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Simon prayed it was an ambulance and would get there in time.

•••

Back in the club, the Prince’s right-hand man approached Khalil and, without a word passing between them, handed the Lebanese agent a thick wad of cash. He, too, disappeared without even glancing at the victim.

Khalil peeled off some notes from the bundle and handed the first payment to the barman, who pocketed the cash. He then offered Avril a bonus, but she threw the money back in his face. Khalil shrugged and gathered up the notes, before handing out smaller amounts to some of the girls who’d remained behind. They would claim they hadn’t seen a thing – not for the first time.

Just as he was handing out the last payment to a waiter, the police came charging into the room. Khalil was stillholding on to half the cash, which he immediately handed over to the officer in charge, who pocketed the money before turning his attention to the body lying in a pool of blood on the floor.

Having disposed of the entire baksheesh, Khalil made his own exit, not bothering with his ten per cent on this occasion.

But then he had his eyes on a far bigger prize.

•••

Once Simon’s driver had dropped him back at his hotel, he took the lift to his suite on the top floor, got undressed and had a long cold shower before collapsing onto the bed.

He couldn’t sleep as the nightmare relentlessly repeated itself without him having to press the playback button. He tried to concentrate on the carefully worded questions he would need to ask the Defence Minister if he had any chance of finding out if he was aware what his son and Khalil were up to. If he did, he would be catching a plane back to London later that afternoon as murder wasn’t part of any contract Simon would be willing to sign.

But his thoughts kept returning to Conti, who had ended up with a contract he hadn’t bargained for. Once again, he prayed that the ambulance had got there in time.

Simon woke just after five, his body covered in a sticky sweat. He took another long, cold shower, but nothing was going to wash away the memory of the previous night.

He put on a dressing gown, sat down on the end of the bed and began to pen a series of questions that he hoped would lull the Minister into a false sense of security. He finally gave up and got dressed: a navy blue suit his father would have approved of, a white shirt he would be wearing for thefirst time, and a green silk tie chosen by his wife. He began to pace around the suite, checking his watch every few minutes as he waited for Khalil to join him.

Simon made an even greater effort to put his questions in the correct order, aware of how much was at stake, when the long-term consequences of the three-billion-pound contract would guarantee a flow of income and jobs for his countrymen for over a decade, or more.

If the Saudis backed the British, a billion pounds would be transferred to the government coffers, one hundred million of which would be deposited in a numbered account in Geneva, with no questions asked as to how it would be disposed of, or to whom.

A second payment of a further billion would be made once the equipment had been despatched to Riyadh.

And the final payment of another billion would be handed over once the equipment had arrived safely in Riyadh, along with six hundred highly trained operatives, who would spend the next six months instructing the local mariners, pilots, engineers and foot soldiers on how to operate their newly acquired equipment.

Simon checked his watch once again, aware that while ministers could keep you waiting for an hour, sometimes two, he still needed to be on time for the meeting that morning.

When the door finally opened, Simon assumed it would be Hani Khalil who would be joining him before they left for the ministry, but to his surprise three men dressed in police uniforms marched in unannounced.

‘Are you Simon Hartley?’ demanded an officer with three silver pips on his shoulder, before Simon could respond.

‘Yes,’ said Simon without hesitation, assuming they had been sent to accompany him to the Defence Minister’s office.

But without another word, the two younger officers stepped forward, grabbed Simon by the arms, thrust them behind his back and handcuffed him.

Simon was about to protest when Khalil entered the room, no suggestion of surprise on his face. He was confident the handcuffs would be removed within moments and he’d be set free, but his agent remained silent, his expression unmoved, when the senior officer said authoritatively, ‘You are under arrest, Mr Hartley.’

It was some time before Simon recovered enough to ask, ‘On what charge?’

‘Murder,’ said the Chief of Police, as the two officers escorted him out of the room.

CHAPTER 2

ARTEMISIAWARWICK STOOD ON HERtoes and removed an atlas from the top of the bookshelf. She placed it on the kitchen table and turned to the index at the back. Her eye ran down a long list of countries, coming to a halt when she reached S. She leafed backwards until she came to page 126, when she studied a vast area of land described as the Middle East.

She glanced across at her brother, who was munching his cornflakes, and wondered if he knew the answer.

‘Why are we so dependent on oil?’ she asked, wondering who would be the first to respond.

‘Think about it,’ replied her father. ‘We need oil for our power stations, not to mention everything from cars to planes.’