Hot Ice (7 page)

Impertinent! Heavens, no. He’s following her imagined script verbatim.

As she gives him a brief CV, his eyes glow with admiration. She’s hitting on his hobbyhorse, she learns, which is women’s emancipation. He has personally lobbied for his two sisters and his aunt to study law in the States. He would like to drag everyone into the twenty-first century, but meantime his mission and his dream is Africa.

He tells her about his African journeys. From the passion in his voice she realises that this is far more than a business interest. How could diamond smuggling fit with this degree of commitment?

She can’t help liking him, but she isn’t here to like him, she reminds herself as he glances moodily at her low
décolleté
and looks away flushing.

‘Why don’t we have dinner, or even dinner and dancing? I have a feeling that you’re a good dancer. I know a very exclusive place.’

‘I don’t think I should do that,’ she says demurely. ‘But thank you for helping me.’ She stands up. ‘I must be getting home.’

‘Someone’s waiting for you at home?’

‘Yes. My mother.’

‘Wait! I must see you into a taxi.’ He helps her with her coat, beckons the waiter and scribbles a note on the menu, which he hands to her with a
slight bow. Chris recognises the number…it’s the headhunter she called that morning.

The taxi is waiting by the time they reach the pavement.

‘If you’re interested in finding a very rewarding position please contact them after ten-thirty a.m. I know of one that would suit you well. I’ll pass the information to them.’

His eyes appraise her, passing from her hair to her cheeks to her lips, and then comes a gentle touch of ownership as he pulls her scarf up around her ears.

‘There’s a sharp wind tonight,’ he says as he helps her into the taxi.

The job is in the bag, she decides as she waves goodbye. But how could she possibly outwit such a discerning and intelligent man as Prince Husam. And if he really does have connections with al-Qaeda…what then?

The cab driver seems to have found a roundabout way of getting her home. Perhaps he’s working up the fare. She is about to complain when his voice booms through a loudspeaker behind her.

‘We’re being followed, Miss. Did you arrange for someone to follow you?’

‘No. Are you sure?’

‘Mind if I make another quick detour, just to be on the safe side?’

‘I’d be grateful.’ She half turns, but his voice stops her.

‘Don’t look back. At least, not unless you want them to know they’ve been spotted. It’s a white Ford Fiesta, but I can’t see the number plate. Know anyone with a car like that?’

‘No.’ She feels a strange, sinking feeling in her stomach as she struggles to quell her anxiety.

The taxi races through a series of sharp turns in backstreets she’s unfamiliar with and then moves to the main road. She glances over her shoulder as the Fiesta skids badly.

‘I think I’ve lost them,’ he says five minutes later. ‘But there’s no mistake they were tailing us. Got a jealous husband or a boyfriend, have you?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘Perhaps someone’s stalking you, Miss. It’s a funny old world we live in nowadays. Things have changed for the worse since I was young.’

‘I’m sure I would have noticed.’ But would she? She hasn’t bothered to look. ‘Thanks for losing them.’

She’s home at last. She gets out, pays, and hurries up the driveway, her key in her hand. Once inside she closes the door and leans against it. But why is she panting? ‘You wanted excitement,’ she speaks sternly to her distorted reflection in the hall mirror. ‘So…enjoy!’ 

It is her first day at the Provident Trust. She’s working as a ‘temp’ until she joins the permanent staff in a month’s time. That’s the rule here, she’s been told. Chris feels as taut as a winch, but there’s no need to worry, she reminds herself. Prince Husam can’t possibly suspect her motive for being here. He’s sitting at his desk smiling smugly, feeling he’s scored.

‘Have you worked as a PA before, Chris?’ he asks, after ten minutes of passionate rhetoric on Western leaders’ disinterest in Africa’s plight.

‘No. I worked alone, handled my own cases, mainly media contracts…and divorces, of course. Incredible muck-stirring.’ Chris actually manages a laugh…a little high-pitched, but acceptable.

