Coup D’état

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

Cover By Tan Ho Sim
https://www.artstation.com/alientan

All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

Executive Solutions is one of the world’s most capable mercenary units, a force designed to do everything from providing local security and training to hostage rescue, terrorist suppression and many other operations in places regular military forces can’t or won’t go.  In a world riven by war and chaos, with law and order breaking down everywhere, they are often the tip of the spear, a deniable assert who can be praised or discarded as their paymasters decide.  And yet now, they face a challenge that may be beyond even them.

Kabat has stayed out of trouble because the tiny kingdom’s government has avoided all involvement with the outside world, maintaining its independence and economic clout through careful development, quiet international alliances and the occasional use of naked force.  But now, the government is on the verge of going rogue, of turning the country into a rogue state that will either collapse or find itself in the crosshairs of the entire world.  There is only one hope – mercenaries, Executive Solutions, must launch a coup to overthrow the rulers and save the kingdom from itself ...

…And yet, if they fail, they will find themselves trapped, abandoned and left to die.

Author’s Note

There are two points that need to be mentioned, for various reasons that will be expounded upon in the afterword.

First, Kabat does not exist.  It draws from a number of real countries, but it isn’t real itself.

Second, this book was originally written in 2014-5 and therefore needed to be updated in places as COVID and other global events had not, yet, taken place.  I apologise for any confusion.

Please do not let either of these discourage you from enjoying the book.

CGN.

Prologue

Kabati Royal Palace, Kabat

Princess Sultana Binti Abdullah Al-Kabati felt a flicker of nervousness, a remnant of fear, as she stepped into the Kabati Throne Room.  It had been the domain of her father for as long as she could remember, a luxurious room designed to show off his wealth and power, a place she’d often entered wondering if she would ever leave again.  Her father had been a great man, a strong ruler and visionary, but he’d also been a harsh patriarch whose every word was law.  And if it wasn't, he had possessed the power to make it so.

And now he was dead.

Sultana couldn’t help feeling conflicted.  Her father had never raised a hand to her - indeed, he’d trusted her more than any of her brothers - but at the same time, she’d understood that everything she’d achieved was based on his sufferance.  He could have married her off at any moment, or locked her up to keep others from getting ideas, if he had wished.  And she, the sole daughter he’d fathered, had been the lucky one.  Her father had had nine sons ... and only one of them had outlived the old man.

She stopped in front of the throne and carefully lowered herself to her knees.  Her father had devised the royal protocol himself, combining both traditional Arab and Western concepts into a system that left anyone entering the Throne Room unable to forget that he was a supplicant, coming to beg for succour from his master.  Even Sultana and her brothers hadn't been immune to their father’s desire to ensure that everyone regarded him as their absolute ruler.  She still shuddered at some of the things her father had done to maintain his rule.

Her brother, Emir Abdullah Al-Kabati II, looked down at her.  He had been handsome once, in a dashing kind of way; now, the left side of his face looked misshapen, a legacy from a beating their father had once given him for some imagined slight.  Sultana had no idea what Abdullah had done, but he’d never been quite the same afterwards.  Indeed, if their father had had another son left at the time, it was quite possible that Abdullah would not have survived the day.  As it was, he had retreated into his palace and had as little to do with politics as possible.  

And now he was Emir.

“My sister,” Abdullah said.  His voice was light, breathy.  “I bring you good news.”

Sultana kept her face impassive with the ease of long practice.  She might have been his sister, but she simply didn't know him very well.  Their father had used her as his business representative, knowing the population would never accept a female ruler, a task that had kept her away from Kabat for most of the year.  She didn't even know Abdullah’s wife, a quiet little mouse of a girl who stayed in the female quarters and never emerged, not even to see her father-in-law.  But then, if Sultana hadn't been his daughter, she would have been reluctant to face the previous Emir too.  Rumour had it that one of his sons had been killed for daring to object when his father showed signs of fancying his daughter-in-law.

“You have served in an unnatural role for far too long,” Abdullah continued, beaming at her as if he expected her to welcome his pompous words.  “Our father tormented you by forcing you to serve as a man.  Now, you will be free to marry and live your life as a woman should.  I have already decided that you will marry.”

Sultana stared at him.  Their father had never even suggested she marry, knowing that it would give her husband a claim to the throne.  Indeed, Sultana had quietly resigned herself to spinsterhood, knowing that her father would kill her if she had a relationship with anyone, even a very brief fling.  She had been allowed so many freedoms, but the freedom to choose her own husband had always been denied to her.  And now ...

“My brother,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level.  “Who do you have in mind?”

She considered it, briefly, as he smiled.  There simply weren’t many candidates in Kabat itself, certainly no one her father would have accepted.  An outsider?  Someone from Saudi, Kuwait or Jordan?  It was certainly a possibility, with the added bonus that he would never be able to make a bid for the throne.  But her father had always hated and feared the Saudis.  He would never have offered his only daughter in marriage to one of them.  

“I have yet to decide,” her brother said.  “A cleric perhaps, someone who could educate you in the proper role of a woman.  Or someone who could be ... useful.”

He shrugged, dismissing the matter as something of little importance.  “Too long has Kabat groaned under the weight of a tyrant,” he said, his voice darkening.  “Too long has our father ground our people into the dirt, destroying our age-old culture to please Westerners while our fellow Arabs suffer and die.  I will see that change.”

Sultana shuddered internally.  She’d heard rumours that her brother had turned to religion, to the harshest and least compromising branch of Islam, but she’d never given them credence.  Kabat had always been free of extremism, if only because their father had mercilessly crushed any preacher who had tried to stir up the rabble.  Religious upheaval was bad for business, after all, and Kabat was effectively a business.  Their father would have killed Abdullah if he’d known.  

But he didn't know, her own thoughts pointed out.  Or he thought it would no longer matter, after his death.

She dragged her attention back to her brother, just in time to hear him pontificating on how he was going to throw the Western corporations out of his country and start distributing largess to the Arab world.  It was clear he didn't have the faintest idea how Kabat made its money, or what would happen if he started playing political games.  Sultana had served as her father’s servant for long enough to have no illusions.  If the corporations left, Kabat would be badly impoverished ... and if they started funding extremists all across the Middle East, they would be crushed.  God knew Saudi Arabia had been looking for an excuse to invade for years.  Kabat’s free-wheeling attitude had been a thorn in their side for decades.

“My brother,” she said, choosing her words very carefully, “is this truly the wise course of action?”

“No longer can we sit in our palaces and enjoy our wealth while others suffer,” her brother proclaimed.  “I will not waste the opportunity God has dropped into my hands.  I have survived because I placed my trust in God ...”

Because you weren't a threat, Sultana thought, as her brother rambled on.  Because our father had no other sons.

She took a breath.  “It will be a relief to put down my burdens,” she lied, smoothly.  She might never have dared to lie to her father, not when he could sniff out a lie at twenty paces, but she had no qualms about lying to her brother.  Besides, people were always more inclined to believe what they wanted to believe.  “However, it will take at least a year to transfer my responsibilities to whomever you wish to appoint as your new business manager.”

Her brother shrugged.  “I dare say any Kabati male can handle the job,” he said.  “It is a very simple position.”

Sultana fought down the urge to groan.  She had studied for five years - in America - to be a business manager, while all her brother had done was memorise the Quran and hide in his palace.  There was no way a complete outsider could step into her post and handle it as well as she did ... and even if one did, her brother would have dropped an awesome amount of power into his lap.  Sultana might have been a woman, but she’d been family.  Who could her brother trust with such power?  Her father’s legacy would be destroyed within months!

She looked at her brother and came to a cold, grim realisation:  He would have to go.

“Then I will start making preparations at once,” she said.

“Of course, of course,” her brother said.  He motioned for her to rise to her feet.  “We will discuss the details of your wedding later.”

The groom, for example, Sultana thought.  Was her brother truly expecting a groom to fall into her lap ... or did he have someone in mind, someone he knew she would have refused, given a free choice?  She rather doubted it.  It would be hard for him to imagine that she might reject his authority over her.  Maybe I should just run.

She shook her head as she walked out of the door, pulling the scarf up and around her long dark hair.  It would have been easy to run; she’d taken the precaution of skimming enough money from the dozens of bank accounts she handled to ensure a comfortable life, somewhere well away from the Middle East.  But she was her father’s daughter and she would be damned if she was going to see her father’s legacy destroyed.  Something would definitely have to be done.

Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she called her assistant.

“Have the jet placed on standby,” she ordered.  “I want to fly to London this evening.”

Chapter One

Unnamed Settlement, Yemen

“I have a bead, sir,” Specialist Robert Worthy whispered, over the communications link.  “It’s definitely him.”

“Be sure,” Major Malcolm Smith subvocalised.  “Be very sure.”

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably on the sand as the moon rose high in the sky, casting an eerie flickering radiance over the desert.  Below him, a handful of buildings showed no signs of life, save for a light he could see glinting through one of the windows.  The settlement looked like nothing more than a tiny village, a place where an extended family might live and work for their entire lives without ever knowing about the outside world; indeed, the only sign of high technology was a simple satellite dish.  It was the sort of place that might well have been overlooked, either by the government in the capital or Western military forces scouring the coastline.  Certainly, its occupants had hoped it would be overlooked.

But we tracked you down, he thought, coldly.  And we’re waiting for you.

“I’m sure,” Worthy insisted.  “I’m peering at him through the scope now.”

“Good,” Malcolm muttered.  “Give me a detailed breakdown.”

“Two technicals, both with mounted machine guns,” Worthy said.  “One jeep; our target is sitting in the backseat, reading a book.  And one large truck, carrying armed men.”

“Understood,” Malcolm said.  In the distance, he heard the sound of approaching engines.  “Keep watching them.”

He returned his attention to the buildings, a flicker of anticipation burning through him as the sound grew louder.  The mere presence of armed men proved nothing - every man in Yemen carried weapons - but their target had been careless.  Showing himself to Worthy ... Malcolm shook his head at such poor tradecraft, then smiled.  It was quite likely that Osama Bin Osama felt he needed to share the risks with his men, even though they were foot soldiers and he was the current leader of their terrorist cell.  Yemen was a treacherous place, after all, and who knew who would come out on top when the civil war finally came to an end?

Lucky for him, the Yanks aren’t watching with their drones, he thought, dryly.  A target like that, out in the open with no risk of collateral damage ... they’d take the shot in a heartbeat.

“Get the assault teams into place,” he ordered, tonguing the communicator in his jaw.  By now, subvocalising was second nature.  “I want to move as soon as the target enters the building.”

“Understood,” Master Sergeant Keith Glass said, flatly.

Malcolm grinned, then glanced at Sergeant Ian Grindey.  “Any thoughts?”

“Just that you should watch the technicals,” Grindey said.  “They might have a few surprises buried in their frames.”

Malcolm nodded as the vehicles finally came into view.  Technicals weren't tanks, not by any reasonable definition of the word, but they could be dangerous if taken lightly.  They started out as small vehicles - everything from cars to pick-up trucks or small vans - and then had armour and weapons bolted to their frames.  Terrorist and insurgent groups tended to use them to move their forces around the battlefield, often moving quicker than their opponents could hope to match.  But Malcolm wasn't intimidated by the sight.  He'd seen too many technicals squashed under tanks or ripped apart by machine guns to find them scary.

He keyed his goggles, zooming in on the men in the truck.  The locals probably found them terrifying; they carried weapons and wore black outfits, rather than any uniform that marked them as belonging to a genuine army.  They probably had no ties at all to the locals, Malcolm guessed; they had no choice, but to remain united against all comers.  And a complete lack of sympathy for the locals would make it easier for the bastards to bully their unwilling hosts into submitting to them.

The vehicles came to a sudden halt, just outside the edge of the settlement.  Malcolm watched, grimly, as a handful of men jumped out of the truck and sniffed around, then pulled back to allow their commander to descend from the jeep.  Worthy had been right, he decided, another trickle of excitement running down his spine.  Osama Bin Osama himself, star of a dozen snuff videos, the killer of thousands of innocents ... and the latest in a series of terrorist masterminds to bedevil the world.  Ending his career as a terrorist and mass murderer would be a good deed in and of itself, Malcolm was sure, and if the whole process led them to more terrorist cells, that would be icing on the cake.

Osama nodded to his men, then strode towards the first building.  Two more men, both carrying large boxes, scurried after, body language suggesting they wanted his protection against the armed thugs.  Probably former students, Malcolm decided; men who hadn't realised just what fighting entailed until they’d travelled to the Middle East and discovered the worst, too late.  The jihadists might have discovered the wonders of mass media, when it came to promoting their message, but they tended to hold anyone skilled with technology in contempt.  Or maybe he was just imagining things.  A couple of the most dangerous terrorists in the world hadn't been thugs, but accountants.  

“The hostage is in Building Two,” Grindey said.  “They’ll need to move him into Building One to chop off his head.”

Malcolm nodded.  Charles Braddock had been taken, two weeks ago, from where he’d been reporting on the endless civil war sweeping over Yemen.  Malcolm normally had no time for reporters, regarding them as untrustworthy fools, but no one deserved to have his head cut off to make yet another snuff video.  Besides, the man had served as unknowing bait, bringing Osama out of his hiding place to cut off his head personally.  Braddock deserved at least a chance to live.

“Noted,” he muttered.  Down below, Osama had swept into Building One, followed by his two cronies.  The door slammed closed, firmly.  “Ready?”

“Always,” Grindey muttered back.  

Malcolm took one final sweep of the entire complex.  Normally, he would have crawled up to the guards and slit their throats, then stormed the three buildings before the enemy realised they were under attack.  But the armed guards loitering near the technicals made that impossible; he couldn't hope to sneak close without being detected, no matter how much training and experience he had.  The only consolation was that the hostage and Osama weren't in the same building.  There wouldn't be a chance for them to kill the poor bastard before he could be rescued.

“Laze the technicals,” he ordered, keying his communicator.  “And prepare to engage.”

“Targets lazed,” Worthy said.  The beam of light was invisible to the naked eye, but the antitank missiles would have no difficulty in seeking out their targets.  It was overkill, Malcolm admitted privately, yet he didn't dare take chances.  The sooner the terrorists were killed, the better.  “Ready to fire.”

Malcolm took a breath.  “Fire!”

The first missile streaked out of nowhere and slammed into the technical, exploding with staggering force.  It was followed by a second and then a third, the third targeting the truck and blowing it into a colossal fireball.  The snipers opened fire at the same moment, wiping out the guards surrounding the complex and any survivors from the missiles.  Malcolm grinned savagely, then rose to his feet.  Behind him, Grindey and Team One did the same.

“Go,” Malcolm ordered.

There was no longer any point in trying to hide.  He led the charge down to Building One, inspected the door for any surprises, then kicked it open with his boot.  “Hands in the air,” he shouted, in Arabic, repeating it in three different languages just to be sure.  “Get your fucking hands in the fucking air right fucking now!”

The terrorists recoiled in shock.  One raised his hands at once, another grabbed for an AK-47, only to be shot down at once.  The third let out a cry and fell to the ground in a faint.  Malcolm grabbed the first one, shoved him to the ground and glanced around for Osama; the terrorist mastermind couldn't be seen.  But there was a door in the wall ... Malcolm ran forward, punched his way through the door and glanced around, using his goggles to scan the darkened room.  There were traces of heat under the bed ... 

“Get out,” Malcolm snarled.  The terrorist mastermind, the monster who had sliced off a dozen heads and recorded the scenes for posterity, was hiding under the bed.  “Get out or I’ll fucking blow you through the wall!”

