too, were just on holiday?
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, UK
Snow climbed the stairs to stretch his thigh muscles. Sitting for too long in traffic, his left leg had become stiff. He reached Patchem’s floor, his thighs gently warmed, crossed the open-plan section, and pushed the door that led to the reception area for the ‘Soviet Desk’, as it was still affectionately called by the longer-serving officers. Patchem’s overly serious secretary nodded that he should enter. Patchem gestured for Snow to sit. Through the large thick glass window, the Thames below reflected the mid-morning sun.
‘Paddy Fox.’ Patchem didn’t waste his words.
Snow nodded. The dramatic rescue footage, which some overexcited journalists were saying was the most sensational since the Iranian Embassy siege, had made Fox something of a media sensation. The royal endorsement of Umar Al Kabir had only added to this. It had been leaked that Fox was an SAS veteran of both Iraq wars. The media, who liked nothing more than a real-life ‘action hero’, clamoured for more information and pictures like a pack of feral dogs. Even Britain’s most well-known former SAS member turned author had commented on Fox’s actions in his newspaper column.
‘I know you were in different squadrons, generations, but you must have met over the years?’
‘We have met.’
Snow didn’t mention the freezing nights spent in a hedgerow in South Armagh’s ‘Bandit Country’ while on attachment to ‘The Det’, the Royal Ulster Constabulary’s intelligence unit. The pair of them had been deployed to relay information on a suspected new IRA cell.
‘What do you think of him?’ Patchem’s bright-blue eyes burned into Snow’s. ‘Liked by most, respected by all, I assume?’ Patchem continued, with mild sarcasm.
‘Yes.’ What was he getting at?
‘But in possession of a short temper. He wouldn’t get past the psych test in today’s Regiment selection. Six weren’t interested in him either, even though he spoke Arabic. Here, have a look.’ Patchem removed a buff-coloured file from his briefcase on the table in front of him.
Snow took the file and opened it. It was a censored version of the military record of one James Celtic Fox. A boy soldier in the Gordon Highlanders, he had passed selection at the age of twenty-one and into B Squadron 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. Mobility Troop. Specialist: demolition. The file listed some of the campaigns he had undertaken, many not known outside the confines of Whitehall and Stirling Lines. Large areas had been blacked out when the file had been photocopied.
‘Fox made corporal in the Highlanders but was demoted back to private.’
Snow looked up from the page. ‘Oh?’
Patchem spoke, matter-of-fact. ‘He threw his sergeant major out of a window.’
Snow wasn’t surprised; he’d believe anything of Paddy.
‘Evidently he found the bugger in bed with his wife. Luckily for both men the room was on the first floor! So, to business.’ Patchem held his hand out for Snow to return the file. ‘As the media has been so keen to broadcast to the world, an unknown terrorist organisation attempted to abduct the daughter of a member of the Saudi royal family. Fox stopped them, shot three of the kidnappers, and rescued the girl. Unfortunately he also seriously wounded a bystander – you’ll have seen all this on TV’
Snow nodded.
‘Well, this person, the “innocent passer-by”, happened to be having an affair with Fox’s second wife.’
‘Quite a coincidence.’
‘That’s exactly what the CPS thought. However, it has been decided, though not made public yet, that he’s not to be charged with attempted murder. It turns out the Saudis have some friends in very high places. These people “persuaded” the Home Secretary to drop all charges against Fox.’
It would be put down to the ‘special relationship’ between Saudi and the UK, which in reality had far more to do with arms contracts. Patchem had heard that Saudi Arabia had threatened to nullify the latest contract if Fox were prosecuted. Al Kabir was the Saudi signatory.
‘What’s more, Fouad Al Kabir is to offer Fox a position in Riyadh, as head of security, to show his gratitude. What I want you to do is persuade Fox to take it.’ Patchem pressed a button on his keyboard and an image was projected on the blank, light-blue wall behind Snow’s head. ‘Recognise him?’
Snow swivelled in his chair and saw an image of a dead body. The picture zoomed in and Snow recognised the man. A second image, this one a still from Snow’s mobile video footage taken in Harley Street, appeared next to the face.
‘The same person.’
‘I agree. He has yet to be identified, but this is one of the abductors Fox neutralised. The attack on Durrani and the abduction are linked.’
Snow frowned. ‘Are you saying that Dr Durrani had links or dealings with terrorists?’
‘Absolutely not. He had a higher security clearance than you. He’d worked for us for years and was fully vetted. He trained in the UK but was a Pashtun, originally from Quetta. His family came to the UK when the Soviets invaded neighbouring Afghanistan. Due to his contact with us, we monitored all his patients. We know they included members of the Saudi royal family. With regard to whoever perpetrated these two acts, to be candid, we have no leads whatsoever. Furthermore, the media and the PM are asking “why”. The last thing we need is someone putting the desert wind up the Saudis.’ Patchem half-smiled at his play on words; it hid his sadness at the loss of a colleague. ‘If Fox takes this job it would also get him well and truly away from the media. Whitehall are very keen to kill the story. Everything you need to know is in here. Any questions?’
Snow shook his head as Patchem handed him a second file.
‘Good. Call me with your progress. You have three days.’
Snow stood and left the office. He would have to be careful. Fox would be drawing much attention from the media and Snow didn’t want his face in print beside his old comrade’s.
Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex
A disgruntled DC Flynn had the police driver drop Fox off at Cabot Square in London’s banking hub, Docklands. Fox easily found the only branch in London of his new Swiss banker and, after passing their security process, was allowed to withdraw cash against his generous payment from the Saudis. After buying wrapping paper, with which he covered his sword, Fox entered Canary Wharf tube station, taking the Jubilee Line to Westminster, where he changed to the Circle Line for Victoria.
Now safely ensconced in his Southern Central train to Shoreham, he sat back and watched as the scenery outside the carriage changed from the bustle of London to Surrey suburbia, then the green of the Sussex countryside. Finally reunited with his mobile, he had made several calls home – none of which had been answered. There was no response from Tracey’s mobile either. It wasn’t that he wanted to talk to her, but that he wanted to let her know he was on his way home. Having relished his walk from Shoreham station, he stopped short on seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign in his front garden. He felt the anger bristle inside him but had to admire his wife’s spirit. She was wasting no time. The house was in her name, she had bought it, so she was going to sell it. He walked up Jim’s path and knocked on his front door.
‘Paddy.’ His neighbour’s face registered shock but also relief. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, thanks, Jim.’ Fox nodded at the sign. ‘What’s all this about then?’
‘She’s left, gone to her sister’s place, but I didn’t tell you that. Sorry.’ He looked at his feet.
‘Don’t be.’
Jim swallowed. ‘You know I spoke to the papers? Someone had to say what kind of bloke you were.’
This newspaper interview had angered Fox at first