‘Well, a PA has to be around most of the time. We’ll work together, make joint decisions, size up the potential of every situation. Two heads are better than one and nothing can match a woman’s
intuition.’ Prince Husam seems to have rehearsed this. He pauses as his eyes lower for the briefest possible flicker towards her breasts. ‘I want to tell you a little about my personal philosophy, but why don’t we discuss this over coffee.’

His voice is so deep it seems to vibrate…beautiful hands, too. Chris pulls herself together fast. She is surprised by the speed at which he moves. Bounding to his feet, he grabs his jacket and there he is, grinning like a schoolboy and ready to go.

They travel in silence. Husam seems to be absorbed by his calculations, his fingers stabbing at the calculator. He stops the cab two blocks away, ‘so they can get a breath of fresh air,’ he explains.

First stop is the Tanzanian Embassy, where the prince harangues a junior minister for practical assistance for his ‘Women Against Poverty’ project, which is sweeping through the country.

Husam opens a file and reads rather grandly, gesturing with his hands.

‘All over your country, your womenfolk are creating cottage industries backed by funds from the Provident Trust, making jam, straw hats, bead jewellery, herbal medicines, weavings and designing and even making clothes. Women have stepped in to become the breadwinners and save the day for a country where there’s virtually no secondary industry and ninety per cent of the men are unemployed. We supplied the funds and the
expertise. I’ve spent two million dollars on this project. What are your plans to help me?’

From the official’s nervous blinks and soothing grunts, Chris gathers that this is an old feud and that the government has no plans to help him. He needs land for cooperative shops where produce from his many cottage industries can be sold, and workshops where he can teach new skills. Eventually he runs out of steam. Slamming the file on the desk, they leave.

‘What did you think of my approach, Chris?’

‘Passionate…effective…really great.’

The prince beams.

He really is quite manageable, Chris decides, feeling more confident.

By the time they reach
Patisserie Valerie
for a coffee break, after another long walk, Chris is so hungry she breaks her diet to order a toasted cheese sandwich with filter coffee.

Husam is off on his hobbyhorse again. ‘The last thing Africans need is charity. Africa is fast becoming a basket case. What they need are secondary industries, jobs and training, all of which require massive capital investment…’

Husam has a captive audience and he’s making the most of it. By the time they reach the office, Chris feels she’s an expert on African development…or lack of.

They eat a leisurely lunch at Tramps. Fortunately, Husam has a private appointment in the afternoon. He dumps a pile of files on her desk.

‘This will keep you busy. Please familiarise yourself with these projects of mine.’ He smiles as if humouring a child.

As soon as he leaves the office, Chris hacks into every file in the office, but after two hours of concentration, she has found no mention of any diamond purchases or sales. She is intrigued by the massive investment flowing into African countries from Arab banks. In the past decade, the Islamic Development Bank (IDB) has given, not lent, $1,000 million to thirty-four African states. African Muslims now total 380 million, which is several times more than the Muslim population of the Middle East.

Other private investments are pouring in from various Arabic sources. Most of it goes via Mahe in the Seychelles, where huge banking headquarters have been built around a bay. The bankers have commandeered the entire area, so the government is building a bypass road around the bay. The Pahlavi family, who once ruled Iran, owns an entire island in the Seychelles group, she discovers. Other large tracts of land and homes are being purchased all over Africa, plus dozens of five-star hotels. Zimbabwe, too, is being colonised by Arab financiers. The Provident Trust handles most of the land purchases. It has also purchased millions of
dollars of oil company shares and several mines producing strategic minerals.

She finds references to the mysterious T-files, wherever they are, but no mention of diamonds.

It is almost four p.m. by the time Husam returns. He has to make a call to his bank. It’s private, he tells her, looking regretful. Chris goes into her office, closes the connecting door and switches on the intercom and her tape recorder. Husam is transferring a million dollars to a German-owned bank in Windhoek. He repeats the account number twice and the name of the recipient, which is Moses Freeman.

By now Chris is shaking with excitement as she recognises the name of the man who sold blood diamonds to Ben’s brother-in-law. This is it, then. Here’s the proof Ben needed, or at least a hint of it. She can’t wait to tell Ben. It seems that this vast shuffling of dollars is routine, for Husam is calm and cheerful when he barges into her office to take her to tea and for a walk through St James’s Park.