There was a pause, then Osama started to crawl out from under the bed.  Somehow, Malcolm wasn't surprised.  Terrorist masterminds never stood and fought.  That was for the uneducated cannon fodder too stupid to realise how they were being used.  He’d heard countless rationalisations, when he’d sat in on prisoner interrogations, but they all boiled down to the same thing.  Terrorist masterminds, when push came to shove, rarely wanted to die for their cause.  He kept a sharp eye on the terrorist anyway, watching to make sure he wasn't carrying a knife or grenade, then yanked him out as soon as he could.  Osama yelped in pain as Malcolm wrenched his hands behind his back and secured them with a plastic tie, then searched him roughly.  He wasn’t carrying anything apart from a small hard drive - Malcolm placed it to one side for the techs to look at later - and a gold-edged pistol.  Malcolm glanced at it, noted the lack of maintenance, then put it firmly to one side.  It wasn't important.

He dragged his prisoner out and dropped him with the others.  One of the prisoners - a video technician, if he was correct - was whimpering, but the others were trying to remain silent.  Malcolm wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell - one of the prisoners had lost control of his bowels - then joined his team in tearing the small house apart.  By now, stripping a terrorist base for potential intelligence was old school.  One carpet concealed a hidden hatch leading down into a basement, a basement that was crammed with weapons and explosives.  Malcolm smirked - that would come in handy, when the time came to bury their tracks - then keyed his communicator.

“Report,” he ordered.

“I have the hostage,” Glass said.  “I say again, I have the hostage.”

“Good,” Malcolm said.  “What’s his status?”

“Bit battered and hungry, but otherwise fine,” Glass said.  “They just cuffed him to a railing and left him there, blindfolded and useless.  I’ve given him the cover story.”

Malcolm nodded.  There was no point in trusting the media to keep quiet, not when the media considered mercenaries to be double-plus ungood. Braddock would believe, right up until the end of his life, that he had been rescued by SEALs.  Losing the credit for the mission would be annoying, but Malcolm wasn't in it for the credit.  It was a shame, in a way - Braddock might have been helpful, later - yet there was nothing to gain by taking chances.  His superiors would definitely not have been helpful.

“Keep him blindfolded for now,” he ordered.  The less Braddock saw, the better.  “Tell him we’ll have him home as soon as possible.”

He keyed his communicator again.  “Team Three?”

“Got two women here,” Specialist Jeff Zeitlin said.  “One of them was hiding a knife in a very unchaste place and tried to stab me; the other surrendered as soon as she saw us.  Orders?”

“Take them with us,” Malcolm said.  There was no point in leaving the women behind, not when the entire complex was going to be destroyed.  “Make sure they’re secure, then get them ready to leave.”

“Understood,” Zeitlin said.

“The copters will be here in two minutes, Major,” Grindey said, softly.  “There’s no sign that anyone has noticed us.”

“Then bag the prisoners and get them out for pickup,” Malcolm ordered.  He wasn't surprised that no one had sounded the alert - there wasn't an air force left in Yemen after the latest round of civil war - but the longer they delayed, the greater the chance of something going wrong.  “Have you swept the other two buildings?”

“Yes, sir,” Grindey said.  “There wasn't much there, save for food and drink.  Everything we found that might be of significance came from here.”

“Thomas, you can rig the place to blow now,” Malcolm ordered.  Each of the prisoners was searched again, then had their heads covered in black bags.  They would still be able to breathe, but they were effectively deaf and dumb ... and completely disoriented, as well as helpless.  Malcolm hadn't seen anyone able to break the zip ties, not even the strongest SAS trooper he’d met.  “Everyone else, get to the Landing Zone.”

He yanked Osama to his feet, then dragged him out.  The fires were already dying; he glanced at the dead bodies, then shook his head.  The thugs had moved from wherever they’d been born - Pakistan or Afghanistan, judging by their dark skins - to Yemen, where they’d terrorised the locals more than their Western enemies.  It was hard to feel any sympathy for them, dying so far from home.  He gritted his teeth against the stench of burning flesh, then hauled Osama to the LZ, just outside the settlement.  The choppers were already in view, dropping at terrifying speed.

“Major,” Grindey said.  “Thomas reports that all three buildings are ready to blow.”

“Then get out to the LZ,” Malcolm ordered.  “I want to be gone in five.”

The first chopper touched down, hatch already opening to receive the prisoners - and one former hostage.  Malcolm glanced at the two girls - one fighting with more enthusiasm than her male counterparts despite being cuffed and bagged, the other just lying still as if she expected to be raped at any moment - and then nodded.  The prisoners were shoved into the craft, then firmly cuffed to the hull.  No doubt some bleeding heart would claim this was excessive force, but the last thing anyone needed was the assholes trying to escape when the chopper was flying over open waters.  The evidence bags followed, secured firmly in place.

“That’s the last of us,” Grindey said, as he ran up to the helicopter.  The first helicopter rose into the sky, heading south.  “Major?”

“Get into the helicopter,” Malcolm ordered.  He followed his old friend into the craft, then slammed the hatch shut and locked it.  “Thomas?”

“Ready, sir,” Sergeant Thomas Mandell said.  He held a detonator in one hand.  “We can blow on your command.”

Malcolm held up a hand as the helicopter lifted into the air, then turned to head south.  He wanted to be well away from the terrorist camp before they destroyed it.  

“Now.”

Mandell pushed the button.  There was a flash of light from down below, followed by a fireball rising into the sky.  All traces of the mission, including the dead bodies, would be completely gone.  The terrorists would suspect, Malcolm knew, but would they realise that Osama had been taken alive, instead of being killed by a marauding drone?  Would they know he was going to be interrogated until he broke?  Would they not bother to change any of their procedures ... or would they assume the worst and change everything?

I guess we’ll find out, he thought.  It was astonishing just how lax some terrorists could be with computer security, even though they had to know just how capable the NSA or GCHQ had become over the years.  But then, any organisation required paperwork and a terrorist group was no different.  And even if they do change everything at once, it will shake things up badly.

He allowed himself a smirk.  Thirty-odd terrorists dead, a pair of senior terrorists captured, a hostage recovered ... and who knows what else?  The women might have stories to tell, once they were allowed to feel safe.  It wouldn't be the first time a terrorist wife - sex slave, in all but name - had turned on her husband, after realising she no longer had to live in a society where she had no rights at all.

“We’ll be back on the ship in thirty,” the pilot said, through the intercom.  “I’m afraid we had to leave the stewardesses behind, but I can pipe music into the cabin if you would like.”

“Oh, shut up,” Glass called.  “That wasn't funny the first time you said it.”

Malcolm smiled, then leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes.  It was immensely uncomfortable, but he’d long since mastered the art of catching up on sleep whenever he could.  The ship would be waiting for him when he opened them again and then ... he would have to write a report, supervise the interrogations and probably arrange for Braddock to be shipped to the American base at Bahrain, just to keep up the illusion that he’d been saved by the Yanks.  Or maybe they could just threaten him into keeping his gob shut.  

“Major,” Grindey said, quietly.

Malcolm opened his eyes, just as the helicopter started to descend.  He sighed, then glanced out of the hatch.  Down below, the Happenstance was waiting for them.  The first helicopter had already settled onto her landing pad, where she would be concealed against casual inspection.  Not that it would matter much, he knew, if someone insisted on actually searching the ship.  There was no way Happenstance could pass a close inspection by even the blindest customs officer.

But our papers should keep us from being inspected, he thought.  And the navies in the area already know what we are.

“Get the prisoners to the cells, then let Cathy have a go at them,” he ordered.  The helicopter touched down with nary a bump.  “I’ll go talk to London.”

Chapter Two

Happenstance, Yemen

“Braddock seems relieved to be back,” Grindey observed, an hour later.  They stood together on the deck, peering down at the foaming waters below.  “He’s been surprisingly cooperative.”

“Good,” Malcolm grunted.  He wouldn't have tolerated any misbehaviour on Braddock’s part - he certainly had no obligation to be nice to the damned reporter - but it was good to hear that Braddock seemed inclined to be sensible.  “What did the doc say?”

“Some beating, some malnutrition, but otherwise fine,” Grindey said.  He opened a packet of cigarettes and held it out to Malcolm, who took one and stuck it in his mouth.  “I guess they wanted him to look good for the beheading video.  They were careful not to batter his face.”

Malcolm shrugged.  Guarding a prisoner was never easy at the best of times, particularly not when there was no hope of relief and a very real prospect of a kill-team dropping in to free the prisoner and slaughter the hostage-takers.  Terrorists tended to take their anger out on their helpless guests, starving, beating or raping them to within an inch of their lives.  Some terrorist prisoners had been recovered more dead than alive, while others had been accidentally killed by their own guards.  And a handful had committed suicide after recovery, unable to live with what had been done to them.

“She thinks he’ll be fine, once we get him back home,” Grindey added.  “And he will have a tale to tell.”

“I’m sure it will be a good one about how he deserved his captivity.”  Malcolm sneered.  “Just make sure he never learns who we are.”

“Of course,” Grindey said.  He smiled.  “Osama is in excellent condition for a man trapped in Yemen, sir.  And he’s already trying to make a deal.”

“See what we pull from his computer hard drives first,” Malcolm said.  They wouldn't keep Osama, not when there was a sizable bounty on his head, but what the former terrorist might have to offer would determine who got him.  “Then we can decide if he goes to the CIA or is simply hurled into the water with concrete blocks around his feet.”

“The intelligence staff are looking at them now,” Grindey confirmed.  He gave his superior a sharp look as he fished a lighter out of his pocket.  “Plenty of porn, of course ...”

“Of course,” Malcolm echoed.  It was far from uncommon to discover pornography in terrorist bases, even though porn was considered a disease of the West.  Some of it was banned even in the most liberal of Western countries.  “Let’s just hope there’s something actionable along with the goat-fucking movies.”

“We will see,” Grindey said.  “Seems a shame we can’t put him on trial.”

“Bastard doesn't deserve a trial,” Malcolm said.  Osama might brag of his martial accomplishments, but no one had been able to dig up any proof he’d actually so much as seen a hint of combat.  His role had always lain in recruiting troops, making propaganda and steering money around the world.  “If there’s no point in keeping him, he can go swimming with the sharks.”

He shrugged.  “Besides, we don’t want them to have confirmation we have him,” he added.  It would be a very stupid terrorist organisation that didn’t suspect Osama had fallen into enemy hands, but terrorists were rarely renowned for their intelligence.  “Putting him on trial, even in America, would be far too revealing.”

“Yes, sir,” Grindey said.  He lit Malcolm’s cigarette, then frowned.  “There is a complication.”

Malcolm eyed him balefully.  “There is?”

“Yes, sir,” Grindey said.  “We checked the prisoners against the terrorist database; fingerprints, DNA, the works.  The video crew and the older woman, the fighter, were unknowns, but the younger woman scored a match.  She’s one of the fools who left France a decade ago.  She was fourteen at the time.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said.  “How did she wind up here?”

“Damned if I know,” Grindey said.  “The doc says she’s been thoroughly mistreated - she thinks the poor bitch had at least two pregnancies in the last five years - and now she’s badly traumatised.  But the last the frogs heard of her, she was in Syria.”

Malcolm felt cold hatred burning through his soul.  His wife and young daughter had died because a bunch of fools had believed that killing infidels would gain them admission to the highest levels of paradise.  He’d left the British Army shortly afterwards, disgusted with just how weakly the British establishment had responded to the killings.  There was no mercy in his soul for anyone who allowed themselves to be seduced by terrorist propaganda.  It always ended badly ...

Worst of all for the women, he thought, bitterly.  A young man who left his home to join a terrorist band might be able to escape, once he was disillusioned, but it was vanishingly rare for a young woman to break free.  They were often married off to terrorists as soon as they arrived, then kept barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.  If they objected, they were beaten until they learned better.  There could be no escape from their new lives.  You’d think they’d know better by now.

“Put her overboard,” he ordered.  The French wouldn't want her back, not even with the political situation in France so desperately uncertain.  Only her family had any interest in her, and they were either negligent or terrorists themselves.  “We don’t have any reason to keep her.”

Grindey coughed, loudly.  “The lads won’t stand for you throwing a young woman overboard,” he said.  “And you should know it.”

Malcolm glared at him.  Grindey had stayed with him after his resignation from the army, both to carry on the war against their shared enemy and to keep Malcolm from going too far.  Or so he’d said.  Once, there had been limits; once, he’d respected the rules of war.  But that had been before his wife and daughter had been murdered ...

“So,” he said, after a moment.  “What do you think the lads would suggest I do with her?”

“She might serve as a salutary lesson,” Grindey said.  “It wouldn't be that hard to concoct a story about her escaping and signalling a drone for pick-up, then betraying the terrorist base to the Yanks.  Or we could fudge around with the dates and make it seem she was captured by the Israelis or someone, well away from here.”

“Maybe,” Malcolm said.  It was possible the terrorists didn’t know they’d assigned a specific person to the settlement, not when that person was a mere woman.  But it was also possible that they’d seen the French bitch as a reward for one of their men.  Telling the terrorists a lie they'd know was a lie would start them wondering about the reasons behind the lie.  “Tell the doc to tend to her, then have Cathy work with her.  See what we can get out of the silly bitch before we come to any final decision.”

“Yes, sir,” Grindey said.

Malcolm nodded, then took a long drag on his cigarette.  His wife would have been horrified, part of his mind recalled, at the sight; indeed, he’d made it a point of honour not to smoke anywhere near his home.  But now ... he took another drag, then tossed the cigarette over the side, watching grimly as the lighted end vanished in the dark water.  If the girl posed a real problem ... he could just hand her over to one of the CIA black ops ships in the nearby waters, where she could be held indefinitely.  Or simply executed ...

Once, he would have pitied her.  But that had been a very long time ago.

“The other woman is just a stubborn bitch,” Grindey offered, after a few seconds had passed in companionable silence.  “She was screaming at the doc as she tried to examine her; nothing useful, just raw anger and fear.  The doc thinks she was pretty much born in the region, then married off to one of the terrorists.  She definitely seems to have been treated better than the other woman.”

“But again, probably useless,” Malcolm said.

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  He would have bet good money that the older woman had been one of the ones beating the younger woman.  The terrorists regarded females as second-class citizens, which didn’t stop the women from forming a hierarchy of their own.  A newcomer without friends, family or tough male relatives would be completely alone and probably at the bottom of the pecking order.  Everyone would have taken their angry and bitter helplessness out on her.

“Probably,” Grindey said.  “Still ...”

“I know, I know,” Malcolm said.  “Have her held, for the moment.  We can hand her over to the CIA or whoever and let them make the final call.”

Grindey gave him a sharp look, but nodded.  Malcolm knew what he meant.  One woman, one local-born girl who had served the terrorists, wasn't very important in the grand scheme of things.  She wouldn't be held indefinitely; she would simply be disappeared, dropped overboard or cremated in a black ops ship.  On one hand, she had served the terrorists and Malcolm wouldn't shed a single tear for her; on the other, she probably hadn't had much choice.  She’d adapted better to life as a terrorist supporter because it was no more than she had expected from life.

And what would I have become, he thought morbidly, if I had been born in such a community?

“The captain wants us to be well away from the coastline by dawn,” Grindey said.  “Did London tell us where to go next?”

“No,” Malcolm said.  “Paul sends his love, but London just acknowledged the first report.  They didn't even bother to put a bid in for Osama.  We may end up dumping him on the Americans.”

