Dark Enemy

‘Yes?’ The Sheikh sounded thoughtful. ‘I suppose this is so. Nevertheless, I understand from reliable sources that you were offered a less active part in the proceedings, which you turned down.’

Jason wondered where the man obtained his information. His refusal to accept the board’s generous offer of a seat at their table had shocked his contemporaries. But just at present it suited him to be out of England, and Sir Harold had made it plain the offer was still open.

‘Your sources of information are very astute,’ he remarked now, walking lazily across the room, as though uncaring of the swift passing of time. He picked up a small bronze statue and examined it in detail, while the Sheikh watched his movements and pondered the mind of this annoying foreigner who seemed totally indifferent to his own status here.

‘So,’ said the Sheikh at last, summoning one of his servants who produced a heavy ashtray for him to stub out his cigarette. ‘We return to the subject in hand. You think perhaps I am being unkind when I say my people are being exploited?’

Jason swung round, a ready retort dying on his lips as he realized he had almost fallen again into the Sheikh’s trap.

‘Go on,’ he said quietly.

‘Very well. Would a few more pence bankrupt your company? I think not. The English and American oil barons are growing rich on the poverty of their investment areas. My people do not have television sets, or cars or even proper homes. The standard of living here in Abrahm is very low.’

Jason could have said that it would have been useless people having television sets in a country where there was no television station. He could have said that there was no money to build roads to drive cars along until the oil began pumping along the pipeline which was barely a third completed. He could have said that the oil company was providing work for those people to enable them to have a better standard of living.

But he said none of this. Instead, he allowed Mohammed to state his case, knowing full well that to argue would cause a stream of abuse, and possibly more trouble for the company in the long run. Eventually Mohammed grew tired of the Englishman’s silence, and said: ‘Well, Wilde! What is your answer? Are you prepared to listen to reason?’

‘I’m prepared to listen to anything that is reasonable,’ replied Jason dryly. ‘All right, Mohammed, I’ve been in touch with London, and they have given me permission to offer you a two and a half pence increase.’

Sheikh Mohammed’s lip curled. ‘Five,’ he said sharply.

Jason shrugged. ‘Three – and that’s my final offer.’

Sheikh Mohammed rubbed the side of his nose with a hand that literally glittered with the rings of emerald and ruby that sparkled there. Then he summoned one of his underlings and signified that he wished someone brought to the conference chamber. Jason moved restlessly, beginning to feel impatient again. Good God, how long was this going to go on? He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, and gave an exclamation. It was already late afternoon and by the time he got back to the site the evening meal would be in the course of being prepared. That meant yet another day had been wasted.

Even so, it was pleasant to recall the comparative luxury of his air-conditioned bungalow, and the thought of a decent drink and some food was quite appealing. After all, it wasn’t his fault they were being held up, although he seemed to bear the brunt of the complaints from the boardroom in London.

Sheikh Mohammed had summoned Krashki, his chief minister, and Jason was forced to kick his heels for almost another half hour while they talked in undertones, their gesticulations eloquent of their conversation. Eventually, when Jason was on the verge of walking out of the conference altogether, Mohammed turned to him, his expression brooding but subdued.

‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet, his flowing robes giving him a dignity that European clothes would not, ‘we accept your terms. But it is to be understood that when Sir Harold Mannering comes out from England I shall discuss this further with him.’

He raised his hand as Jason would have replied, and swept out of the room like some emperor of old. His servants followed him closely and for a moment Jason remained where he was looking towards the doorway through which Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed had passed. Then with an infuriated shake of his head he stood on the butt of his cigarette and strode after him, turning away from the inner quarters of the palace with its Moorish-styled architecture towards the searing blaze of the sunlit courtyard.

The brilliance of the sun was dazzling, and he slid his dark glasses on to his nose before walking swiftly across to where his Land-Rover was parked. He slid behind the wheel and heaved a sigh. There was a sense of relaxation in actual action after the enforced inactivity of the last couple of hours. Breathing deeply, he realized that anything was preferable to the cloying heat of the Sheikh’s apartments.

