed it the moment he had sat down and observed the Saudi’s self-assured gaze.

  ‘My client has one more little job for the Reaper Project. The last one, I assure you.’

  Bartholomew muttered under his breath and Hussein stopped talking, but the standoff was short lived. ‘Continue,’ the air marshal said.

  ‘There’s an insurrectionist in the Nuba Mountains. He controls a rebel group responsible for some of the worst atrocities in the region. Women, children, rape, mutilation, you know, the usual repertoire. I’ll give you the file, but there are also strong links to terrorist-training organisations. It’s been okayed by the Americans. The CIA has him on their so-called take-out list, so they’ll welcome your intervention.’

  Bartholomew was not sure which he abhorred more, taking instructions from the Saudi agent or inadvertently advancing the agenda of the Americans. Somehow Hussein had managed to catch him in a web, nearly a decade before, using him to secure a small contract and offering an inappropriately generous gift in thanks. The moment he accepted it, he knew that he’d taken a path that would change his life. Then he had hoped for the better. Now he had his doubts.

  It was the new age of warfare, but all his old-fashioned instincts told him that he had been lured into a den of scoundrels.

  Chapter 5

  THE HAWTHORNS DINING HALL, BRISTOL, SOUTH-WEST ENGLAND

  Dinner was held, at Symington’s insistence, in the old staff dining hall at The Hawthorns on Woodland Road, opposite the Bristol Grammar School. The Hawthorns was an old mixed Georgian and revivalist structure that served as the catering centre for the university, with a staff dining room, refectory and private rooms that could be hired out. The dining hall had been renovated but retained the original dark, greasy panelling and draughty ill-fitting doors. For the head of department, the hall’s state was indicative of the demise of the imperial realm, the collapse of royal colonialism into a mire of bureaucracy. Symington clung to its tarnished glory. The gathering would have been quite comfortable in someone’s home or, if Gabriel had had his way, each remaining at their own home. The food had to be preprepared, as the increasingly sparse kitchen staff were unionised now and refused to work after four in the afternoon. The kitchen was in fact clean by half-past two, and little besides a bottled cooldrink could be secured beyond that. Presumably the need for sustenance after two o’clock was a bourgeois indulgence that the working class declined to accommodate. To that extent, Gabriel had some sympathy for Symington’s hankering for the past: gone was the honour of service and loyalty, replaced with petty expressions of entitlement.

  Gabriel foresaw the industrial-sized bowls of cooling lasagne and glazed chicken pieces laid out in a row, the condensation marbling on the underside of the plastic wrap. The wine would be cheap and acidic, the conversation even less palatable. He had hoped he might develop bruising or some other sign of the ‘attack’ in Queens Road so that he could tender his apologies. But apart from the small but persistent scab, he was regrettably injury-free.

  These evenings were inevitably charmless and turgid. He recalled one exception when a new lecturer’s wife had drunk too much and proceeded to have a stand-up row with her mortified husband, accusing him of appalling personal shortcomings before dashing outside and vomiting copiously into an unsuspecting flower pot. Symington had banned spouses from such dinners for a number of years after that, but the stilted conversation that resulted made even the taciturn professor relent, and partners were put back on the invitation list. Jane of course usually declared herself unavailable. But it had reached the stage when one more refusal would give a clear message of rejection and she had reluctantly agreed to accompany Gabriel to the dinner.

  ‘Christ, I don’t know who are worse,’ she said when he informed her of the event, ‘the accountants at work or a bunch of botanists. A room full of people and not a single life to be had.’

  ‘Not a bunch, dear, it’s a bouquet of botanists,’ he had quipped, clutching at an old joke. Jane hadn’t smiled.

  Gabriel felt the chill of the room now as they entered, as late as they could make it without being rude. It seemed that everyone was there already, clustered around the trestle table at the far end of the cavern, as though the bottles of cheap wine were some warming fireplace. The group parted slightly as he approached, his hand guiding Jane along. Symington was talking to someone blocked by the large frame of Brian Hargreaves. As Gabriel rounded the side of his colleague’s ample stomach, he recoiled. The wiry, skullcapped professor from his lecture was listening to Symington with his head cocked to one side. The man’s eyes flitted across to Gabriel and lit up with apparent delight.

  ‘Ah, Professor Cock-burn,’ he said, seemingly unconcerned at interrupting his host’s monochromatic speech.

