Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘That’s fine. Thank you.’ He returned the bag.

‘I’m surprised you don’t do body searches, too,’ she said coolly. ‘Not that it’s an invitation.’

He smiled without humour and gestured at a metal framework surrounding the door they had just passed through. ‘No need. You were screened as you came through.’ He turned towards a small lift on the other side of the lobby. ‘We’ll take this up to the third floor.’

The lift was fast and smooth, and brought them to a narrow corridor lined with thick carpets and soft lighting. Koenig excused himself and led Riley towards a set of glossy double doors. He ushered her through and into a long room furnished with a twin line of chairs around a boardroom-style table. More discreet lighting reflected off the polished wood, and a rich aroma of coffee hung in the air.

‘Kim’ Al-Bashir was sitting on the far side of the table.

He had a cup of coffee at his right hand, and looked chubbier in the flesh than Riley expected, with full cheeks and his hair cut close to the scalp. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a grey suit with a discreet check, and wore a diamond-pattern tie with a neat pin behind the knot.

Riley was immediately struck by how unremarkable he looked. For a man who always loomed larger than life in the headlines with news of his latest business deals, he appeared almost insignificant in the flesh.

But there was no mistaking the aura which sprang off him when he looked up.

Al-Bashir nodded at Koenig, who stepped forward and dropped a fan of papers onto the bare table.

The dramatic nature of the gesture wasn’t lost on Riley. She stepped forward and looked down at them. They were photocopies of a selection of her past work going back several years.

‘As you can see, Miss Gavin,’ said Al-Bashir evenly, ‘we know all about you.’ His voice was surprisingly soft.

Riley felt her heart thumping. The search and screening downstairs, the security guard at her shoulder, the sombre atmosphere, the display of control, power and now personal knowledge — it was all intended to dominate and intimidate.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said, and spotted a typo on the top sheet. God, she thought, how humiliating. It was the first paper she’d worked for, long since closed down, where the desire to deliver local news fast had often taken priority over presentation.

‘What do you want?’ Al-Bashir twirled his cup with a faint squeak from the elegant bone china.

‘What will happen if you win the Batnev network licence?’

Al-Bashir lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. ‘Is that all you wish to know? My media department could have answered that question with a simple phone call.’ He frowned. ‘You said you had some information for me.’

‘I do.’ Riley breathed easily.

‘Really. Then name your price.’ Al-Bashir already sounded bored.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You have information to sell. Name your price and I’ll judge if I wish to pay.’

Riley felt a stirring of anger. He was treating her like a money-grubber. Maybe it was because of the people he usually dealt with.

‘You think that’s what it’s about?’ she said. ‘Money?’

He shrugged. ‘That is what most people want. If you are different, then please say so.’ He glanced at Koenig, and Riley sensed the meeting was about to be cut short.

‘I have reason to believe,’ she said, ‘that reports about your wife are shortly to be circulated in the foreign press.’

Several heartbeats went by before Al-Bashir responded. ‘There are often reports against me,’ he growled. ‘How do you know this?’

‘I’ve seen the notes.’

‘Notes? What do they say, these…notes?’

The door behind Riley opened and she realised Koenig had slipped out. She hadn’t seen a signal from Al-Bashir; maybe he’d been summoned by thought control.

She took a calming breath before speaking. ‘They concern issues of a personal nature.’ Riley chose her words with care. Saying something to trigger Al-Bashir’s legendary temper might do more than merely get her thrown out on her ear. Suggesting his wife was having an affair was bad enough; telling him she was doing so with another woman would likely result in a reaction she might not survive, professionally at least. For one, she had no firm proof. But the mere suggestion would be something Al-Bashir could not ignore.

‘Personal. When are they not?’ Al-Bashir made a gesture of contempt for such things. But she sensed the tension that had suddenly entered the room. ‘What sort of personal issues?’

‘Your wife’s conduct. Alleged conduct.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Al-Bashir sat forward in his chair, his voice dangerously low. The atmosphere in the room had suddenly changed and Riley felt a shiver settle across her shoulders. Now, more than at any time, she knew that making the allegations contained in the folder would be reckless in the extreme. It would be like poking a king cobra with a sharp stick. A short one.

‘They claim,’ she said, carefully amending the words she had been about to use, ‘to have reports of activities unbecoming to the wife of a man in your position…and faith.’

Al-Bashir crouched as if ready to spring out across the table at her. Riley noticed his fingers were pressed flat on the table before him, the skin white and bloodless.

‘What ‘activities’?’ The words came out in a near whisper.

‘Extravagance. A lack of modesty in her spending. That sort of thing.’

After a few seconds, Al-Bashir seemed to relax. He sighed and sat back, lifting his hands from the table. He nodded slowly, then said, ‘So what? Asiyah is a wealthy young woman. Do these notes suggest she should not enjoy herself?’

‘No.’

‘What, then? Is the press the moral arbiter of how my wife should spend my money? You think that bothers me?’

‘Not that, either.’ Riley had struggled on the way over for a way of testing the water with regard to how Al-Bashir might react to the rumours. She didn’t want to find herself faced with legal action — or worse, if the stories about his security team were to be believed. ‘There are implications,’ she continued, ‘that any stories circulating at this time might not be viewed in a good light by those behind you.’

‘Behind me?’

‘Your backers. The investors you represent. Specifically, those you will be dealing with in the Batnev project.’ She saw he wasn’t going to respond and continued. ‘They are going with you because the network will eventually spread far beyond the current proposed boundaries. They are banking — literally — on controlling the spread well across the Middle East, through India, Pakistan and beyond. Maybe even China.’ She waited to see if he would laugh in her face. He didn’t, so she added, ‘Potentially, you’d be controlling the biggest telecoms consumer market on the planet.’

‘Really?’ Al-Bashir smiled, and Riley felt the chill return. ‘And who told you that?’

She said nothing.

Al-Bashir tapped a fingernail on the rim of his cup. ‘I don’t know where you got your information, Miss Gavin,’ he said carefully. ‘But let me tell you this. There are no reports. There is no basis for anyone to have ‘notes’ about my wife or anyone else in my family. And if anyone — anyone — tries to suggest otherwise, they will regret it to their dying day.’ He lifted a hand and adjusted his tie. ‘Of course, if you were able to allow my security manager to have details about these notes you speak of, I would be most grateful.’

He knows, thought Riley. She could see it in his eyes. In spite of his casual demeanour, a flicker of uncertainty hovered behind the bland facade, like smoke behind glass. And the chill in the room had not diminished in any way. No wonder he’d looked ready to leap out from behind the table. The notes must be true.