“As long as we get paid,” Grindey said.  “Keeping Extreme Solutions going costs money, you know.”

Malcolm nodded.  Running a mercenary company, even with covert funding from MI6, wasn't cheap.  Happenstance and the helicopters alone were a money sink, while he had to splurge out on everything from weapons to life insurance and bribes.  Paul Valentine, his former brother-in-law, was a genius with finance, but it wasn't easy to keep the company running.  There were times when he found himself seriously considering accepting a long-term contract with one of the smaller Middle East or African states, despite the risks of dying horribly when the masses rose against their despots.  It would certainly make it easier to fund the soldiers and their weaponry.

“The bounty for Osama will help,” Malcolm said, as a dull quiver ran through the ship.  “But you’re right.  We need more money.”

He caught hold of the railing and peered into the distance, towards the coastline.  He didn't blame the captain for wanting to be away, even though he knew no pirates would survive a run-in with Happenstance.  She might look harmless, but her hull was armoured and there were seventy trained and experienced soldiers onboard.  Boarding her would be the last mistake any pirates made.  These days, it was perfectly legal to kill pirates and dump their bodies over the side for the sharks.  No one was interested in taking prisoners when the nearest government would simply let them go, once they were transferred to their custody.

“I’ll go see to the prisoners,” Grindey said.  “You should take a look at them, sir.”

Malcolm recognised the silent reproof - he knew which prisoner Grindey wanted him to look at - and then nodded, sourly.  They opened a hatch and clambered down a ladder into the secure zone, where a handful of soldiers sat playing cards and drinking non-alcoholic beer.  Malcolm nodded to them, glad to see their weapons were within easy reach, then followed Grindey through another hatch, then another.  The prisoner facility was sealed off from the rest of the ship and heavily guarded, even though no one had ever managed to come close to escaping.  No one took chances these days.  

“Sir,” the guard said.

Grindey pressed his hand against the fingerprint scanner - only a handful of crew were authorised to enter the prisoner facility - and then waited for the hatch to open.  Malcolm stepped inside, wrinkling his nose as a gust of air struck him in the face.  It should have been clean, but he couldn't help imagining the stench of piss and shit and human desperation.  Any terrorist who entered the facility knew it was unlikely he would ever be free, no matter what he said or did.  No one observed the niceties these days.

“Osama isn't doing too well,” Grindey observed darkly, motioning towards one of the hatches.  Beside the hatch, a monitor showed the interior of the cell.  Osama, looking nothing like his namesake, was lying on a metal bench, his hands and feet manacled.  Two IVs ran down from high overhead, feeding him enough to keep him alive, while a tube was attached to his genitals.  “I fancy he never expected to be taken prisoner.”

“No Conduct After Capture course for him,” Malcolm agreed.  He studied the terrorist mastermind for a long moment, then shrugged.  The CIA would draw everything they could out of him, then give him a quick death and quicker burial.  “Being captured is for lesser minds, not him.”

He shrugged, then moved on to the next cell.  The video crewman didn't look any better than his master, although he was younger and fitter.  Malcolm studied him for a long moment, wondering just why a skilled young man had chosen to embrace terrorism, then shook his head in bitter resignation.  It was a waste, but the man had chosen his own path.  And now it had led him to a secret prison and a probable death sentence.

“Here,” Grindey said, quietly.

He indicated the third cell.  This one had a guard outside, indicating that the doctor was inside, tending to the patient.  Malcolm peered at the monitor and sucked in his breath sharply, feeling an odd twinge of pity mingled with hate.  The girl might have been twenty-four, but she looked older, much older.  Her naked body was covered with ugly bruises - one of her eyes was useless, probably forever without proper treatment - and she was lying on the bench, completely still.  It was impossible to tell if she was resigned to her fate or terrified of the doctor, even though she was a woman.  But then, the nasty part of Malcolm’s mind noted, she would probably be humiliated to come face-to-face with a woman who could actually make her own way in the world.

“We shall see about her future,” he said, flatly.  

They walked out of the compartment, past another set of security scanners, and into a second compartment.  This one was warm and comfortable, with computers and laptops scattered everywhere.  Jeanette Burghley sat on a stool, peering down at a hard drive they’d taken from the settlement, while Jonathan Williams worked on another device attached to his laptop.  They made an odd pair - Jeanette was beautiful, with long chestnut hair, while Williams was fat and balding - but there was no denying that they worked together very well.  Jeanette had even brought Williams with her when she’d resigned from MI6 and joined EXS.

“Major,” she said, looking up from her work.  “You’ll be pleased to know there are some useful files on this piece of crap after all.”

Williams smirked.  “They thought they’d encrypted it,” he added.  “But the coding was broken years ago by the Americans.”

“Good,” Malcolm said, impatiently.  “Is there anything actionable?”

“Not yet,” Jeanette said.  “Most of the files are financial transactions; I’m going to have to compare them to banking records and see if they lead us to terrorist proxy accounts.  There’s also a shitload of propaganda crap, some new and unseen.  My guess is that they were planning to upload it to the internet along with the beheading video, once the reporter was beheaded.”

“Some of the porn files set off alarms,” Williams added.  “They may well have data embedded in the pictures, sir.”

“If anyone could bear to look at them,” Jeanette said.  Her lips twisted in distaste.  “There’s stuff here I haven’t seen since I worked with the Vice Squad.  Give us a few days and we should have a more comprehensive report for you.”

“I look forward to reading it,” Malcolm said, dryly.  He would sooner have his teeth pulled out than read reports and she knew it.  “Let me know what you find before you forward it to your old friends, all right?”

“Of course,” Jeanette said.

Malcolm would have said more, but his communicator buzzed.

“Major, this is Ferguson,” Irene Ferguson said.  “We just picked up a priority-one message from London.  They want you back in London as soon as possible.”

Malcolm and Grindey exchanged glances.  They hadn't been planning to return to London in a hurry - and their contacts in London had known it.  There was simply no point, not when many of the contacts they could pick up were in the Middle East or the chaotic zone that had replaced Pakistan.  Besides, London was less and less welcoming every time Malcolm visited.  Between growing chaos on the streets and a government that was steadily becoming more and more authoritarian, everyone who could afford it was trying to find an alternate place to live.

“Tell them I will be there as soon as I can,” Malcolm said.  If London was serious, he could take a helicopter flight to the American base in Yemen, then catch a military jet to London directly; if not, he would have to make his way to an international airport and catch a commercial flight.  “Ask them if they have organised my trip.”

“There’s a data packet with the message,” Irene confirmed.

“You’ll stay in command here,” Malcolm said, to Grindey.  “Make sure the prisoners are handled properly.”

“Of course, sir,” Grindey said.  “Have fun in London.”

Malcolm snorted.  He very much doubted it.

Chapter Three

London, United Kingdom

“They’re saying it’s the end of days,” the driver said.

Malcolm nodded, sourly, as the protesters marched across the road, blocking traffic with a complete lack of concern for the drivers and their passengers.  Horns honked and people shouted, yet no one paid any heed.  He peered at the protesters, trying to see what they were protesting about, but it was impossible to tell.  They weren't organised enough to have a single chant, let alone a single cause.

Wankers, he thought, settling back into his seat.  Protesting for the sake of protesting.

He sighed, inwardly.  It had been a long flight, even on an American military jet - and that alone was worrying, because it suggested that someone was pulling out all the stops.  The Americans might have the kind of resources the British military - and EXS - could only dream of, but they wouldn't assign a small jet to a single mercenary officer unless it was something very important indeed.  And that bothered him more than he cared to admit.

“What a mess,” he said, out loud.  “Do you know what they’re protesting about?”

“French immigration, I believe,” the driver said.  “The British Independence Party organised the protest, but lots of other smaller groups got involved ...”

He put the car into gear as the last of the protesters disappeared into the distance, then drove onwards.  Malcolm looked around with interest, noting that there were fewer cars on the streets, as they turned towards Charing Cross, then came to a halt outside a military barricade at Trafalgar Square.  The driver exchanged a few words with the soldiers, then the barricade was lifted, allowing them to drive towards the hotel.  There were almost no tourists on the streets, Malcolm saw, as the driver turned left and headed down a ramp, into an underground garage.  Behind them, a solid metal door lowered itself into place.

“I understand you know where to go from here,” the driver said.  “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, shortly.  He slung his carryall over his shoulder, then opened the door and climbed out of the car.  “I’ve been here before.”

“Good luck, then,” the driver said.

Malcolm nodded, tightly.  The Royal Horseguards was one of London’s nicer hotels, a large building close to both Trafalgar Square and the Thames and not too far from the Houses of Parliament.  It was also one of the more popular hotels, at least among the richer visitors to London.  However, unknown to most of the guests, it was also a front for British Intelligence, who owned and operated the hotel.  Two entire floors were devoted to serving as secure compartments for private meetings, diplomatic discussions that were entirely off the record, debriefing sessions and other pieces of intelligence work that couldn't be done in the more public headquarters.  Malcolm had heard, through the grapevine, that the hotel actually made a profit, thanks to the manager.   No doubt the directors of MI5 and MI6 were pleased to know they wouldn’t have to fund the hotel.

He stopped outside the lift and pressed his thumb against the scanner.  There was a long pause, long enough for him to wonder if someone had forgotten to put his records on the internal network, then the doors opened, revealing a simple compartment.  Inside, there were no buttons, save for one to call for help if the lift jammed.  The network knew where he was supposed to go; he knew better than to try to go elsewhere in the building.  It would, at the very least, result in a long and unpleasant discussion with the Security Manager.  

The lift rose smoothly, long enough for him to silently calculate that he was going right to the top floor.  He braced himself as the lift slowed to a halt and opened the doors, revealing a penthouse suite with a bar, a small number of comfortable chairs and a large glass window allowing the occupants to stare out over London.  Malcolm glanced around automatically, confirmed the room was empty, then stepped out of the lift and over to the window.  London looked ... darker somehow, although it could easily have been his imagination.  But then, the city’s infrastructure had been decaying for years.

He took a seat and waited, resting his bag on his lap.  Normally, they wouldn't have shown him to the penthouse; they would have taken him to the debriefing room and debriefed him thoroughly, assuming he’d been working directly for MI6.  It was just another sign that there was something serious, deadly serious, in the air.  He wondered, absently, what it might be, then dismissed the thought.  There was no point in speculating without real facts.  All he could do was wait and see.

A door opened.  A tall thin man, wearing a dark suit, stepped into the room.

Malcolm rose to greet him.  “Jonathan,” he said.  “I should have known you would be behind this, somewhere.”

“I like to think people don’t recognise me,” Jonathan Howell-Jones said.  His voice was very upper-crust, the sort of accent politicians tended to tone down, if only because they feared being accused of being too aristocratic to understand the common man.  “We wouldn't have called you back so hastily if it hadn't been an emergency.”

He walked over to the bar, his pinched face pale in the sunlight.  “Would you like a drink?”

“I never drink on duty,” Malcolm said.  He’d sworn never to drink again after his wife and daughter had died and, so far, he’d kept his pledge.  “Can I get fresh orange and lemonade?”

“Of course,” Howell-Jones said.  He poured them both a glass, then paced back to the window and sat down facing Malcolm.  “To your recent success.”

“Cheers,” Malcolm said, sardonically.  “And I doubt you brought me here to congratulate me personally.  I dare say merely talking the Americans into loaning you the jet cost you loads of favours.”

“It did,” Howell-Jones confirmed.  “But we needed you here as quickly as possible.”

“So you said,” Malcolm pointed out.  “Are we going to spend the next few hours dancing around the issue or are you going to come right out and tell me what you want?”

“If only I had time,” Howell-Jones said.  He placed his glass on the small table and leaned forward, resting his hands on his lap.  “I have been given to understand that you have no long-term contracts with anyone, apart from the retainer we pay you.  Is that correct?”

“It is,” Malcolm said.  Braddock’s employers would probably pay a substantial sum for his safe return, but they hadn't hired EXS in the first place.  “I assume you want us to do something for you?”

“Yes,” Howell-Jones said.

He took a long breath.  Malcolm realised, suddenly, that he was actually nervous.  He wouldn't show it openly, not when the British Civil Service regarded any sign of weakness as letting the side down, but he was definitely nervous.  What the hell did he want?

“There’s a strong chance it could go badly wrong,” Howell-Jones said, slowly.  “You may wind up in deep shit and, if that happens, we will have to deny everything.  You will be up shit creek without a paddle.”

“I know the score,” Malcolm snapped, feeling his patience starting to fray.  There was no shortage of horror stories about mercenary operations that had gone badly wrong, leaving the mercenaries abandoned by their patrons and at the mercy of their former enemies.  “What do you want us to do?”

“Overthrow a government,” Howell-Jones said, flatly.

Malcolm blinked.  Outside of bad fiction, mercenary work was rarely so ... dramatic.  Mercenaries supported corporations, reporters and rulers in danger zones, providing everything from bodyguards to experienced bomb disposal officers.  Malcolm had done all of those duties and more - Braddock hadn't been the first hostage to be liberated by mercenaries - but overthrowing a government?  That hadn't happened since that thing in Africa.  

“You want us to overthrow a government,” he repeated, numbly.  “Which government?”

“Kabat,” Howell-Jones said.

“Kabat,” Malcolm repeated.  “I thought they were our only real allies in the Middle East these days.”

“That was before the Emir died,” Howell-Jones said.  “How much do you know about Kabat?”

Malcolm considered it, briefly.  Kabat was a small Arab state, bordering Saudi Arabia, Qatar and UAE, and a long-standing ally of Britain since the days of the British Empire.  The country had been remarkably stable, escaping the effects of both the jihad and the Arab Spring.  In all honesty, Malcolm had never seriously expected to have to deploy there, either as a soldier or a mercenary.  Kabat had been a rare oasis of tranquillity in the increasingly volatile Middle East.

“Not enough, evidently,” he said, finally.

“To sum up a long story, the previous Emir clung to us for military protection while he turned his country into a commercial powerhouse,” Howell-Jones said.  “Basically, he took the money from Kabat’s oil wells and invested it in everything from harbours and shipyards to commercial estates and banking facilities.  And it paid off for him.  Kabat rapidly became as wealthy as Dubai, with a growing population of Western expats and literally billions of dollars moving through the country every day.  The banking facilities alone, I am informed, rival the Swiss for discretion combined with efficient customer service.

“The price for this was effective autocracy.  No one in Kabat has any real freedom, not in the sense we understand the term.  As long as they behave themselves, they get a sum of money each month and the chance to feel entitled to look down their noses at everyone else.  There’s no trace of representative government in Kabat, not when the Emir ran everything.  Anyone who stepped too far out of line got it in the neck, literally.”

Malcolm frowned.  “How literally?”

“A handful of preachers from Saudi Arabia were caught trying to stir up trouble for the Emir by preaching against the torrent of Western influence,” Howell-Jones said.  “They were tortured, then executed in the most brutal manner imaginable.  Some of their converts were castrated, then executed themselves.  There was no protest.”

“Sounds like he was a decent guy,” Malcolm commented.  He had long since come to the conclusion that the only way to deal with terrorists was through terrorising them and any potential supporters.  If the British Government had cracked down hard, after the bombs had started to explode in London, his wife and daughter would still be alive.  “We could do with some of that attitude over here.”