  Symington looked confused for a moment, gaping slightly, before recovering. ‘Yes, well, you must’ve already met. Associate Professor Gabriel Cockburn,’ – the emphasis was gratuitous but at least he pronounced his surname correctly – ‘this is Professor Ismail. From the University of Khartoum. In the Sudan. Professor Ismail is our guest of honour tonight.’

  Jane was peering at the small man with interest, as a vulture might do upon encountering an injured mouse.

  ‘A mere herbalist, I assure you,’ the Sudanese guest replied to soft laughter. He smiled broadly at Gabriel, who stumbled through a greeting, once more taking the lizardy hand in his, before retreating in search of drinkable wine. He heard the man’s obsequious compliments falling about his wife’s shoulders as he poured three glasses of claret. Ismail’s delight seemed only to build on seeing Gabriel returning with a glass, offered in an unspoken truce.

  ‘I’m a Muslim, Professor. I don’t drink alcohol. Ever.’

  Gabriel thought he heard a groan of embarrassment escape his wife’s lips, but it may only have been Hargreaves extending his podgy hand – not exactly at lightning speed – to claim the glass.

  ‘Of course, my apologies,’ Gabriel murmured, hating the man even more now, for his lack of vice. ‘I fear I may have been less than wholly attentive towards you yesterday after the lecture, Professor Ismail.’

  ‘Ah no, Gabriel, that is not true. You were in fact most rude.’ The accusation was said with such forgiving bonhomie, forestalled by the startling use of his first name before he delivered his real blow: ‘But you were distracted.’

  There was a little pause, the kind that precedes the pulling of a trigger, or the full-blown cry of a child. Gabriel awaited the inevitable with horror, mentally willing the man to stop.

  ‘She was most becoming in your eyes, I saw.’

  It was diabolical, this unstoppable torture. Gabriel stood riveted, while those around him watched in fascination as he squirmed. Jane certainly did not look disposed to come to his aid. Gabriel could swear that Hargreaves had subtly shifted away from him.

  ‘Between the alcohol and the exposure to women’s bodies, I am surprised you’re able to concentrate at all. It’s all a most unfortunate distraction to endure, I have no doubt. But please, I see your glass is empty already. Do not let me delay your fill.’

  Gabriel looked down at his exsanguinated hands. His glass was indeed empty; somehow he had drunk his wine in a single, desperate quaff. Ismail turned to Symington, resurrecting the dull narrative that had been interrupted. Jane turned around and made her way towards the toilets. There was a clear opening of the floor around Gabriel, as if he had suddenly developed a nasty lesion on his forehead. Even Hargreave
s seemed uncertain whether to publicly confess his acquaintance, staring down at the floor over the abyss of his shirt.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ his colleague whimpered before downing his wine as well, the corners of his mouth stained with acidic claret.

  * * *

  The meal was not a success. By the time everyone had finished their limp Caesar salad starter, the lasagne was unbearably stodgy, as if reheated in a deli under lights. The steamed vegetables – factory-cut carrots and beans – added colour but did little to salvage the culinary failure that was the preprepared English meal.

  Gabriel had tried to steer clear of the diminutive visitor, but ended up diagonally across the table, catching the twinkle in his tormentor’s eyes as he pulled his chair in. Jane, disloyally he felt, had wangled her way next to the exotic guest, launching into an animated debate about Sharia law and the restrictions on women. Under normal circumstances, her face would have flushed as she pounded the moral high ground, the picture of the modern suffragette aggrieved by the obstinacy of male domination. But the slight professor had her wide-eyed and enthralled. Even when she disagreed she kept bobbing her head up and down in a most unJane-like fashion. Gabriel was particularly annoyed to see that she’d left her wine glass at the bar and was now drinking water.

  Gabriel took a gulp of his own claret before striking up a jolly conversation with his neighbour, an awkward senior lecturer named Coxley, who punctuated his speech with bursts of laughter like gunfire from a trench. The discussion was strained, and Coxley was clearly distracted by the proximity of the acerbic Sudanese guest. His eyes kept leaving Gabriel and flitting to the other side of the table. Gabriel was himself unsettled, no longer the aspirant head of department, the leader conducting the university’s most significant international research, but a bumptious and snivelling competitor, reduced to the sidelines. It was outrageous. He had to reclaim his domain; he was, after all, on home ground. He drained his glass and did not refuse Coxley’s offer to refill it. Coxley laughed as if he had said something amusing, spraying unidentifiable bits of food in a defensive perimeter.