Trusting A Sheikh (Playgrounds of Power 1) (2 page)

He'd never much liked the tall, birdlike Interior Ministry colonel sitting in the plush armchair in front of them, but as with many such relationships in the archaic game of thrones of Saudi Arabia's internecine political structure, his support – or rather his father's, was vital. Not, of course, to Tariq – but to his own father. And as a result, Tariq was forced to humor the man.

"Isn't there something you can do about this ridiculous rule?" Khalid asked, his upper lip curled in what was almost a snarl of discontent.

"What rule's that?"

"This absurd rule about not being able to serve alcohol on Air Force planes while inside Saudi airspace. It's our own damn airspace, isn't it?"

"I suppose you'll be going to the King to ask that, will you?" Tariq asked, with the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Don't you think you're being a little… Hypocritical?"

"What do you mean?" Khalid blustered.

"Well," Tariq began in his cultured, British-educated accent, "don't you chaps at the Ministry use the alcohol laws to, shall we say,
control
certain dissident elements?"

"Oh, that," Khalid replied, his tone of voice indicating utter contempt for the idea that he might be forced to obey the same rules that he imposed on the rest of the population. "Don't be absurd, Tariq. There can't be more than a few dozen people in the whole country who don't drink. Hell, even the clerics do these days."

"Go on, then." Tariq waved his hand in assent. "I suppose it can't hurt to have a gin and tonic or two while we talk all this over." It amused Tariq that, for all the power Khalid and his father wielded inside the Royal Kingdom, here – on this plane – he was ultimately in charge. His father had trusted him with this very delicate task, and he knew that it was his opportunity to stake a claim for elevation into the highest rank of Saudi politics – the Royal Council. Still, all the burning drive of ambition couldn't change the habits of a lifetime, and Tariq wanted a drink as much as the odious man in front of him.

As he watched the stewardesses file down the wide aisle of the plane, Tariq found himself amused by the inconstancy of his country's moral rulings. The same country that denied women the right to drive, an absurd anachronism in Tariq's view, and exerted significant societal pressure for women to cover themselves in public was nonetheless more than happy to hire attractive European models to serve as air stewardesses for their elite.

"Is there anything we can get for you, sir?" the tall blond stewardess asked Tariq – always Tariq first.

"Gin and tonic, Tanqueray Ten, please." He ordered with a kind smile. "What about the rest of you?" He gestured around the small cluster of armchairs at his colleagues.

Khalid curled his lip in the traditional pinched, displeased look his family was known for. "Whiskey,” he ordered, curtly, not glancing at the stewardess so much as leering at her. To her credit, she didn't respond in the slightest to his rudeness, or even the request of such a strong drink so early in the day.

"Omar?" Tariq asked, ever the host. "Abdul? What about you guys?"

They both ordered the same drink he had, and as usual, Tariq had difficulty working out in his head whether he liked them more because they were normally more deferential to him, or because they were in fact nicer people. His father had always told him how difficult it was to know who to trust in the business of politics, especially when you were members of a dynasty as powerful as the Saudi royal family.

"To business, then," Tariq said, leaning forward after he'd received his drink, sniffing the floral bouquet of his favorite gin with appreciation. "Talk me through what we want."

The three men seated around him were all dressed in very similar outfits. Each was just shy of their thirtieth birthday, born into a powerful family, and each wore the traditional insignia of a Saudi colonel – two stars and a crown – on the shoulder. Of course, none of them had ever had to make their way up the ranks…

"The biggest aim, of course," Omar, the air force representative began, "is the Eurofighter deal. If we don't get that, we might as well not bother going home."

Khalid snorted in disbelief, though Tariq got the distinct impression that the emotion was forced. "Something to add, Khalid?" he asked.

"What enemies do we have?" Khalid asked, spitting in his eagerness to make his point. "Some rebels in Yemen? A weak, toothless Iran? Bah!" he exclaimed, smashing his tumbler down with considerable force, splashing the whiskey onto the leather armrest. "Our real threat is internal –."

"You've made your point, Khalid," Tariq countered. "Perhaps you could let Omar finish?"

Khalid's face twisted with an expression of inconsolable rage, and Tariq could see the battle of almost uncontrollable emotion fighting against the man's not inconsiderable self-control writ large upon his face. He'd always thought the man was a sociopath, and this display was doing nothing to disavow him of that notion. Eventually, self-control won the day, and Khalid gestured angrily at Omar to proceed.

"As I was saying," Omar continued smoothly, as if he'd never been interrupted, "this is the big one, it's the one the King wants – and your father, too, I believe?"

"Indeed," Tariq replied in a dry tone of voice. "The consequences of failing to get this deal have been made quite apparent…"

"There is nothing necessarily standing in the way of the deal – but there are a lot of players involved – a lot of spinning plates, if you will. That's where you come in, Tariq. If you keep them all on side, I'll focus on the detailed negotiation."

"Understood. Abdul – what am I doing for you?" He intentionally left Khalid til last, knowing the man's pride would be mortally wounded by the perceived insult. His father would probably have counselled a different course of action, but Tariq knew the man, and knew that he was the kind of man who would make a mountain out of a molehill, and if he couldn't find a molehill, would breed the subterranean animals himself.