“He also hammered the free press,” Howell-Jones added.  “A native reporter was boiled alive for daring to raise questions about the influx of foreign workers from Indonesia and Malaysia.  Several expat reporters have been evicted from the country and blacklisted, to the point where they are unable to get work anywhere.  And, perhaps worst of all, he killed all but one of his sons.  Or so we think.”

“You think,” Malcolm repeated.

“There were nine legitimate sons,” Howell-Jones said.  “Three of them were outright executed - and never pleasantly, despite their birth; the other five died in supposed accidents.  The survivor ... well, he replaced his father as Emir, when the old bastard finally headed off to account to Allah for his sins.  And he’s going to be a problem.”

“So you want him overthrown,” Malcolm said, slowly.  He thought rapidly; part of him was thrilled by the challenge, but the rest of him knew it would be tricky and incredibly difficult to pull off.  “What’s he done to upset you?”

“The short answer - there will be a fuller briefing later - is that he’s a religious nut,” Howell-Jones said.  “Apparently, he turned to religion after his father beat the crap out of him for some reason.  Now, as Emir, and with the example of his father’s unchecked power, it seems likely that he will be shuffling funds towards terrorist groups, extremist preachers and other people we would prefer didn't get it.  There are already reports of extremists heading out of Saudi Arabia to Kabat, despite what happened to the last group of bastards.  Given Kabat’s location and its value to the global economy, it has been decided that this problem must be nipped in the bud.”

“And in a completely deniable manner,” Malcolm observed, snidely.  He had no doubts about what would happen if the mission went completely wrong.  The British Government would swear blind it didn’t know a thing about the operation and everyone would pretend to believe them, while he and his men would be subject to the worst penalties of Kabati law.  “You do realise we’re going to need more troops than we have, don’t you?  And who’s going to be paying for this?”

His eyes narrowed as a thought struck him.  “And how do you know so much about it, anyway?  I had the impression that getting spooks into Middle Eastern governments wasn't easy.”

“It isn't,” Howell-Jones confirmed.  

He met Malcolm’s eyes for a long, chilling moment.  “Kabat is an odd cross between a family-run country and a corporate state,” he said.  “The Kabati Corporation owns a considerable number of facilities in and out of the country, including Kabati Airlines, Kabati Shipping and Kabati Tourism.  For the past ten years, the Kabati Corporation has been operated by Princess Sultana, the Emir’s sole daughter.  She ...”

“Princess Sultana,” Malcolm said.  “Her father must have been a right bastard.”

“He was,” Howell-Jones confirmed.  “I met him once.  He had no interests other than ruling, as far as I could tell.”

He shrugged.  “Princess Sultana also took over some of the more ... covert contacts between us and the Kabati Corporation,” he added.  “Her father trusted her more than her brothers, I suspect, because he regarded her as a weak and feeble woman.  She could be his helpmate, but never take the throne for herself.  More to the point ...”

“Anything that went wrong could be blamed on her femininity,” Malcolm guessed.

“Do not take her lightly,” Howell-Jones warned.  “She has a reputation as a ruthless CEO by any standards, made all the worse because of the violence that runs through her bloodline and the certain knowledge she has to be much better than a man to succeed.  In the last five years of her father’s life, she managed to double the profits passing through the corporation and invest half of the take in building the country up still further.  That would be an achievement in any case, but in the current economic climate ... well, let’s say she would be ruling the world if she had been born in America or Australia.”

“And she’s ruthless enough to plot a coup against her brother,” Malcolm said, tightly.  “Is she wealthy enough to pay?”

“Yes,” Howell-Jones said, flatly.  “She may not be the richest woman in the world, but she has enough money to pay you stashed away in various banks.  And if she retains control of the Kabati Corporation ... well, she could pay a small army out of pocket change.”

He paused.  “I would need an answer as soon as possible,” he said.  “Are you interested in taking on the mission?”

“I would need to look at the files first,” Malcolm hedged.  In truth, he was interested; it would be one hell of a challenge.  Stopping a lunatic from making the global war on terror far worse would be the icing on the cake.  “And I would need to talk to her personally.”

“We anticipated that,” Howell-Jones said.  “You will have a chance to meet her for dinner this evening.  I trust you had no other plans?”

“No,” Malcolm admitted.  He would have to check in with Paul, once the jet lag had worn off, but he hadn’t expected to return to London so quickly.  Luckily, he’d managed to get some sleep on the jet.  “If you have a room here, I will examine the files this afternoon and then speak to her this evening.  I may need you to fly some of my officers back to London too ...”

He’d tossed that in to see how urgent it was, but Howell-Jones didn't bat an eyelash.

“Of course,” he said, rising to his feet.  “The Yanks have agreed to offer limited assistance, if necessary.”

Malcolm gave him a sharp look.  “Just how many agreements have been made concerning this matter?”

“Kabat is our problem at the moment, but the Americans don’t want it to turn into everyone’s problem,” Howell-Jones said.  “Luckily, it’s an election year.  The President won’t want to back a covert operation that could blow up in his face and be an absolute godsend to his rival, not now of all times.  I suspect there will be some covert support, but nothing public until after the coup has been carried out.  They won’t want to alienate the bastard if we fail to remove him.”

“I know,” Malcolm said.  He sighed, inwardly.  Judging the precise moment to switch alliances from one ruler to the next was a delicate task; if done too quickly, the former ruler might still win and have a new grudge against foreigners, but if done too slowly the newcomer might not feel any gratitude either.  “And if we should happen to have the operation blow up in our face ...”

“We won’t,” Howell-Jones said, flatly.  “As far as anyone will know, Princess Sultana hired you on her own, paying you out of her resources.  You will receive covert help, but nothing overt, nothing that can be traced back to Britain.  If you succeed, you will join the list of great unsung British heroes.”

“And if we fail, we will be tortured to death slowly and painfully,” Malcolm said.  He’d heard enough of how prisoners were executed in the Middle East to privately determine to blow himself up, rather than be taken alive.  “It would all be on our heads.”

“Precisely,” Howell-Jones said.  He turned and walked towards the lift, then stopped and looked back at Malcolm.  “I will have the files sent to this room, Major.  And I don’t think I need to remind you that this whole matter is deadly secret.”

“Of course not,” Malcolm said, dryly.  “Discretion is part of the service.”

Chapter Four

London, United Kingdom

Sultana both liked and disliked London, although it was something she’d never said to her hosts.  She liked it because it allowed her a chance to walk the streets without being either forced to veil herself or be recognised by the public, but she disliked it because there were parts of the city that were monuments to the depravity of the human mind and the moral bankruptcy of those who enabled them.  Even so, she had to admit that there was a history about London that stretched back for over two thousand years.  Kabat hadn't existed, at least not as anything more than a tiny town on the coast of Arabia, before 1850.

But there was no time for sightseeing, not today.  

She felt herself tensing again as the limo rolled into the underground garage and came to a halt, facing a lift door.  She’d met hundreds of CEOs, wealthy and powerful men and women, yet she’d never felt quite so nervous before, when mere millions of dollars had been at stake.  This was different.  The future of her country, the edifice her father had built ... and her own future, if she were forced to be honest, was at risk.  She was all too aware her decision to contact her sources in British Intelligence had committed her to success, or certain death.

Or worse, she thought, as the driver opened the door.  I could be married off to some ancient man with a taste for beating women.

She nodded to the driver as she climbed out.  He’d been with her for five years, along with his wife and seven children, three of whom were studying in the United States.  Her father had chosen the driver, of course, but it hadn't taken long for Sultana to figure out how to control him.  He wanted his children to have the best possible start to life, and she could make it happen in exchange for him being her man.  It helped, she suspected, that she hadn’t done anything her father might have seen as treacherous.  But now ...

“Stay here,” she ordered her maid.  Kalmia looked sweet and innocent, her hair demurely hidden behind a headscarf, but she was a trained medic as well as a hidden bodyguard.  “I will be safe here, I am sure.”

Kalmia looked doubtful, but nodded reluctantly.  Sultana walked up to the lift and smiled as it opened, then stepped inside.  There was no one to greet her; instead, the lift just rose until it finally came to a halt.  She eyed her own reflection in the mirror - she’d deliberately dressed in a Western manner, although her skirt hung to her ankles - and then composed herself as the door opened.  Outside, there was a single window set against the darkening sky, a candle-lit table and a man seated there, looking calm and composed.  As promised, he was alone.

Although this room could easily be bugged, Sultana reminded herself, as the mercenary rose to his feet.  There’s no way we could find them, even if we looked.

She studied the mercenary with some interest.  He was a tall, gaunt man, his dark hair shading to grey, wearing a deliberately casual outfit of jeans and a black woollen jumper.  Sultana had no difficulty in recognising it as a statement, although she wasn't quite sure what it meant.  He could be asserting his independence from their hosts or he could be telling her to be casual, rather than businesslike.  Or he could be trying to confuse her ... her lips quirked and she held out a hand.  He blinked in surprise, then took it and shook her hand firmly.  There was enough strength in his grip to remind her of her father.

“Your Highness,” he said.  His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that suggested he wouldn't be disobeyed easily.  “I am Malcolm Smith.”

“Just call me Sultana.” She wouldn't normally be so informal with anyone, certainly not an unrelated man, but she needed him to like her.  “I’ve never been fond of being addressed by anything other than my name.”

“Of course,” Smith said.  He sounded surprised, Sultana noted, although he hid it well.  It was unlikely he’d met many Arab women socially.  “The British Government is paying for dinner here, so please feel free to order whatever you want.”

Sultana took the seat facing him and glanced at the menu, displayed on a computer screen.  It was extensive, covering everything from fish and chips to Indian, Chinese, Thai and Japanese cuisine.  A small note stated that food to meet all dietary requirements could be ordered, for an extra fee in some cases.  Sultana shrugged - one advantage of travelling the world on behalf of her father was a chance to sample food from many different countries - and then ordered a simple bowl of soup, followed by filled tortillas.  Smith tapped in his own order, then transmitted it to the kitchens below.

“I would happily pay,” Sultana said.  There were no prices on display, which meant they were probably two or three times what the average person would consider reasonable.  “But there is nowhere to offer money.”

“The Government would happily send you the bill,” Smith said.  His eyes studied her, silently weighing her up.  She wondered, absently, just what he made of her.  “Do you want to eat first or talk over dinner?”

“I would prefer to talk before dinner,” Sultana said.  It would take at least twenty minutes for their food to arrive, and she disliked the thought of chatting about nothing.  “It isn't normal, but ...”

She shrugged, expressively.  The man facing her had, according to his handlers, extensive experience in the Middle East and Afghanistan.  It would work both in her favour and against her, she was sure.  He’d have plenty of preconceptions - about her, about Kabat, about the entire region - that would overshadow his thinking.  And the hell of it was that some of those preconceptions would be justified.

“I would be happy to talk now,” Smith said.  He leaned back in his chair, but his eyes never left her face.  In his own way, he would be as skilled in reading people as she was.  “So ... talk.”

Sultana smiled, then took a breath.  “I want to hire you and your company to overthrow my brother before he wrecks the country.  And he will.”

“So I have been told,” Smith said.  “How do you know your brother will wreck the country?”

Sultana met his eyes, evenly.  “My brother is a religious fanatic,” she said, flatly.  “Right now, in the two weeks since he has assumed power, he has started to fund various teaching establishments across the emirate.  This may look like a charitable act, but in reality those schools are teaching the worst form of Islam.  Furthermore, he has invited a number of known extremists, including four on the global watchlist, to set up homes in Kabat.  It was all I could do to delay him sending several million dollars to various terrorist groups across the Middle East.”

She forced herself to go on, clamping down on her anger.  “He is also planning to evict large numbers of expats and foreign companies from the country. The economic shockwave alone will destroy our social compact.  There will be chaos, then rioting in the streets ... that’s assuming the Saudis or the Americans don’t invade, in the hope of cutting off the terrorist funding before it’s too late.  In short, knocking him off now is the only hope of preventing the destruction of Kabat.”

Smith nodded.  “And you’re prepared to see your brother dead?”

“I was ... discouraged from having any feelings for any of my brothers,” Sultana pointed out, sharply.  “After the second one died, I stopped weeping for them.”

She looked down at the table for a long moment, then up at him.  “It would be a shame to see him dead, but if there is no other choice, I will do it.  He cannot be allowed to destroy everything my father and I built.”

Smith nodded, again.

“Let us assume your brother is removed,” he said.  “What comes afterwards?  Who takes control of Kabat?”

Sultana had given the matter some thought.  “There are a handful of distant relatives of the family who have survived the purges,” she said.  “One of them, in particular, is nothing more than a humble academic.  I would be prepared to marry him, thus solidifying his faint claim to the throne, then rule through him.”

Smith smiled, thinly.  “Is he qualified?”

“He’s warm, breathing and has a penis,” Sultana snapped.  She had already discarded the idea of trying to rule on her own.  The population wouldn't stand for it.  “I’d say he was overqualified.”

She placed firm controls on her anger before she dared say another word.  It was impossible to feel that she shouldn't rule the country.  She’d served as CEO long enough to know the basics, she had contacts all over the world, she was smart enough to learn from experience ... and even her father had admitted she'd been good at managing the giant corporation.  But she didn't have a penis and that was all that mattered, in the misogynistic Middle East.  Marrying her very distant cousin merely to ensure she could rule through him galled her, in so many ways, yet she saw no alternative.  It didn't take much power for it to go to a man’s head.

And if he does turn into a problem, she thought, I can always have him removed too.

“I quite agree,” Smith said.  He held up a hand.  “You want your brother captured or killed; ideally, captured.  I’ve had a look at the files and it seems doable, assuming a certain amount of luck and careful planning.  I’d have to take a look at the situation on the ground and assess it for myself, but I feel it can be done.”

“Good,” Sultana said.

Smith met her eyes.  “There are two points,” he said.  “First, if I agree to do this for you, I hold complete command of the operation.  It won’t be easy even without my employer trying to micromanage events from a distance.  This may include giving precise orders to you when the balloon goes up.  I will expect you to obey those orders without hesitation.”

“As if they came from my father,” Sultana said.  “I can do that, within reason.”

“There won’t be time for a debate,” Smith said, flatly.  “I need you to obey instantly.”

Sultana nodded, slowly.  She didn't like the idea of following orders - her father, at least, had a proven record of issuing the right orders - but she understood the logic.  If she happened to be nearby when the coup happened, she would have to listen to her specialists ... yes, she had hired specialists.  That thought was rather more comforting than obeying orders from a random man.

“Very well,” she said, finally.  “And the second point?”

Smith smiled.  It lit up his face.  “How much are you prepared to pay?”

Sultana looked back at him.  “How much do you want?”

***

Malcolm hadn't been sure what to expect from Princess Sultana.  On one hand, most Arab women he’d met had been submissive veiled girls, utterly obedient to their husbands.  On the other hand, he’d read her file and searched the internet for references, and he had to admit she sounded impressive.  One newspaper had even called her the world’s greatest businesswoman and, even though Malcolm rarely believed what he read in the paper, it did seem justified.  Whatever impression she was trying to present to him, she was clearly capable, charming ... and utterly ruthless.

And you like her, his own thoughts mocked him.  Don’t you?

It was an annoying thought.  Like many Western soldiers who had been stationed in Iraq, he’d come away with a general contempt for the locals, even though it was easy to find examples of brave and honourable civilians.  The Iraqis in Basra had all seemed to support the insurgents, either through simple hatred of the foreigners or fear of what would happen if they didn't show their support for the insurgents.  And then there had been the bouts of uncivilised behaviour ...