After tea, Husam decides to dictate letters for two hours. At half past six he informs her that it’s time for a drink, so they walk to the Cedar, where Husam talks about his polo ponies back home, and how he pines for the desert, even though he seldom gets the chance to go there. She’s getting to know his past life intimately.

Chris glances surreptitiously at her watch. It’s eight p.m.

‘What do you feel like eating?’ he asks politely. ‘Fish, or something more exotic perhaps?’

At ten p.m., Chris insists on her right to go home. ‘I do have a home,’ she says. ‘I’m tired, Husam. You’re a real slave-driver.’

‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’ He looks aggrieved as he escorts her to the pavement, where the doorman flags a passing taxi.

‘I wanted to give you a good time on your first day. First days can be tense and scary. I hope you enjoyed yours.’ He grabs her hand and kisses it theatrically. ‘Am I forgiven?’

‘You’re such a tease, Husam.’ Green Park station, she tells the driver as she steps into the taxi. As they speed out of earshot, she leans forwards. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Turn left here please.’

By day, the London headquarters of Financial Investigations seem more like a hotel than a business: clients are entertained for coffee or lunch, the food prepared in their own kitchen; partners meet to discuss sport, or politics, or the stock market, secretaries quip jokes and pass on gossip in sly whispers as they move from office to office, and the corridors and rooms vibrate with energy. At night every sound seems to echo along the dark, empty corridors. Not that this bothers her, Chris reminds herself.

She switches the light on in her office and examines her desk. Four messages from David lie
on top of the ‘In’ tray. Jean has written a note, too.

Mr Marais has been badgering me. He’s desperate to get hold of you. What shall I tell him? I called Jeff Jennings and he agreed to visit Timmins jeweller’s and ask for the pix of your stalker. He sent the attached pix to me this afternoon. I’m worried about you. Take care, Jean
.

Chris opens the envelope and stares at the photograph of a man she has only seen by dim street lights. She has no idea what a stalker would look like, but this would be the last person she would suspect. The face is full of contrasts: curly, jet black hair, laughing eyes. He’s smiling into the camera. Did he realise he’d been set up for a mug shot? Sensuous lips, a nose that’s been broken many times and put together with a hammer by the look of things. Yet there’s something about him that signals a tough and ruthless man. She’s not sure what it is. Sexy sums him up rather well, too, she decides.

The detective’s message is even more intriguing.

Your stalker doesn’t appear to be on any police file. I can’t find a trace of him, but I’ve contacted Interpol.

The addendum reads:

Bingo! My Interpol contact found him in the African mug shots. His name is James Stark. He’s American and he spent nine months of a ten-year sentence in prison in Equatorial Guinea on charges of distributing alcohol. Conditions were terrible
,
 
but after nine months he was rescued by a team of American mercenaries. He’s supposed to be an
exmercenary
, too, but I can’t find any proof of this. Once he was a remittance man. It’s rumoured that his father owned a tyre factory, but when funds ran out Stark stayed in Africa by choice. He takes on anything as long as it pays. Be careful. He seems to be a thoroughly unscrupulous person.

Why on earth should such a person follow her? What could he possibly want? Gazing at the picture of herself, she is ashamed to see how frightened she looks.

She works on, still hoping that Ben will call, but he doesn’t. Of course there’s nothing to worry about. She forces herself to face her fears and soon realises that they are based on nothing more serious than disappointment. She is longing to tell Ben about the million dollars the prince transferred to Moses Freeman. She’ll wait another five minutes, she decides as she prints her report, making a copy for Rowan. So he’ll phone her tomorrow. At midnight, she calls a taxi.

Chris is exhausted by the time she has bathed and stumbled into bed. Lying in that curious state of half awake and half asleep she seems to hear Sienna calling from some dark, underground dungeon, and then she is watching Ben walking into the shadows. She screams a warning, but Ben can’t hear her. Transient images persist…scenes from Arabian nights, fleeting flashes of Husam’s
eyes fixed fiercely on her…a clever man with dangerous connections. Madness to think she could outwit him.