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Simon had been in Riyadh for a week, after a crash course of ‘familiarisation training’ at the Ministry of Defence. He had been briefed by a small team of experts, who covered everything from submarine pistons to Sharia customs and beliefs, and how to correctly address a prince of the royal blood. A Mr Trevelyan from the Foreign Office had been on hand to assist him, but tonight Simon was on his own.

He was about to meet Hani Khalil, the local agent recommended by the Ambassador. Although Kestrals Bank disapproved of go-betweens when conducting business in a foreign field, the British government were far less squeamish,not least because their rivals for the arms deal, the French, the Italians and the Americans, all lived in the real world.

Simon already knew that the going rate for an official agent was ten per cent, and if they were willing to do the job for any less, it was because they didn’t have the ear of the Minister. If they demanded even more, they were greedy and ‘skimming off’ from both sides. Simon had wanted neither the former nor the latter, and was well aware that selecting the right person to represent the British for such an important contract would be the most important decision he would make, if they were to have any chance of closing the deal ahead of the French. In the end, he had reluctantly settled on a Lebanese agent called Hani Khalil, who, he had been assured, could bend the ear of Prince Majid bin Talal Al Saud, the Minister of Defence.

It was Khalil whom Simon had been invited to meet tonight, at his club a few miles outside Riyadh – technically called the Overseas Club but known, the Ambassador had warned him, as ‘the compromise club’.

•••

As he approached the front door, Simon had only to murmur the hallowed name of Hani Khalil and he was immediately invited to enter by the manager who accompanied him down a long corridor into a large palatial room. He was ushered towards a man sitting at one end of the bar, an empty seat by his side.

The man wore a smart fashionable suit that had probably been tailored in Savile Row and a smile that suggested they were old friends, despite the fact they had never met before.

‘My name is Hani Khalil,’ he announced, thrusting out his hand. ‘Thank you for joining me. The Defence Minister hasasked me to welcome you to Riyadh and say how much he’s looking forward to meeting you.’ The same warm smile followed. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Just an orange juice,’ said Simon, recalling the Ambassador’s warning. Over the years, Simon had often dealt with sharks who swam in the same water as Khalil, some of whom had ended up in jail, while others got knighthoods. He had learned to live with both of them.

Once he’d taken his seat, Simon’s eyes slowly circled the room, which was decorated with expensive paintings, stylish furniture, and available women.

‘A man of your reputation,’ Khalil was saying, ‘will be well aware there are only two serious candidates being considered for the arms contract: the French and the British.’

‘What about the Americans?’ asked Simon, well aware why they had recently made a tactical withdrawal.

‘They are no longer in the running while Gore is still hoping to be president,’ said Khalil. ‘He’s clearly not interested in being involved in a deal that might prevent his Jewish supporters back home from bankrolling him.’

‘And the Italians?’ asked Simon.

‘Want too large a slice of the cake,’ said Khalil, ‘and in any case, everyone knows they can’t supply the necessary equipment, so they were never really in the game.’

Although Simon had learnt nothing he didn’t already know, he was beginning to get a feel for the man who was sitting beside him. He delivered his next well-prepared line, ‘But that doesn’t apply to the French.’

‘You’re right my friend, and in truth, they are your only real rivals. However, with me as your representative, I can promise you they will be returning to Paris empty-handed,’ Khalil said, as if the contract had already been signed.

‘And what do you expect in return for your services?’ asked Simon.

‘I feel sure you are well aware, Simon, that ten per cent is the going rate for such deals.’

‘Ten per cent of three billion pounds is a very large sum of money, Mr Khalil.’

‘And ten per cent of nothing is nothing,’ countered Khalil. ‘And you have to remember that the Minister has a large family to support, and one in particular who will be expecting to get a big slice of the cake, while, let me assure you, I will have to satisfy myself with a few well-earned crumbs.’

‘One in particular?’ repeated Simon.

‘Prince Ahmed bin Majid, the Defence Minister’s second son, who has been a personal friend of mine for many years. Indeed, we have closed several deals together in the past.’

The Foreign Office had already supplied Simon with a thick file on Prince Ahmed bin Majid, and it wasn’t flattering, referring to him as the Black Prince.

‘I’ve already arranged for you to have an audience with Prince Majid at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Khalil went on, ‘which is why I needed to see you this evening.’

Simon listened as Khalil tried to reassure his guest, a little bit too enthusiastically, that the deal was already in the bag. This made Simon even more convinced that Khalil and the Black Prince would eventually walk away with several million more pounds deposited in a Swiss bank account, while he was left to explain to the Prime Minister that the deal had been closed even before he got off the plane.

Simon sipped his orange juice, while Khalil showed no such inhibitions, allowing the barman to pour him a brown liquid from an unmarked bottle, from which the label of a contented grouse had been removed. He tried to concentrateon what the Defence Minister’s representative on earth was saying.

‘I see that your Italian rival, Paolo Conti, is with us tonight.’

Simon glanced across the room to see a man who had an arm draped around an attractive young blonde, while the other hand rested on her thigh. The Italian looked slightly inebriated, but then he didn’t have an appointment with the Minister in the morning. According to the Foreign Office brief, Mr Conti was famed for his Italian good looks and Mafia connections, and although the Italians were on the shortlist, it was no more than what diplomats described as ‘a face-saving exercise’.

Khalil took another sip of whisky before remarking, ‘And that’s another contract he won’t be closing.’