But Sultana was different.  She was impressive.  And that bothered him, because he could no longer trust his emotions.

“I will need a retainer fee right away,” he said.  “I will go to Kabat myself and investigate the situation personally.  If I feel the coup is practical, there will be a secondary fee to recruit additional soldiers and purchase equipment.  After the coup has been carried out ...”

He met her eyes.  “I would like ten percent of one year’s GDP for Kabat,” he stated.  It was an exorbitant demand and she would know it, but it would be interesting to see just how carefully she haggled.  “There may be other considerations as well.”

Sultana’s face flickered, just once.  That was impressive; he had the feeling that her father would have been shouting in outrage by now.  Kabat’s GDP for the previous year had been nearly two hundred billion dollars - more, if one counted separate income from the Kabati Corporation.  If he claimed ten percent of it, and she agreed, he would be paid twenty billion dollars.  It was extremely unlikely she would agree.

“I think that’s just a little too high,” she said, with admirable composure.  “I do have a counter offer, however, and a promise of long-term employment.”

Malcolm smiled.  “A counter offer?”

“I will pay you five billion dollars,” Sultana said.  “However, I will throw in both long-term employment, protecting myself and my future husband, and basing rights.  I understand that organisations like yours are looking for bases nearer to your main zone of employment.  Kabat, I think, would definitely be suitable.  I could even give you the same extraterritoriality rights enjoyed by many corporations.”

She wants you for more than just the coup, Malcolm thought in sudden realisation.

It was a staggering offer - indeed, he wasn't quite sure she understood the implications.  Most governments, and the British Government was no different, tended to take exception to mercenaries claiming unlimited basing rights.  They were always carefully watched, even when paying top dollar for the use of military training bases - and serving as an unofficial reserve for the army, should the shit hit the fan.  There weren't many mercenary forces that had bases they could use without supervision, apart from a couple in Panama and another in Georgia.  

And there were other implications.  He’d always wanted to go after terrorists in their homelands, but EXS had never had the resources to do so.  And yet, if they acquired a major base in Kabat, they would find it easier to wage war on the terrorists without being so dependent on Western governments.  It was unlikely Sultana, who represented everything the terrorists hated, would object to them waging a private war.  She loathed the bastards as much as he did, perhaps more.

“That is a very generous offer,” he said.  His mouth was suddenly very dry.  “However, it would be dependent on my observations in Kabat.”

“I do understand,” Sultana said.  She favoured him with a smile.  “You will be paid the retainer, whatever happens.  I will also pay a sizable amount to fund the operation - but the main payment can only come after I am in sole control of the country.”

“Of course,” Malcolm said.  “We would not expect you to pay for an operation that never got off the ground.”

He sighed, inwardly.  Paul would have to be consulted, of course, but he wouldn't have the final say.  It would be Malcolm and his top officers who would make the final call.  He’d have to recall them from Happenstance as quickly as possible, then get them to spend a day reading the files before they sat down to hash out the basics of the offer.  It was tempting, very tempting, but perhaps too tempting?  

There was a ding from the dumbwaiter.  He rose to his feet and walked over to the machine, then opened it to pull out the two plates.  Sultana’s soup smelled faintly of chicken, while her tortillas were clearly a mixture of chicken and beef.  He couldn't help wondering, as he carried her food back to the table, if she was sending him a clever message of her own.  A liking for Western food might be interpreted as a liking for the West itself.  Or she might be trying to mislead him.

“There’s a whole menu here,” Sultana said, “and someone else is picking up the tab.  Why didn't you order something more expensive?”

Malcolm sat down and picked up a fork, studying his plate of fish and chips with amused disdain.  It just didn’t look right, not to someone who had been brought up in Edinburgh, and there was no brown sauce.  But, compared to some of the meals on the menu, it was at least understandable.

“I never liked ordering fancy food just to be fancy,” he said, after a moment.  “And besides, I never had the time to develop expensive tastes.”

“My father never did,” Sultana said.  “I don’t recall eating anything that wasn't Arab until I went to America for the first time.”  She tapped the soup bowl thoughtfully.  “I wouldn't have been able to eat this in one of the palaces.”

Malcolm shrugged.  “What was your father like?  As a person?”

“I loved him and I was terrified of him,” Sultana said, after a moment.  “He ruled his family with an iron hand and didn't hesitate to beat my brothers when they offended him.  I remember him slapping one of his few advisors for some offence.  The poor man had to have emergency surgery.  I always thought there would be a time when I would be beaten to death too, when he ran out of brothers to kill.”

She looked down at the food before her.  “But I never doubted he cared deeply for his country,” she added.  “Abdullah ... he doesn't care about anything, but religion.  He’ll tear us apart.”

Chapter Five

Sussex, United Kingdom

Officially, Executive Solutions was headquartered in London, where anyone who might have an interest in hiring the company could visit the offices and be treated to a dog-and-pony show about how EXS could benefit them.  Unofficially, the real work - everything from administration to basic refresher training - was carried out at the former Thorney Island airbase, Sussex.  It was close enough to several operational military bases to be mistaken for one, something the MOD approved of as EXS kept the base operational without having to be paid for it, but also some distance from prying eyes.

Malcolm had waited two days, after his team returned from Happenstance, to call a staff meeting in the main building.  Partly, this allowed them to get over jet lag and have a chance to catch up with their families, but it also allowed him time to consider all of the implications and start coming up with a detailed operational concept.  He might be the CO of the company, yet there were limits.  If his senior officers banded together against him, the operation would never get off the ground.

He strode into the conference room and looked around, smiling coldly.  The room was large, but the only modern thing in it was the computer and PowerPoint projector.  They’d filled the room with military chairs, several wooden tables and a small drinks cabinet, rather than bland IKEA furniture or anything else that lacked character.  A handful of maps hung on the wall - he’d been careful to add a pair of Kabat - waiting for inspection.  They would be consulted heavily once the meeting began.

“Malcolm,” a voice said.  Malcolm turned to see Paul Valentine, once his brother-in-law and now the financial manager of EXS.  “Did you sleep well?”

It wasn't an idle question, Malcolm knew.  His sleep was often disturbed by nightmares, at least when he wasn't on deployment.  Indeed, he'd sometimes put himself on the top of the deployment list just to make sure he got some sleep!  It wasn't a question he would normally have tolerated from a civilian, but Paul was a special case.  He’d lost a sister and niece to the terrorist scum who infested Britain like fleas infested a dog.

“Barely,” he said.  He’d gone to bed at 2300, then woke up at 0700 and forced himself to spend an hour running around the airstrip in the hopes it would tire him out enough to go back to bed.  Instead, it had left him feeling disturbingly active.  “Take some coffee, then a seat.”

He poured himself a cup, then watched as his senior officers filed into the room.  Ian Grindey led the way, followed by Jeanette Burghley, Keith Glass and Jeff Zeitlin.  They made an odd crew, Malcolm had sometimes thought: a civilian, an intelligence officer, a pair of British soldiers and a pair of American soldiers.  But they all shared a twin devotion to the company and a desire to exterminate the bastards who terrorised the world.  No matter the official mission specification, they all knew the real purpose was to kill as many terrorists as possible.  There were no bleeding hearts working for EXS.

“Gentlemen, lady, be seated,” he said, once they had poured themselves tea or coffee.  The ban on alcohol was in full effect.  “Smoke them if you have them.”

He took a seat and swung it around so he was facing the crew.  “Paul,” he said.  “How are our funds looking right now?”

Paul glanced at the secure palmtop he carried everywhere, even into meetings.  “The CIA paid the bounty on Osama Bin Osama and accepted him into their custody, sir,” he said.  “I believe NBC has offered to pay the recovery fee for Braddock, but we may have problems claiming it without admitting we were responsible.  The SEALs do not generally accept rewards for their services.”

He took a breath.  “However, we can probably survive without it,” he added.  “There are several other possible bounties to collect in Yemen and the surrounding region.”

“Good,” Malcolm said.  “Any other business before we get to the meat of the matter?”

“Cathy has been working with Monique Hassan,” Jeanette said, curtly.  “She believes the girl has learned her lesson and can be used for propaganda purposes.”

Malcolm sighed, inwardly.  He’d carefully avoided learning the girl’s name.

Grindey peered at her.  “Do you feel she can be trusted?”

“I think it won’t matter,” Jeanette said.  “She will be under close supervision, either with us or at the Hostage Recovery Facility in the UK.  There will be no chance for her to do anything that might cause damage, Sergeant.  The only downside is that eventually we will have to notify her family that we have her.”

Which is why feeding her to the sharks would have been much more effective, Malcolm thought, coldly.  Monique might have fallen for a very old con, but so had the bastards who’d murdered his family.  We wouldn't have to grapple with the issue of how to handle her now.

“Then see if we can pass her over to British Intelligence,” Malcolm said.  He rather doubted Monique would be able to reveal anything, but a lifetime in the military had taught him not to take chances.  “We can tell her she too was saved by the SEALs.”

“She’s in a pretty bad way, sir,” Jeanette said.  “No matter what we do, there’s a good chance she will never recover completely.”

“She brought it on herself,” Keith Glass growled.  Beside him, Jeff Zeitlin nodded in agreement.  It was rare for them to agree on anything, beyond killing the enemy.  “Her future isn’t our concern.”

“And might spark demands for the other poor bitches to be rescued,” Grindey added.  “She’s hardly the only sucker who believed her duty was to go to the Middle East and open her legs for some rapist asshole.”

“Her story might keep others from believing that crap,” Jeanette countered.  She looked at Malcolm.  “With your permission, sir, I will open channels with MI6 and arrange for her transfer to the HRF.”

“Granted,” Malcolm said.  He looked around the room, glancing from face to face.  “Is there any other business?”

He waited a moment, then went on.  “A rather unusual opportunity has been dropped into our laps,” he said.  “If it checks out, and I have only been able to do the bare bones of any checking, we will not only wind up financially independent, but politically independent as well.”

Grindey blinked.  “Sir?”

Malcolm smiled.  That was as close as the former Paratrooper would ever get to admitting surprise.

“Politically independent?”  Paul said.  He sounded disbelieving.  “How is this miracle to be achieved?”

“I’m sure the major knows what he’s doing,” Jeff Zeitlin snapped.

Malcolm gave him a warning look.  Paul’s question was valid.  Mercenaries weren't backed by the might of entire nations, no matter who hired them or how much they spent.  Their lives were rated as expendable by their employers, their operations political bargaining chips.  To be able to operate independently of any political supervision was a dream come true ... but also one no mercenary company was ever likely to achieve.  They were just too small to possess the clout of a full-sized military.

“We have been ... approached to handle a task,” he said.  “They want us to overthrow a government.”

He outlined the entire concept, from launching a coup against a sitting monarch to gaining bases and land in Kabat in exchange for providing permanent protective services to the new monarch and his family.  Paul looked shocked - clearly, the whole plan was a jump too far for the civilian - while the soldiers looked excited.  Only Jeanette showed no reaction at all, her face utterly impassive.  Malcolm absently admired her skill as he finished talking and waited to see who would be the first to speak.

Jeanette leaned forward.  “And this has the backing of the British Government?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said, flatly.  He’d spent time checking the details as best as he could.  The Prime Minister would deny all knowledge, if questioned, but MI6’s covert actions teams would be involved in shipping weapons to EXS if necessary.  “They won’t do anything overt, of course, but we have already been promised access to weapons and other supplies.”

“Hit them for all you can get,” Glass grunted.  “You don’t know when you’ll have such a chance again.”

“Of course,” Malcolm said dryly.  Mercenaries weren’t often sold heavy antitank weapons or missile-launching UAVs.  Even if they found a seller, the equipment tended to be so expensive that only a government could afford to buy it.  “I’m already putting together a shopping list.”

Paul coughed, loudly.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but am I the only one who thinks this is utterly insane?”

“It looks that way,” Jeanette said.  She gave him a mischievous smile.  “These action heroes” - she waved a hand at the soldiers - “are thrilling to the challenge.”

Paul looked at Malcolm, ignoring her.  “This is completely insane,” he said.  “If this was to go wrong, if we were to be implicated in a failed coup attempt against a sitting government, it would be utterly disastrous.  It would be the end of Extreme - Executive - Solutions!  The British Government would hand us all over to the Kabaties on charges of terrorism and they wouldn't be too far wrong.  We’d end up having our heads separated from our bodies in Chop-Chop Square.”

“Chop-Chop Square is in Saudi fucking Arabia,” Grindey said.

“Even if we succeeded,” Paul continued, shooting Grindey a sharp look, “how do we know they’d keep their word?  It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to short us on the bill.  And we’re not talking a measly million or two dollars this time!”

“I have a more practical question,” Grindey said.  “Can we carry out the operation successfully?”

“Not with what we have on hand,” Malcolm said, flatly.  “We’d need to recruit at least a thousand or so troops, probably more.  There would also need to be a great deal of training before we set sail.  More to the point ...”

He held up a hand before anyone could interrupt.  “I have been reviewing the files, but I will need to see the situation on the ground first,” he warned.  “I’ve told our potential employer that we will not make any commitment until we have a workable plan, one we can carry out without great loss of life on both sides.  I intend to fly to Kabat later this week and spend at least a fortnight there.”

“It’s fighting season,” Glass observed.  “It’s January now.  We will have to start putting out retainers soon if we want to hold troops for an operation in March.  And launching the operation any later will leave us contending with the heat of the desert as well as bad-tempered enemy troops.”

“We will be paid a down payment,” Malcolm said.  “If we start looking for troops now, we can pay them once we receive the down payment, subject to the usual conditions.”

“This is a bit bigger than escorting a bunch of reporters through a war zone,” Glass pointed out.  “Someone will leak.”

“Don’t tell them,” Jeanette said.

“It’s a bad idea not to tell them what they’re getting into until it’s too late to back out,” Grindey snapped.  “People will desert.  Or scream to the media.”

“And we will have to do training for the operation anyway,” Glass added.  “Soldiers aren't exactly dumb, not in modern armies.  It will be very clear that we’re planning to assault a city and it isn't that great a leap to deduce we’re plotting a coup.”

Malcolm sighed, inwardly.  Mercenaries weren't soldiers, not in the sense that they had no choice but to follow orders.  They would want to know what they were getting into before they committed themselves ... and Glass was right.  Some of them would see it as too great a risk to be borne, others would be horrified at the prospect for destabilising the Middle East further - if possible - and some would simply leak to the media.  But there were always options.

“Tell them we will be paying two or three times the normal rate,” he said.  There were some advantages to having close ties with British Intelligence.  “However, anyone who backs out, once he learns the truth, will be held on ice at a secret prison until the operation is either completed or cancelled beyond hope of revival.  For this, they will be paid half the normal rate.”

Paul frowned.  “And if someone decides to desert in the middle of the battle?”

Grindey drew a finger across his throat.  Malcolm nodded in agreement.  They’d be careful to pick mercenaries they knew personally, or by reputation, but no one would tolerate attempted desertion in the middle of a fight.  The idiot would be lucky if he was only shot in the back, as word would be passed around the community that the deserter was unreliable.  Soon enough, no one would hire him for anything more challenging than sweeping floors.

“The cost of holding people,” Paul started, “will ...”

“... Be picked up by the government, I suspect, if our employer doesn't pay for them,” Jeanette said.  “It isn't as if they don’t have plenty of room in the secret prisons.  And they can be released once the excitement is over.”

Malcolm cleared his throat.  “I want you all to start reviewing the files,” he said.  “If any of you come up with a good reason not to proceed, I’d like to know about it as soon as possible.”

