No Kiss For The Devil

27

Riley felt strange entering the marble and gilt portals of Al-Bashir’s flagship store in London’s West End without shopping in mind. She stepped out of the early morning sunlight and was instantly absorbed by the warm glow of strategic lighting and soft music, and the near-hallowed atmosphere of one of Europe’s best-known stores.

She approached the Information desk, where a young woman in the company’s sleek designer uniform and an ergonomic head-set was checking a computer screen. She was surrounded by a bank of phones and monitors with, Riley guessed, a panic button somewhere close to hand below the counter top. There were relatively few people about, and the day had clearly not yet begun in earnest in the field of luxury retail goods.

‘I have an appointment with Mr Al-Bashir,’ said Riley.

The young woman smiled and glanced at the screen. ‘Of course. Miss Gavin, yes? I won’t keep you.’ She touched the screen with her fingertips and spoke softly into her mouthpiece.

Riley looked around her. There were no overt signs of the Al-Bashir security system in sight, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that they were in place. She wondered if she wasn’t sticking her head unnecessarily into the lion’s mouth. It would hardly be the first time. Coming here could be a huge mistake if Al-Bashir’s fierce reputation was as bad as it was rumoured to be.

A door clicked open in one wall, and she turned to see a tall man in a dark grey suit appear. He came over to her.

‘Miss Gavin? My name is Koenig. I’m the security manager. Would you come this way?’

Riley followed him through the door and found herself in a small lobby. As the door closed behind them, Koenig turned and held out his hand. ‘May I check your bag, please? It’s just a precaution.’

Riley allowed him to take her shoulder bag. He produced a slim scanning wand and ran it over the outside of the bag, then flicked through the contents. His actions were precise and practised. He had the short hairstyle of a military man and the angular face and build of someone accustomed to keeping fit, and she guessed he was in his early forties. He reminded her of Palmer, only bigger and with a less obvious charm.

‘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.’