Turning on the engine, he drove out of the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the guards on the gate, and quickly rolled up his windows as the vehicle encountered the track outside which was little more than an extension of that desert that stretched between here and the drilling site. He thought Abrahm was one of the most barren places on the earth. Situated between Tunisia and Libya, with a port on the Mediterranean, it had little to commend it.

He had several miles to cover between Abyrra and Castanya where the oil company had set up their camp of bungalows, and as he drove he wondered why he had not chosen a more amenable spot in which to work. In his position he could have chosen any one of a dozen locations, but he liked the crew at Castanya, and if there was little more in Abrahm than sand, sand and more sand he wasn’t particularly bothered. He was not a man who desired a hectic social life and if the site got too boring for him there was always Gitana on the Mediterranean coast where a man could find entertainment in plenty.

He drove fast, his mind on the job ahead. Already they had wasted four days. Sheikh Mohammed was not the most reasonable of men. He used his influence carelessly, and had refused to meet anyone from the oil company until it suited his purpose. Even now, Jason was aware that the peace he had won was a precarious one and would only last as long as Sheikh Mohammed desired it to do so. There had been rumours of an uprising among the nomadic Bedouin tribes against the despotism of Mohammed, but Jason doubted whether anything would come of it. Either way the oil company stood in exactly the same position. They were a nonpolitical enterprise and he doubted whether if Mohammed was overthrown their position would be any easier. Oil was the country’s salvation; only the profits and the methods of its production could be in jeopardy.

The sun was beginning to go down when he mounted the high pass above the oil fields. In a country where inland there was so little vegetation, it was surprisingly beautiful, and only the stark drilling rigs gave any indication of the century they were living in. The desert was unchanging in its isolation, and the rocks threw back the rays of the setting sun in colours of red and orange and purple. The distant mountain range was tinged with the palest of mauves while the stars were beginning to glimmer in the velvet of the night sky. He descended the pass, crossed the stretch of desert between the rocks and the camp, and entered the small community of bungalows. The oil company had provided every amenity for its men, even to the extent of mounting a swimming pool, the water of which was rarely cool but always refreshing. There was a canteen, but some of the men preferred to cater for themselves. Jason was one of these, and as he also had rather a good cook-boy in the person of Ali, he managed very well. He had known Ali for several years, first meeting him when he was working on the Gulf. Since then, Ali had visited a great number of places with him, but he always liked to return to his desert birthplace.

As he reached the office building where the paperwork of the site and its accompanying pipeline was maintained, his second-in-command, Graham Wilson, came dashing out to meet him, waving his arms about vigorously, obviously desiring Jason to stop.

Jason brought the Land-Rover to a halt, and wound down the window, reaching for his cigarettes in the breast pocket of his cream denim shirt.

‘Yeah!’ he said resignedly. ‘What now?’

Wilson wrenched open the door of the Land-Rover and slid inside. Glancing round rather surreptitiously, he said: ‘How are things with you?’

Jason frowned. ‘Could be worse. Why?’

Graham Wilson hunched his shoulders. ‘Get an eyeful of that, over there!’ He pointed towards a low-slung black limousine, now sadly covered in fine dust but still magnificently designed.

Jason looked, put a cigarette between his lips, and as he flicked his lighter, said: ‘Who’s arrived?’ rather laconically. He didn’t feel he had the strength to instil himself with any more annoyance today, not after the last couple of hours with Sheikh Mohammed.

‘Mannering!’ said Graham dramatically.

‘Mannering!’ echoed Jason, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘What in hell does Mannering want? I thought he left it to me to deal with this!’

‘Not Mannering, senior,’ exclaimed Graham, with the air of one who is imparting a confidence. ‘Paul Mannering! And he’s not alone, either. He’s brought his – er – secretary with him!’