He paused, dramatically.  “However, it is my feeling that this is too good an opportunity to miss. We are not going to be given a similar offer any time soon, certainly not one offering bases and enough ready cash to fund a small army.”

“Anything that looks too good to be true,” Paul commented, “probably is.”

“I know,” Malcolm said.  “That’s why we’re going to inch forward very carefully, on the assumption there’s something nasty waiting for us.  But, for the moment, I intend to start planning to carry out the operation.  Losing Kabat to religious madness would have only the most unpleasant effects on the Middle East.”

“True,” Jeanette agreed.  “Even if they devote a single percent of their GNP to terrorism, they would make a great many groups very dangerous.  And they have a shitload of weapons running through their ports.  Not to mention access to shipping lanes running right around the world.  The last thing we need is a resurgence of the Al Qaeda Navy.”

Malcolm nodded.  Thousands of ships passed through the Gulf every day, ranging from tramp freighters to giant supertankers.  A handful might serve as terrorist transports, running recruits from Pakistan or Afghanistan into the Middle East or further afield.  Malcolm had boarded a couple of terrorist ships in the Atlantic Ocean, back when he’d been in the SAS.  It had always been nightmarish, not least because there was no way to know what was waiting for them.  No one outside a handful of people in government and the military knew how close the terrorists had come to ramming a makeshift bomb into a British port.

“And there would be economic shockwaves,” Paul offered, slowly.  “Dubai and Qatar might pick up some of the traffic, if there was a general exodus from Kabat, but it would certainly cause uncertainty in the financial markets.  The long-term results would be unpredictable.”

“So you think it’s a good idea after all,” Malcolm teased.

“Not at all,” Paul said, stiffly.  “I merely point out that Kabat is one of the centres of economic activity in the region ... all the more so, as money has been flowing out of Saudi Arabia at an alarming rate.  To lose it to fanaticism would be disastrous.  On the other hand, a violent coup would also leave the country dangerously unstable ...”

“We’d be removing a religious nut from power,” Glass pointed out, sharply.

“It doesn't matter,” Paul said.  “London and New York became financial centres because they were both located in stable countries.  Kabat City became a similar centre because the Emir ensured that everything would remain stable, politically speaking.  Capital doesn’t give a damn for freedom or democracy, merely stability.  This new Emir might be bad for stability, but so too might a coup.  Violence is very bad for business.”

“Sometimes you just have to take a chance,” Jeanette said, quietly.

“I know,” Malcolm said.  He smiled, thinly.  “Review the files, then start drawing up contingency plans.  We’ll assume a force of one thousand men for the moment; we’ll probably need more, but that will depend on what I find.”

“Yes, sir,” Grindey said.  

Glass snorted.  “There are no contingency plans we could steal from the MOD?”

“The last time anyone planned a military takeover of Kabat was in 1960, I think,” Malcolm said.  He’d checked with the Permanent Joint Headquarters, but it had been a long time since Britain had ever considered an outright invasion of a foreign country.  “I’ll check with the CIA, but anything from the Pentagon will demand resources we don’t have.”

“An aircraft carrier, for a start,” Glass said.  “And the entire 1st Marine Division.”

Malcolm chuckled.  “Quite,” he said.  “And I really dread to imagine Paul’s reaction if we tried to purchase an aircraft carrier.”

Paul made a rude gesture.  Outfitting a freighter with helicopter decks wasn’t difficult, but a genuine aircraft carrier, even a relatively small one, would be well beyond any company’s ability to build and operate.  Besides, Malcolm wouldn't want a full-sized carrier.  He’d prefer something capable of launching helicopters and CAS aircraft.  

Pity the fighter mafia is still in control of the Pentagon, he thought.  If someone else took the reins, they might come up with something affordable.

He finished his coffee, then rose to his feet.  “The files are in the secure database, lady and gentlemen.  Review them, consider them, and then get back to me.  Jeanette, report to me at 1300.  I should have a task for you by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.  

Chapter Six

Sussex, United Kingdom

“What do you make of financial data?”

“I had a chance to review the financial details in the hard drives we captured,” Jeanette said, as she sat down facing him.  “There are definitely some links to bank accounts in Kabat.  That doesn't prove anything, but it’s worrisome.”

Malcolm lifted his eyebrows.  “Why doesn't it prove anything?”

“Kabat’s bankers are very secretive,” Jeanette said.  “They will not, as a general rule, share any data with anyone, not even the CIA.  Someone - anyone - can turn up at the counter with a large bag of money and deposit it, no questions asked.  It’s possible that the Kabaties supplied the money to the terrorists, but equally possible that the Kabaties have no idea the accounts have anything to do with terrorists at all.”

Malcolm sighed.  “And no one is trying to do anything about this?”

“Kabat sits in the middle of global trade,” Jeanette said.  “Paul was right, sir; they’re so well positioned that anyone who tries to meddle, officially, will get into a great deal of shit.  Every international bank has a base in Kabat, along with many that aren’t; there's no way to twist their arm without causing economic pain to dozens of institutions and organisations.”

Her hands twisted in her lap.  “The CIA tracked a shitload of money going into Kabat,” she added.  “I think the last count included the personal fortunes of a thousand Saudi princes, money various celebrities are trying to hide, drug dealer money ... hell, I think we have an account there too.  But it’s impossible to force them to give up their records.  They just smile and refuse.”

“I see,” Malcolm said.  “And the operation itself?”

“If it can be done in a single sharp blow, that would be fine,” Jeanette said.  “But a long, drawn-out battle would draw in the Yanks, or the Saudis ... or, in any case, it would cause instability.  And then the nation’s economy would be badly damaged.”

She paused.  “I was thinking we could forward some questions to our captured mastermind and see if he had anything to say,” she added.  “There might be terrorist cells currently active in Kabat.”

Malcolm frowned.  “Do you think that’s likely?”

“Unknown,” Jeanette said.  “The previous Emir always stomped on terrorist cells, according to the files.  But a small cell used to keeping its head down might be able to survive.”

“Have the questions forwarded to the CIA,” Malcolm ordered.  “And hope they give us a straight answer.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.

They both knew it wouldn't be easy.  The CIA would be reluctant to share anything, even with the mercenaries that had captured Osama Bin Osama.  Now, with Washington gearing up for an election, it would be harder than ever before to get a straight answer out of Langley in time to be useful.  The CIA might even start trying to get involved in the Kabat affair.

Malcolm shook his head, then changed the subject.  “I have a particular task for you,” he said.  “I want you to go to London and interview the princess.  I think she may be more open about talking to another woman.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Jeanette said.  “From what the files say, she’s a woman who rose to power in a misogynistic society.  Very few women do that while having warm, sisterly feelings towards other women.  She’s more likely to be a man with tits.”

“Probably,” Malcolm agreed.  “Still, I feel she may be able to talk more openly to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.  “Do you have a list of questions?”

Malcolm picked a piece of paper off his desk and held it out.  “Here,” he said.  “And if you can think of others, feel free to ask them too.  Make sure you record the whole conversation for later review.”

“Of course,” Jeanette said.  She paused.  “What do you make of her?”

“Bright, intelligent, very capable at presenting the impression she wants to present,” Malcolm said, gruffly.  “Probably manipulative by habit; given where she grew up, she probably learned how to manipulate men without waving her tits under their eyes.  And she claimed to be willing to marry her distant relative just to ensure he had a solid claim to the throne.”

“While she ruled through him,” Jeanette said.  “I can't help feeling we will be expected to help maintain her position of power.”

“We will,” Malcolm said.  He tapped the box of files sent down from London.  “The Kabati Royal Guard is neither Kabati nor royal.  They’re five companies of Pakistani soldiers, hired from Pakistan on five-year contracts.  When their service is over, each and every soldier is wealthy enough to set up a small business or support a large family, if they wish.  They’re also strongly disliked in Kabat itself.  It keeps them loyal.”

“Because the crowds would tear them apart if the shit hit the fan,” Jeanette said.  “I imagine they would be our most dangerous enemy.”

“At least at first,” Malcolm agreed.  “There’s relatively little data on how they’re armed and trained, but I imagine the Emir could hire the best.  Pakistani soldiers are a mixed bag; some of their units are first-rate, some are cowards who will break at the first sound of gunfire.  I think the Pakis wouldn't want to send anything inferior to Kabat, not when it brings in a significant sum of money each year.  Taking them out, directly or indirectly, will be a major issue.”

“I fear so,” Jeanette agreed, dryly.  “Do you know the CO?”

“No,” Malcolm said.  He’d met thousands of military officials from around the world during his time at Special Ops Command, including dozens of Pakistanis, but he had no idea which officer had been assigned to Kabat.  “The files didn't even name the CO.”

He shrugged.  “I’ve barely started digging through the files,” he admitted.  “I will definitely need to visit Kabat before making the final decision.”

“Of course,” Jeanette said.  She paused.  “Do you want me to come with you?”

Malcolm considered it, briefly.  His first inclination was to say yes - they’d have to travel under false papers and neither of them would have any qualms about pretending to be a married couple - but it might be risky.  Western women were sometimes targeted by thugs, terrorists and religious policemen, and he had no idea what the situation on the ground was like.  Besides, a married couple would be expected to spend most of their time at the resorts, rather than exploring the city itself.  An alert customs officer might ask questions.

And we wouldn't look right, he added, in the privacy of his own mind.  We’d either look like two friends or two people overdoing the act.

“No,” he said, finally.  “I’m going to be posing as a businessman; I won’t have any difficulty getting papers for a brief layover in Kabat.  There’s no need to bring a wife or partner along.”

Jeanette nodded, her face expressionless.  “Good luck, sir,” she said.  She took the sheet of paper and examined it, quickly.  “I can add a few more questions to this.”

“Do so,” Malcolm ordered.  “I ...”

The telephone rang.  Malcolm glanced at the Caller ID, then picked it up.  “Smith.”

“This is Martha,” a female voice said.  “I have your papers and travel documents ready for you, sir.  The flight has been booked for you as specified.”

“Good,” Malcolm said.  If there was one advantage to pretending to be a businessman, it was the chance to travel first class.  The only irritating feature was having to go onwards to Kuwait afterwards, instead of flying directly back to London.  But it couldn't be helped.  “I’ll pick up the documents tomorrow, then leave the following day.”

He put down the phone and smiled, coldly.  It wasn't easy to forge papers these days, not when there were global passport registers and a shared terrorist watchlist, but it was easy enough - with the right contacts in MI6 - to obtain a genuine British passport from the Home Office.  The only danger was having his fingerprints on record somewhere in the Middle East, so he would have to get them changed before he left.  Luckily, the tools for reshaping one’s fingerprints were waiting for him in London, along with the papers.  

“I hope the flight was booked through a proxy,” Jeanette said.  “Everyone knows about International Import/Export these days.”

“They always have more than one string to their bow,” Malcolm said.  He looked down at the files, then made a command decision to leave them to his subordinates.  “Go to London today and see the princess.  Contact me if there’s anything you need before tomorrow; I’ll meet you in London before I board the flight to catch up.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.  She rose, her blue eyes meeting his.  “I’d also like to check with a few of my contacts.  They might have some more light to shed on Kabat.”

“Just keep what we’re planning to yourself,” Malcolm ordered.  “The last thing we need is to be blown by careless talk.”

“Of course, sir,” Jeanette said.  She gave him the evil eye.  “I didn't stay in intelligence for so long without learning to keep my mouth shut.”

Malcolm watched her go, then stood.  He’d planned an afternoon sparring session with Grindey, then a dinner with Paul before going to bed early.  It had been too long since he’d had a proper talk with his brother-in-law, just as friends.  And then he’d have to go to Kabat ...

He sighed, then returned the documents to the secure cabinet and walked out .  It was pointless reading facts and figures without a sense of the ground, not when it was easy to start twisting facts to fit theories.  Malcolm liked to think that he would have avoided the mistakes the Americans had made when planning the invasion and occupation of Iraq many years ago, but in truth planners always tended to be distant from the poor bastards who actually had to carry out the plan.  It was one of the reasons he always set the tasks, then let his subordinates decide how to handle it.  But the mission in Kabat was likely to be far more complex, by an order of magnitude, than anything Extreme Solutions had ever done.  

And Paul was right about one thing, he thought, as he walked down to the sparring ground.  If this goes wrong, none of us will ever see the light of day again.

***

“I’ve been reviewing the files,” Glass said, an hour later.  “There’s less raw manpower out there than we might have hoped, even if we use the people British Intelligence already has on retainer.  Business is booming right now.”

Malcolm nodded.  “Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you’ve been earning more contracts too?”  Glass asked.  The American smirked, then reached for his terminal.  “I think there are around seven hundred individuals or small groups we can contact and try to get on retainer, but we may have to make a deal with a couple of larger groups.  The Saudis have been hiring more mercenary bodyguards recently, and it’s been driving prices up everywhere else.”

He glanced at his terminal.  “There are a number of anti-pirate groups out there we can try to hire,” he added, “but many of them are not entirely trained or considered reliable.”

“No,” Malcolm said, flatly.  He wanted people with a decent amount of military training, as well as experience.  Untrained manpower might as well be cannon fodder.  “You think we can make a deal with some other companies?”

“We’d have to deal them in,” Glass said.  “They would either want a share in the reward or refuse to take part, because of the risks.  And let’s face it, sir; the risks are immense.”

“I know,” Malcolm said.  “I thought there was a large reserve of American manpower?”

“There is, but most of the recent RIF victims have been snapped up by Red River and a couple of other outfits,” Glass said.  “I’m searching up contacts now, sir, but I don’t know how many I can find.  We might wind up absorbing a number of ten-man outfits and blowing our costs right out of the water.”

He paused.  “There are a considerable number of Russian outfits just entering the scene,” he offered.  “But I don't know how far they can be trusted.”

Malcolm shrugged.  Russia, like Britain, regarded mercenaries as a deniable tool for covert operations, with the added complication that the Russian mercenaries might report everything back to Moscow and switch sides at the worst possible moment.  If rumour was to be believed, Moscow had allowed a number of mercenaries to sign on with a Central Asian terrorist group, then had betrayed them once the Russians were ready to snap them up.  It had worked perfectly, once.  Somehow, Malcolm doubted it would work so well a second time.

“They might be unreliable,” he said.  The last thing he needed was for a bunch of his troops to switch sides in the middle of the chaos.  “Anything else?”

“Quite a few Foreign Legionnaires from France and a number of Greeks,” Glass said.  “The former have been trying to find service with the British Army, of all places.  We could snap them up instead.”

“It might be worth considering,” Malcolm said.  “Check their records, then run them past Jeff.  He may know them personally.”

He frowned, considering it.  There was no truth in the stereotype that claimed the French were always cowards.  The French Foreign Legion was composed of tough and dedicated fighters - he’d served with them in Afghanistan and North Africa - but France itself was in a bad way these days.  Privately, he’d been shown an MI6 projection that suggested France would collapse into chaos within ten years.  Given how many Frenchmen were fleeing the country, he had a suspicion that was an optimistic estimate.   

The French military might be brave, he thought sourly, but their government is definitely full of cowardly shits.  And politicians.

“Jeff would probably accept them all on sight,” Glass said.  His face twisted in disapproval.  “But I’ll see what he says.”

He shrugged.  “They should pay us to clear up their mess.”

“The government here should pay us to do the same,” Malcolm growled.  If Grindey hadn't stopped him, he knew he would have gone on a terrorist campaign of his own.  It would have been nothing more than lashing out, he knew, but it would have felt so damn satisfying to forget political correctness and just hurt the bastards.  “The French are too far gone.”

