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Simon took a closer look at the woman seated next to Conti, who was sipping a glass of champagne. She looked to be in her late twenties, possibly early thirties, and there wasn’t any doubt how she earned her living; the black leather mini skirt and sheer silk blouse would not have been acceptable on the streets of Riyadh, or even in one of the five-star hotels that littered the city. But inside this private enclave such rules didn’t apply, as the scantily clad women and shelves of unlabelled bottles testified.

‘Conti still believes he’s in with a chance,’ said Khalil, as an attentive barman refilled his glass with another shot of the forbidden nectar.

‘With the girl or the contract?’ quipped Simon.

‘Both,’ replied Khalil. ‘But what Conti doesn’t realize is that Avril is one of Prince Ahmed’s favourites, and if he turns up and sees her with another man, believe me, sparks will fly. The Minister’s son has a short fuse, and I have a feeling Conti’s about to light it.’

‘Should I assume Avril is aware of the consequences, should the Prince turn up?’

‘You catch on fast, Simon, so my advice is to go back to your hotel before Prince Ahmed arrives. Meanwhile, I’ll remove the Italian from the shortlist – unless you want Avril after the Prince has left?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Simon. ‘I think I’ll take your advice and have an early night.’ He didn’t give Avril a second look as he thought about Hannah, who would probably be preparing supper for the boys while they did their homework. He’d done his homework; all he needed now was a good night’s sleep.

‘By the way,’ said Khalil, as Simon drained his glass, ‘Avril’s not French. Her name is Jenny Prescott, and she comes from somewhere called Cleethorpes.’

Simon laughed as a door on the far side of the room was flung open and half a dozen men, dressed in long white thawbs and keffiyehs, marched in as if they owned the place – and they probably did. There wasn’t any doubt which one was Prince Ahmed bin Majid Al Saud, or the role his courtiers were expected to play if they hoped to remain on the payroll.

The moment Avril saw the Prince, she moved back, despite Conti leaving his hand on her thigh. The result was exactly what Khalil had predicted, because the Prince walked quickly across the room and, without warning, pushed the Italian to one side before sitting down between them.

‘You can fuck off, Eyetie,’ said the Prince, a sentiment that didn’t need to be translated into any language.

Conti rose unsteadily to his feet, a fist half raised. Although the Prince ducked, the Italian landed a glancing blow that knocked off his keffiyeh, revealing a bald head, which clearly didn’t please the Prince.

Simon couldn’t believe what was happening in front of his eyes, and it quickly became clear several of the other guests were equally surprised. Only Khalil remained unmoved, almost as if he’d scripted it.

As the Prince adjusted his headgear, Conti began to raise his fist a second time, but not before two of Ahmed’s bodyguards came charging towards the Italian, grabbed him by the arms and held him down. They were about to escort him off the premises when Conti defiantly leant forward and spat in the Prince’s face. Ahmed immediately leapt on him and Conti tried to defend himself by grabbing the Prince around the throat, which only caused Ahmed to become even more angry.

Before his minders could drag Conti off, the Prince pulled a short, curved dagger from inside his thawb and, without a second thought, thrust it into his assailant’s chest. Avril let out a piercing scream, while Ahmed pushed him away and laughed.

The bodyguards let go of their prey, and could only watch as Conti collapsed on the ground, clutching his chest while gasping for breath.

Simon was horrified, and even though the Ambassador had warned him about the Black Prince, he hadn’t been prepared for this. He turned to the barman and shouted, ‘For God’s sake, call an ambulance,’ but the man didn’t move.

‘Best not to get involved,’ Khalil said, ‘especially remembering he’s the Defence Minister’s son, and without his backing it won’t be your name on the bottom of the contract.’

Simon hesitated while Avril’s screams had turned to tears. The Prince ignored her as he bent down and slowly extracted the dagger from Conti’s chest, causing him to let out a long, whimpering groan which brought a smile of satisfaction to Ahmed’s face.

Simon watched in horror as several other foreigners in the room began to slip quietly away, not wanting to be involved in the unfolding drama. Simon would have followed them, but couldn’t come to terms with what was happening in front of him.

An older man who Simon hadn’t noticed walked calmly across the room and whispered in the Prince’s ear. Ahmed hesitated for a moment before wiping the blade of his dagger clean on Conti’s trouser leg. He then adjusted his keffiyeh and walked slowly towards a door that was being held open by one of his followers. He looked back, not at his victim, but at Avril.

‘If you’re still hoping to keep your good looks,’ said Ahmed, crossing his throat with the dagger, ‘make sure you keep your mouth shut.’ He placed the dagger back in its sheath and left without another word, followed by all but one of his entourage.

Simon couldn’t take his eyes off Conti, who was still trying to stem the flow of blood now oozing from the wound like water from a running tap. Khalil seemed to be the only person in the room who remained calm, as if he were watching a scene from a horror movie and had already seen the last reel.

Simon decided to ignore Khalil’s advice and go to Conti’s aid, hoping he still had time – then he heard the sound of a siren in the distance.

‘There’s nothing you can do for him now,’ said Khalil, placing a hand firmly on Simon’s arm, ‘so I suggest you leave before the police arrive; and when you see the Minister of Defence in the morning, just remember you were never here.’

Simon still didn’t move while the sound of a police siren became louder and louder.

‘I’ll pick you up from your hotel at nine thirty, so we’ll be well in time for your meeting with the Minister.’

Simon stared down at the Italian, who was no longer moving, and reluctantly accepted there was little he could do to help him. After taking one last look at the prostrate body, he made his way out of the club. Once he was on the street, he climbed into the back of his waiting car.

‘Back to the hotel,’ he said, when he heard the sound of the siren coming closer and closer. ‘Get moving!’ he added even more firmly, as a police car swung around the corner and moments later screeched to a halt outside the entrance to the club.

That’s when he heard the second siren and once again felt guilty he hadn’t gone to the Italian’s aid.