‘God Almighty!’ Jason stared at Graham disbelievingly. ‘That little punk out here! What in hell for?’

Graham half-smiled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased, Jason. Wait till you get a load of the secretary, though!’

‘I’ll get a load of nobody!’ snapped Jason violently. ‘For heaven’s sake, Graham, is old Mannering going out of his mind? Sending that pip-squeak out here! But why? Why?’

Graham shrugged. ‘Well, as I hear it, old Mannering’s cut up rough about the way Paul’s been living. You know what I mean. Anyway, there was a cable came, just after you left for Abyrra, announcing that he was sending Paul out here to learn the oil business from the bottom up. He said he’d be getting in touch with you to give you a fuller picture.’

‘Decent of him!’ muttered Jason savagely. ‘But where does this secretary come in? I mean – does Daddy know about her?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied Graham, shrugging. ‘Quite honestly, I can’t believe he does. But I’m not grumbling. It’s so long since I’ve seen a white woman—’

‘Pack it in, Graham,’ said Jason bleakly. ‘It’s exactly three months since you saw a white woman. Besides, remember you’ve a wife back in England!’

‘Just because I’ve bought a book doesn’t mean I can’t join the library,’ retorted Graham, with a grin. And then: ‘Anyway, it’s not my problem. It’s yours.’

Jason nodded. ‘Where are they?’

‘In there.’ Graham jerked his head back towards the office building. ‘I didn’t know what else to do with them until you returned. Coming to meet them?’

Jason shrugged and then slid wearily out of the vehicle. ‘Do I have any choice?’ he questioned dryly. ‘Okay, okay, let’s go. But I could surely use a shower and a change of clothes.’

Graham led the way up wooden steps into the air-conditioned office building. They entered a long narrow hallway with several doors opening from it. Graham opened the first of these and they entered a room of generous proportions entirely dominated by the heavy desk that stood square in the centre of the polished wooden floor. Perched on a corner of the desk was a young woman smoking a cigarette and passing the time by blowing smoke-rings into the air. At the far side of the desk a young man was standing staring through the meshed grill of the window, but he turned abruptly at their entrance and gave Jason a derogatory glance. ‘Well, well,’ he remarked, rather sarcastically, ‘Wilde himself! Surprise, surprise!’

The girl had slid off the desk now and also stood regarding him, a strange expression in the depths of eyes that were amazingly green. They were set in a face that while not possessing actual beauty held character and animation, and Jason understood why Graham had been so enthusiastic. Honey-gold hair hung to her shoulders, and was at present controlled by a wide band round her head. She was wearing mud-coloured levis and a cream shirt, and the masculine attire accentuated rather than detracted from her femininity.

‘Well,’ said Paul Mannering again. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Jason? I gather from Wilson that you didn’t know we were coming.’

‘No, I did not,’ agreed Jason, folding his arms and regarding them coolly, his cigarette between his lips. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me first of all why this young woman is here. You – we can leave till later!’ There was insolence in his tone.

Paul Mannering’s face flushed with colour, but the girl didn’t turn a hair. She merely took a final draw on her own cigarette, blew a couple more smoke-rings, and then stood on the stub, almost defiantly. Jason felt angry. How dared Harold Mannering send his son out here without warning, with or without announcement? Who the hell did he think he was? Why should he, Jason, have to make a man out of a layabout like Paul Mannering? And what was more to the point of the infuriation he was feeling, how dared Paul Mannering bring his current girl-friend with him, just for kicks? Surely he knew his father wouldn’t stand for that!

‘This young woman is Nicola King,’ said Paul now, his colour subsiding a little, and a belligerent expression taking its place. ‘Contrary to the lurid ideas that are buzzing round your brain she is not my responsibility. She’s all Dad’s.’

Jason’s brows drew together in a dark scowl. ‘What does that mean?’