“We will see,” Glass said.  

He shrugged.  “If they are all included, we’ll end up with around nine hundred men,” he said, finally.  “We will probably need to see what else we can round up.”

“Get as many of them as you can on retainer,” Malcolm ordered.  They’d be keeping the first payment, whatever happened.  They could pay the retained mercenaries even if the operation never got off the ground.  “By the time I get back, we should have a good idea of how to proceed.”

“I don’t think we can win a long fight,” Glass said.  “God knows just how well trained the local military is, but there’s a lot of them.”

Malcolm nodded.  Officially, the Royal Kabati Army was seven thousand strong.  It was anyone’s guess just how many of those men existed as more than notations on the rolls - Arab armies were notoriously corrupt - but it was a formidable force on paper.  And then there was the five thousand strong Kabati National Guard, charged with keeping an eye on the army for signs of dissent, and five hundred to six hundred Pakistani soldiers who made up the last line of defence.  And apparently some of the locals were armed ...

He shook his head.  The forces on paper weren't the issue.  If they couldn't be brought to bear against their targets, they would be worse than useless.  The mission - capture or kill the Emir, then replace him with Sultana’s choice - had to be completed before the military officers could get over their shock and then either support the Emir or launch an attempt to put themselves into power.

Assuming they dare, he thought.  Saddam’s men had been so terrified of his secret services - he’d had more than one - that they hadn't even dared to coordinate their operations amongst themselves.  It isn't long enough for fear of their former master to fade away.  

“No, we probably couldn't,” he said.  They’d need to get a more up-to-date outline of the enemy military, then start looking for weak points.  The average Arab soldier wasn't taught to make decisions for himself, no matter the situation.  Cut off from senior officers, it was likely he’d do nothing.  “But we will see.”

He slapped Glass on the back, then walked back towards the airstrip.  A pair of helicopters sat there, new surplus from the British Army.  They might not be up-to-date, but a few weeks of repair and they would be as good as new, capable of inserting troops on enemy coastlines or providing covering fire for advancing soldiers.  And he was sure they would be put to good use.

Grindey met him as he strode into the hanger.  “I thought you’d decided to back out, sir,” he said, dryly.  “How are things?”

“I need to relax before leaving the country,” Malcolm said, equally dry.  He had no intention of skipping out on the sparring match.  The sergeant would never let him forget it.  “Two falls out of three?”

“Why not?”  Grindey said.  “It’s been too long since I pinned you to the mat.”

Chapter Seven

Kabat International Airport, Kabat

... They’d been married in spring; the handsome young soldier and his blushing bride, barely a year or so younger than he was.  Their families had gathered around as they walked down the aisle together as husband and wife ...

... He’d watched as his daughter slowly emerged from between his wife’s legs ...

... He’d held his three-year-old daughter in his arms, during a brief leave from the endless war in Afghanistan ...

... He’d been told that they’d been killed by five terrorists, who had deliberately hunted for the wives and families of British SAS servicemen, after his name had been leaked by the media ...

... He’d ...

Malcolm snapped awake, shaken out of his nightmare.  It took him a long moment to remember where he was, on a plane descending towards Kabat.  If someone had disturbed him, he would have lashed out automatically.  He gathered himself as best as he could as the plane rocked faintly, then reached for the bottle of water and took a long swig.  The nightmares always left him feeling as though he hadn't slept at all.

God damn you bastards, he thought, as he glanced around the plane.  Most of the first-class passengers were businessmen, but a number were clearly wealthy Arabs returning home from the West.  He’d watched some unveiled women cover themselves as the plane took off, then inch into a concealed section for women only.  God damn you all.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said.  His voice was European; German, at a guess.  “We are now commencing our descent into Kabat International Airport.  Please be advised that immigration will insist on checking both your passports and your visas before you are allowed to enter the airport proper.  Please also be advised ...”

Malcolm tuned him out, running through a meditation technique to keep himself as calm as possible.  The nightmares should remain in the past, where they belonged, but he knew they wouldn’t.  He’d loved them both, Joan and Helen, and neither had deserved to die at the hands of terrorists.  And he hadn't deserved to be told that, for all his service to the crown, that the killers of his family wouldn't be sufficiently punished.  Five years in jail, for the three who were caught, was not enough.  They’d be out in a year.

And then I can find them, he thought, vindictively.  

But they hadn't been the only culprits.  There had been the radical mullahs who had preached jihad in British mosques, the family members who had done nothing to prevent their children sliding into radicalism, the international terrorists and their supporters who had poured propaganda, money and weapons into Britain ... they all needed to be hunted down and ruthlessly purged.  It was a matter of life and death, of the very survival of the British state itself, yet the country was unwilling to take those vital steps.  What was the point of fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan and Yemen if the country itself was under threat?

Malcolm pushed the thought aside bitterly as the plane started its descent, heading down towards Kabat.  He glanced out of the window and saw nothing but blue waters; these days, few planes overflew the northern Middle East if they could avoid it.  Libya’s fall into anarchy had released a number of MANPADs onto the underground arms market and not all of them had been scooped up by the various intelligence agencies.  He rolled his eyes at a thirty-year-old man who was clearly terrified of the imminent landing - Malcolm had jumped out of planes at very high altitude, during his service in the SAS, and a simple landing held no fear for him - then felt a pang of grief as he saw the man’s seven-year-old daughter.  Had Helen lived, she would have been the same age.

“Cabin crew, be seated for landing,” the pilot ordered.  “I say again, cabin crew be seated for landing.”

A blast of Arabic music shocked him, dragging his attention towards the screen mounted in the seat ahead.  A video started to play, telling him about the wonders of modern Kabat.  He sighed inwardly - if the video was to be believed, Kabat was the most welcoming state in the entire world - then looked around for a way to turn it off.  There didn't seem to be any way to deactivate it, short of kicking in the screen.  Cursing under his breath, he closed his eyes and kept them closed until the plane finally touched down on the tarmac and rumbled to a halt.  

“Please take your landing pass,” a stewardess said, in excellent English.  Her outfit was odd; she wore a headscarf, hiding her hair from male eyes, but at the same time her dress was tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination.  Malcolm could see the shape of her panties through her white dress as she turned to offer the pass to the next passenger.  “You’ll need it to fast-track through immigrations.”

Malcolm took the landing pass as the doors opened.  The passengers serenely got to their feet, picked up their cabin bags and headed towards the exit, rather than the mad scramble of everyone in economy class.  Malcolm smiled - first class passengers didn't have to line up for hours to be inspected by immigration officials - then nodded politely to the stewardess as she bowed to him.  This one clearly wore no bra under her white shirt.

He kept his face impassive as he walked through the corridor and into the airport.  The building was immense, decorated with flowers, statues and pieces of expensive artwork, and there were dozens of shops within view.  One shop advertised wine and beer, despite the Islamic prohibitions on alcohol; another, behind it, offered vast numbers of books.  There were so many people in the concourse that he couldn't help wondering if they’d accidentally walked into a shopping mall.  Some of the signs even offered haircuts, massages and private fortune tellings.  It was so large, he had to walk for nearly half an hour before he wound up at the immigration desk.  He showed his landing pass to an official with a smile pasted on his face and was promptly directed to a single lane.

The immigration official barely glanced at his passport before pressing it against the reader, then pointing one long finger at the fingerprint scanner.  Malcolm braced himself - some scanners were designed to check for reshaped fingerprints - and pressed his fingers against the scanner.  There was a long pause, then a light flashed green.  His altered fingerprints hadn't triggered any alarms.

“Welcome to Kabat,” the official said, in passable English.  Judging by his skin tone, he wasn’t a pureblood Arab.  It was quite likely he had some Indian or Indonesian blood in him somewhere.  “Purpose of visit?”

“Tourism,” Malcolm said.  “I’m staying with a friend.”

The official snorted.  “Should stay at a hotel,” he said, gruffly.  “Name and address, please?”

It wasn't a request.  Malcolm passed over the details, waited patiently for the official to copy them into his computer, then took the sheet of paper back.  The official waited, checking the entries against the files, then nodded.

“Pick up your bags from the first-class carousel,” he said, opening the door out of the secure zone.  “Welcome, once again, to Kabat.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm said, keeping his amusement carefully hidden.  The official had sounded about as enthusiastic as a soldier being told he was expected to remain on guard for another two hours.  “I look forward to it immensely.”

He nodded to the official, then stepped through the hatch.  It was probably unfair of him to be annoyed; if the official really was a mixed-race child, he was lucky to have even a mundane job in the airport.  The files had stated that interracial relationships, at least among the Kabaties themselves, were strongly discouraged.  They weren't forbidden, legally, but there was a whole host of penalties for the natives who dared to marry outside their race.  Their children were rarely considered full citizens of Kabat.  

His bag showed signs of having been searched when he picked it up, not entirely to his surprise.  He’d been careful not to pack anything that might raise eyebrows, but it was rare not to have bags searched if the officials had any reason at all to suspect trouble.  He checked, noted that everything was in place, then put the bag over his shoulder and walked through the doors.  A large sign warned him that no one was permitted to return to the baggage claim zone, once he left the section, and that any complaints about missing luggage should be directed to the airport staff.  Beyond the gate, many uniformed taxi drivers - looking nearly as magnificent as admirals in the British Royal Navy - were waiting, holding up printed signs so they could be recognised.  Malcolm kept a sharp eye out for the man waiting for him as he scanned the rest of the airport.  It was heaving with people, yet there was an odd sense of tranquillity that surprised him.  The crowds didn't seem to be as frantic as they were in the United Kingdom.

There’s enough desks and staff to handle everyone, he realised, slowly.  It was hard to be sure, but he couldn't see a single empty desk within eyesight.  There’s no need for slow lines and endless waiting.

The customers themselves were a mixed bag.  There was no shortage of Kabati men in white robes - and veiled women dressed completely in black - but they were very much the minority.  Most of the customers seemed to be European, American or Japanese, although there were a handful of Chinese and Russian tourists.  The only people who looked to be from the third world were the cleaners, who appeared out of nowhere the moment someone spilled a drink, and the porters.  They wore nice uniforms and bright smiles, but he couldn't help thinking that they were nothing more than slaves.  There was something broken lurking there.

He stopped as he saw a white-skinned man carrying a sign that read MALCOLM SMITH, then walked over to meet him.  MI6 had an official resident in the embassy, of course, but the real work was done by people unknown to local officials.  Cameron Leung was an expat with a watching brief, on retainer from MI6, who had thousands of contacts scattered throughout Kabati society.  Or so the files had claimed, Malcolm reminded himself, as he shook hands with Leung.  It wouldn't be the first time someone had exaggerated his importance to claw more money out of British Intelligence.

“Mr. Smith,” Leung said.  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm said.  There was something flabby about Leung’s handshake, although he had to remind himself that Arabs had different ideas about how to conduct relationships.  “It is a pleasure to be here.”

Leung laughed, not unkindly.  “Come with me,” he said, holding out a hand for Malcolm’s bag.  “I’ll make sure you have a tour and a half.”

They walked through a long passageway, then down a flight of stairs into an underground car park, heaving with cars.  Malcolm couldn't help noticing, as they walked past row upon row of cars, that they were almost all the latest models.  He was no car expert, but it struck him that there wasn’t anything older than two or three years in the car park.  By the time they reached a large Japanese-made car, with a dark-skinned driver sitting in the driving seat, he was sure of it.

“Please, take a seat,” Leung said, opening the rear door.  “Help yourself to booze, if you like, or just relax.”

Malcolm nodded and climbed into the car.  It looked to have been custom-made; the driver’s compartment was separate from the rest of the vehicle, allowing the passengers a considerable amount of privacy.  Leung climbed in after him, tapped a switch to issue orders to the driver, then opened a small fridge to reveal a handful of bottles.

“Finest expensive rotgut?”  He asked.  “Or just water?”

“Water will do,” Malcolm said, as the car came to life.  “I couldn't help noticing how new most of the cars here are.”

“They’re always new,” Leung said.  He poured a drink with practiced ease and passed it to Malcolm.  “Someone in advertising did a very good job, Mr. Smith, and now the average Kabati will feel like a failure if he doesn’t own the very latest model of car.  Or one of quite a few other things. Cars being shipped in and out of the country make up a major part of the import/export trade.”

Malcolm blinked in surprise.  “Where do the cars go?”

Leung shrugged.  “I doubt anyone cars,” he said.  He snickered at his terrible pun.  “The average car loses a third of its value after you buy it, so I guess they get shipped to Malaysia or India or somewhere people aren't so fussy.  Or maybe they get shipped back home.  It isn't as if we have many people who can afford the same lifestyle.”

He leaned back in his seat as the car started up a long ramp.  “Once, it was illegal for anyone foreign to drive here,” he said.  “The Emir’s grandfather, the one who accidentally brutally cut off his own head while shaving, wanted to make sure his people got employment from the oil companies and other Westerners who were moving into the country.  Then they got rich and suddenly they were too grand to drive, so the requirements were altered.  Anyone who wants to drive here has to pass a very tough driving test to get their licence.  Naturally, if you have enough money, you can bribe someone to give you the licence without taking the lessons or the test.”

Malcolm gave him a sharp look.  “Why ...?”

“Watch,” Leung said.  “Watch and learn.”

The car came out of the ramp and into bright sunlight.  Malcolm shook his head in grim astonishment as they were suddenly surrounded by other cars, all driven by lunatics.  One hand grasped for a weapon he wasn't carrying when another car came far too close for comfort, the driver shouting something unheard and probably obscene as the distance between the two vehicles widened again.  The traffic moved swiftly, yet slowed down from time to time.  Hundreds of motorcycles zipped past, bobbing in and out as if the riders were completely fearless.  It was worse than trying to get an escorted convoy through Iraq during the height of the war.

At least no one is shooting at us, he thought, as the driver narrowly avoided yet another collision.  Yet.

“And to think I thought my driving instructor was crazy,” he said.  He’d learned evasive driving as part of his close-protection training in the SAS, but crazy driving was the norm in the Middle East.  Kabat seemed to be particularly bad.  “How many accidents happen along this road?”

Leung gave him a grim smile.  “Officially, none,” he said.  “Draw your own conclusions.”

Malcolm nodded.  It was unlikely the local media would have any interest in reporting accidents.  It would just make the country look bad.  Besides, if the victims were foreign workers, no one in Kabat would give a damn; there was no shortage of replacements, just begging to come for a chance to work for a pittance.  The only people who mattered in Kabat were local Arabs and wealthy foreigners, in that order.

He frowned as the car started across the bridge leading to Kabat City.  The bridge was an awesome construction - he had to admit that it put the Forth Road Bridge in the shade - but he couldn't help noticing the guardposts at each end of the construction.  A handful of vehicles, mainly old lorries and a few cars, were being waved down by uniformed men carrying rifles.  If the files were accurate, their uniforms marked them as National Guard.

“Anyone who looks poor or weak will be shaken down as often as possible,” Leung said, nodding to the scene.  “The Guardsmen tend to leave wealthy expats and foreigners alone, because that would annoy the Emir – the old one, at least - but anyone from the Third World is fair game.  It’s just one of the perks of their job.”

“I see,” Malcolm said.  Would Sultana change things?  He would have liked to believe she would, but it was unlikely.  “What do I do if they try to hassle me?”

“Show them your passport and they should fuck off,” Leung said.  “If they don’t, there’s a number you have to call.  I doubt you’ll have to use it, though.  The last guard who meddled with a foreigner was crippled, then left to beg in the streets.”

Malcolm winced, then turned his attention to Kabat City as they came to the end of the bridge.  It was nothing more than a giant island, absolutely covered with skyscrapers that reached up to the sky.  There were no traffic lights, as far as he could see; pedestrians walked over small bridges or through underground tunnels to cross the roads.  The crowds were still as diverse as the airport, he couldn't help noticing.  The locals seemed to be a minority in their own country.

A recipe for trouble, he thought, as he saw a giant advertisement for women’s underwear being shown on a building-mounted TV.  They will probably feel alienated in their own land.

“Here we are,” Leung said, as the car passed through a set of gates and came to a halt in an underground garage.  “Home sweet home.”

Malcolm blinked.  “You own this place?”

“I own three floors of this place,” Leung said.  He smirked.  “I get paid quite well for what I do, you know.”

“So I have been told,” Malcolm said.

“We’ll get upstairs, have something to eat and then ... you can tell me just what you want to know,” Leung continued.  “My superiors ... weren't quite open with me.”

“No,” Malcolm agreed.  What Leung didn't know, he couldn’t tell.  Someone who had lived in a foreign country for over fifteen years might well have gone native.  “They wouldn't have been.”

Chapter Eight

Kabat City, Kabat

Malcolm honestly wasn't sure what to make of Leung’s apartment.  On one hand, it was nice and roomy, decorated in a style that seemed to fuse Arabic and Western influences into a comfortable whole; on the other, the large windows opened onto a noisy street and the view was nothing more than another skyscraper on the other side of the road.  Everything in the room was luxurious, from the chairs and table - made from real wood - to the drinks cabinet and the computer system placed against one wall.

“Bring coffee for us both,” Leung ordered the maid, who had appeared silently from a side door when they entered the apartment and removed their shoes.  “And some of those wonderful biscuits.”

The maid bowed, exposing the tops of her breasts, then retreated.  Malcolm eyed her thoughtfully; at a guess, she was Malaysian or Indonesian, like many of the other workers he’d seen at the airport.  The outfit she wore seemed a cross between a traditional maid’s dress and something out of a crass romantic fantasy.  He couldn't help wondering if there was a reason Leung dressed his maid in such a manner, or if it was just to keep his visitors off-balance.  Whatever the reason, he had a feeling he wouldn't have been comfortable with so many servants surrounding him.

“She’s on a long-term contract,” Leung said, spotting where Malcolm was looking.  “I pay her well, don’t beat her, don’t molest her and in return she gives me her loyalty.  She will be the wealthiest woman in the village when she finally returns home.”

He indicated a chair, positioned by the window.  “Please, sit,” he ordered.  “Coffee will be along in a moment.”

Malcolm nodded, shortly.  “You make it sound like not beating your maids is a virtue, instead of simple human decency,” he said, tartly.  He’d worked with worse, but he didn’t think he liked Leung.  “Or is that not the case here?”

Leung snorted.  “You can do just about anything to someone on a work contract and there will be no repercussions,” he said, darkly.  “Anything.  You can work them to death and no one will give a damn.  You can rape them and it won’t be counted as adultery.  You can cheat them out of half of their wages and it won't be counted as financial fraud, even though cheating anyone else would be a good way to wind up in jail here.  There’s never any shortage of people willing to endure the very worst of treatment to earn a pittance they can send back home.”

He shrugged and sat down.  “The thing you have to bear in mind about Kabat, just like the other tiny states in the Gulf, is that it was built on human misery and suffering. I have no idea how many guest workers died to build this skyscraper, and the others dotted all over the island, but I would bet over ten thousand died in the last five years.  No one in power gave a damn.”

“What a wonderful place to live,” Malcolm said, sarcastically.

“Oh, it is, if you happen to be a pureblood Kabati or a wealthy expat,” Leung assured him.  “The former get a large cheque from the government each month in exchange for keeping quiet and accepting the balance of power.  The latter ... well, if you have enough money, there's no reason you can't hire more servants than the entire British Royal Family put together.  There’s a whole subculture of ladies - you’ll meet them later - who have absolutely bugger-all to do each day.”

He snickered.  “I have five servants working for me and you know what that makes me?  A cheapskate.”

Malcolm said nothing as the maid returned, carrying a tray of coffee and a large plate of hard biscuits.  She put them down on the small table, giving Malcolm another flash of her breasts as she moved, then bowed to Leung and walked back out.  It struck Malcolm that she didn't seem to be able to talk, although she clearly understood English.  Was she shy, unwilling to talk to a strange man ... or mute?  He’d seen terrorists who’d deliberately cut out tongues to ensure their captives couldn’t say a word.

“If you want to understand Kabat, you have to understand how the society works,” Leung said.  “On top, there’s the Royal Family: the Emir, a handful of distant relatives and a single princess.  The family is intensely competitive; it’s no real secret that the previous Emir killed most of his legitimate children.  Anyone who could pose a threat to the throne was either kept harmless or simply killed.  Below them, you have the pureblood Kabaties themselves, the people who can claim descent from the original tribesmen, the Al-Kabaties.  They either live off the government teat or get themselves parachuted into high-paying jobs where they don’t have to do very much.”

“Parasites,” Malcolm said.

“More or less,” Leung agreed.  “There’s an unspoken agreement between the Royal Family and the rest of the Kabaties.  The government takes care of them and in exchange, they don’t challenge the family’s grip on power, or do anything likely to unsettle Kabat.  That balance of power has been falling apart for the last five years, no matter what the Emir did before he finally snuffed it.  Kabaties are starting to wake up to the fact they’re a minority in their own country and they’re not happy.  There was a low-level religious revival underway ever since the Arab Spring.”

Malcolm frowned as he sipped his coffee.  “Do they pose a danger?”

“I wouldn't have thought so, under the old Emir,” Leung said.  “He always smashed any challenge to his power - and radical Islam was definitely one of them.  Abdullah - the former Emir - didn't want to repeat the Saudi mistake of trying to co-opt the fanatics.  Now, with the new Emir, I’m not so sure.  He’s been directing funding towards quite a few of the more radical mosques.”

He cleared his throat.  “Below the Kabaties, we have the expats,” he continued.  “These fall into two categories: there’s the ones who work here and the ones who’ve made their home here.  The former are here on long-term contacts, although they get much better treatment as they work for Western corporations; the latter are here on permanent visas.  That’s one of the ways the government keeps control, really.  If you make trouble, they simply revoke your visa and put you on a plane to London or New York or wherever.  I’ll take you to meet a few of the expats later.”

“Of course,” Malcolm murmured, although he wasn't so sure the expats would be any help.  They seemed to have their own communities, cut off from the mainstream.  “And below them?”

“The guest workers,” Leung said.  “The ones right at the bottom of the pecking order.”

He shrugged.  “There are a handful of small communities of Shia Muslims, Christians, even a handful of Jews, but they’re largely irrelevant.  The previous Emir enacted strong laws against Shia settlement, even when there were thousands of people trying to flee Iran.  He suspected they would eventually serve as a fifth column to deliver his country to Iran and its mullahs.  The Jews are mainly traders, working with Israel.  Kabat has handled quite a few deals between Islamic states and Israel that would horrify the Arab masses if they knew about them.”

Malcolm shrugged. “What do you actually do?”

Leung smiled.  “I facilitate,” he said.  “I’ve been here long enough to have contacts absolutely everywhere.  Do you want a meeting with government officials who can stamp your permit for a small gratuity?  I can arrange it.  Do you want planning permission to build a whole new building in the city?  I can arrange that too.  Do you want a small army of guest workers, slaves in all but name, to work on your building?  I can arrange that too.”

His smile grew wider.  “And you won’t believe what some of the people here ask for,” he added.  “Forget Islamic law, forget Islamic morals; I’ve had people asking for porn I didn’t know existed and prostitutes to perform sex acts I would have thought were physically impossible.  Or drugs - if I had to guess, I’d say that a good third of the population was addicted to all kinds of poisons.  You can make a good living by catering to the more depraved sections of society here.”

“I’ll bet,” Malcolm said.  

Leung met his eyes suddenly.  “And what do you want?  What do you want to do here?  I was merely told to make sure you had somewhere to sleep and tend to your every need.”

“I just want to look around the city,” Malcolm said.  He’d need to get a grip on what was happening, which wouldn't be easy.  The locals would be unlikely to confide in him, a Westerner.  “And maybe meet a few expats later.”

“Of course, of course,” Leung said.  He stood, then walked over to a drawer and opened it, digging inside to find a small box.  “You’ll need this, I think.”

Malcolm took the box when it was passed to him and opened it.  Inside, there was a small smartphone and charger.  Leung picked it up, keyed the on switch, then waited for the screen to light up.  When it did, it displayed the Kabati flag and a welcoming phrase in Arabic.

“This is a Kabati smartphone,” Leung said.  “The whole country is wired up to the internet, through the Ministry of Communications’ hard work and effort.  I should note that everything off the island goes through nodes they control directly, at least for non-corporate traffic, so be careful what you look for.  You’ll be able to find the map function, as well as a number of pre-programmed calls, or summon a taxi if necessary.  I’ve added location details for my apartment too.”

He smirked, again.  “They hand these things out for free to anyone who wants one. They’re not meant to work outside the country, but jail-breaking them isn't that difficult.  Just don’t bring the broken phone back to Kabat.  There’s a hefty fine for not using their preferred system.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm said.  He scowled, inwardly.  Mobile phones could be used to trace their user, even if their owner specifically disabled location settings.  In a place like Kabat, carrying a locator beacon around could be disastrous.  But he doubted he had a choice, not at first.  “Are you going to show me around?”

“I can,” Leung said.  “But I can also hire you a tour guide, if you would like.”

“We will see,” Malcolm said.

“Your room is through here,” Leung told him, turning towards the door.  “If you’ll come with me ...?”

Malcolm followed him through a small corridor and into a single bedroom.  It was better than he’d expected, with a computer perched against the wall; the bathroom held a large shower, a bath and a sink, all freshly cleaned.  The bed looked soft and welcoming.  His bag was already placed neatly at the foot of the bed.  He yawned, despite himself, and cursed under his breath.  It had been far too long since he’d passed Selection.  He just wasn't as young and fit as he’d been, years ago.

“There are several bottles of sunscreen in the drawers,” Leung said.  “Take a shower, then slather it all over your body before you go out.  The sun beats down constantly and you really don’t want to end up burned.  It will ruin your holiday.  I’ve had to help tourists who get themselves into trouble because the kids don’t listen and wind up badly burned.  It isn't a pleasant sight.”

“It isn't,” Malcolm agreed.  He’d served in hot countries before.  The apartment might be cool - there was probably a subtle air conditioning system pumping air through the building - but outside it would be scorching hot.  “What do you do for them?”

“Arrange medical treatment, if they didn’t do it for themselves,” Leung said.  “Honestly, Mr. Smith, some tourists can be quite ignorant about where they’re going.  But then, the brochures always lie.  They see pictures of sandy beaches, lovely swimming pools, fake snow for snowball fights ... and don’t see the sun, beating down from high overhead.  So idiots set out to get a tan and wind up burning themselves.  I remember one nineteen-year-old rich brat who spent an hour in the sun, wearing nothing more than a bikini.  She looked as red as a tomato by the time she had finished, except where she’d been decently covered.”

“Poor girl,” Malcolm commented.

“Stupid girl,” Leung countered.  “Most of the expats with families have succeeded in raising a horde of entitled brats, male and female.  Think of the worst rich bitch you might have met in London and you might just have an inkling of what some of the brats here are like.”

He shrugged.  “Make sure you take your stamped passport with you too,” he added.  “You probably won't be asked for it in the commercial parts of the city, but you may well be asked for it if you go elsewhere.  They normally just glance at it, then wave you onwards.  But if you were a guest worker ...”

“I can imagine,” Malcolm said.

“I doubt it,” Leung said.  “The worst injustice, the worst miscarriage of justice, in Britain in the last fifty years is nothing compared to what happens here, regularly.  You want to know a real horror story?”

He went on before Malcolm could say a word.  “Five years ago, there was a tourist who came here and stayed in one of the fanciest hotels. He had a great visit and enjoyed himself thoroughly.  But, the day he left, he found he was missing his watch.  There was no time for a proper search, so he reported it to the hotel manager and boarded his flight back to the UK.”

Malcolm frowned.  “And then?”

“Well, when he got home, he unpacked his suitcase and there was the watch,” Leung explained.  “It hadn't been stolen after all!  So he called the hotel to report that he’d found it and it had all been a false alarm ... and then the manager told him that one of the maids had been convicted of stealing the watch - bear in mind there was a space of about a day between his departure and his call to the hotel - and that her right hand had already been chopped off for theft.  And she was currently in a holding cell, awaiting deportation.”

“Shit,” Malcolm said.

“Quite,” Leung said.  “They didn't have any proof of anything - they certainly hadn’t found the missing watch - but it was important to keep Kabat’s reputation as a safe place for tourists to visit.  So a poor girl winds up mutilated, crippled for life, and probably dead the moment she gets home.  Her conviction would have destroyed her community’s chance of sending more people to Kabat.”

Malcolm looked down at his hands.  “He couldn't do anything?”

“I imagine not,” Leung said.  “But realistically, what could he do?”

He shrugged.  “Every so often, some bleeding heart comes along and tries to do something about it,” he added.  “And the government just ignores them, if they are outside the country, or deports them if they are inside.  There was a woman - a Danish expat - who did try making a stink after her maid was mistreated by the police.  Both her and her husband’s visas were cancelled and they were sent home, at once.  The appearance of safety and security is more important than the reality.”

“I see,” Malcolm said.  He could get some use out of that information, he was sure, but what?  He filed it away in his mind for later consideration.  “How do I get in and out of this building?”

“I can't give you a key to the apartment, but there will always be someone here, even if it’s just one of the maids,” Leung said.  “I would suggest that you take a nap now, during the hottest part of the day, then we can go out later this evening.  There’s quite a bit to see when the city comes to life.”

“Fine,” Malcolm said.

Leung nodded, then hesitated.  “I can provide you with a girl, if you wish, or a boy,” he added, in a tone that suggested it was something he always said.  “There are no shortage of escort services here.  Please don’t touch my maids.”

Because you like to tell yourself that you’re still a decent man, Malcolm thought, or because you’re using the appearance of decency to keep them loyal?

He pushed the thought aside.  There were worse people than Leung out there, he knew all too well, and he’d worked with them in the past.  Leung knew the city and could clearly help him, at least for the moment.  London probably didn't care what he got up to as long as he did his duty for MI6.

“I’d just like a nap,” he said, instead.  It was morning, after all, but his body still thought it was late evening.  “And we can go out afterwards.”

Leung bowed, then stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.  Malcolm checked for a lock - there was none - then turned to the computer.  It looked like a simple machine, but when he turned it on, he saw the Kabati logo again.  The government’s determination to wire the entire city, he suspected, allowed them unprecedented powers of censorship.  It wouldn't just be porn that would be blocked.  A quick check, made out of morbid curiosity, revealed that the global maps didn't include Israel.

And how much of that is the work of Sultana’s brother, he asked himself, and how much was her father trying to keep his grip on power?

He shook his head.  There was no way to know.  Instead, he removed his socks and lay down on the bed.  Sleep took him almost before he knew it.

PURCHASE THE COMPLETE NOVEL ONLINE NOW!