"Guns, tanks, bombs – you name it, we want it." Abdul smiled. "But this kind of stuff is the bread-and-butter of arms trading – no one is going to blink an eye at the Brits selling us this kind of shit. Besides, we've got the money, don't we?"

"We certainly do," Tariq agreed. "But do your best not to spend it all, will you? I've got my eye on a new palace…" he joked. "And Khalid – the Ministry?"

Khalid sat sullenly on his armchair as though debating whether to engage Tariq in conversation at all.

"The Ministry," he spat, "isn't under Defense Ministry control. Why should I tell you anything?"

"You make a fair point," Tariq agreed. "But why not tell me – my father has sent me here to help, after all. Why not let me?" he asked reasonably.

"I don't need your help,
brother
," Khalid replied dismissively. "Not like these lackeys of yours," he said, indicating Omar and Abdul, who to their credit simply rolled their eyes at their colleague's behavior.

"Very well, if that's the way you want it, I won't fight you. Less work for me, eh?" He smiled in an attempt to thaw the ice between them, but to no avail. Khalid, typically, was unmoved. "I'm going to take a shower," he finally added, aware he wasn't making any headway. "You guys have fun."

T
ARIQ ALLOWED
himself a small smile of celebration as he opened the ornate double doors to his private suite. It was, naturally, the largest bedroom on the private 747, and marked his dramatic rise through the ranks. Only a couple of years ago he had been like the three men accompanying him – a scion of a wealthy branch of the Royal family, but merely one of thousands of minor royals bearing the title of ‘Prince’. How times had changed…

His father's elevation to the position of Defense Minister, one of the ailing King's chief aides and key subordinates, had naturally led to his own swift promotion. That was, after all, the way things worked in Saudi Arabia – still one of the world's few remaining absolute monarchies. Family was everything, and his father needed allies that he could trust absolutely.

Tariq new that some men, Khalid certainly amongst them, resented his swift rise – but there was nothing he could do about that other than perhaps hide these infrequent moments of quiet celebration as best he could.

He slumped down onto the bed, picked up the phone to order a drink, and set the handset back in the receiver. Only moments later, he heard a quiet knocking at the door.

"Come in."

"I have your drink, sir," the startlingly attractive, tall brunette flight attendant said, almost whispering in a sultry tone of voice. "Is there anything else I…" She half paused, intimating that Tariq could do anything he wanted. "Can
do
for you?"

Tariq sat up, gratefully accepting the proffered drink, and took a sip while studying the attractive woman standing in front of him, her long, tanned leg purposefully extended out through the thigh-high slit of her little black cocktail dress. He knew exactly what she was asking – knew exactly why these planes were stocked with some of the most attractive women that money could hire.

The girl dropped her silver tray to her side and moved infinitesimally closer to him.

2

H
oly shit!

It was happening, it was finally happening. After a two-year, £300 million refurbishment, the Gloucester Hotel in London's Mayfair was finally reopening. Technically, the hotel had soft launched a couple of weeks ago, allowing the friends and family of top executives, and even some hotel staff to stay, all to confirm that there wasn't so much as a hair out of place in the entire hotel.

But that didn't count, at least not for Chloe, because her job wasn't to worry about the experience of the hotel's ordinary guests. No, Chloe was an employee of the highly exclusive Kingsland Group – the executive concierge service, membership of which marked out London's truly outstanding hotels. The Group wasn't just something a hotel could apply for – they had to be invited. And only eleven, now twelve, hotels in all London were exclusive enough to merit receiving access to the Kingsland Group's staff.

"We really are incredibly grateful," the hotel's general manager began, "that Kingsland saw fit to offer us your services. I do look forward to examining how best you can work for us going forward…"

Chloe examined the grey-haired man critically before replying. He was dressed in the same single-breasted grey suit as the rest of the hotel's male staff, all provided from the same Savile Row tailor, and he was undeniably handsome – but there was something about the way he held his chest puffed out in front of him that made Chloe take an instant dislike to the man.

"I assume you've read the documentation my employers sent over?" she began, holding herself slightly aloof, as she'd been trained.

"Well, Chloe –."

"Miss Rouhani, please," Chloe interjected firmly. She might be two decades younger than the manager, she thought, but that was no reason for her to be treated with anything other than complete professional courtesy.

"I do apologize, my dear. Miss Rouhani, you must understand," the man blustered, "I have been awfully busy, what with the relaunch of the hotel and all." He smiled, as if to excuse the fact that he hadn't bothered to do so much as understand Chloe's actual purpose there.

"Of course," Chloe began, her response broadening the man's smile. "But nevertheless, I really do think we should set some ground rules. The Gloucester, after all, isn't my employer – so
going forward
," she emphasized the words, "I'm not sure exactly what work you expect I'll be doing
for
you."

"My dear Miss Rouhani, I was under the impression that the Kingsland Group is London’s premier concierge agency, perhaps even the world’s?

"Am I to understand that that isn't the case?"

"No, my dear Mr. –?" Chloe dangled, waiting for the man's name.

"Dance. James Dance."

"My dear Mr. Dance, your original supposition was entirely correct – we are indeed the most prestigious, best connected concierge agency around. However, as you'd know if you'd read through the information we sent over, we don't work for the hotel, just the clients staying in your Presidential Suite."

"But that's absolutely preposterous!" the affronted Mr. Dance wheezed.

"How so?"

"Well, my dear, exactly what are we paying you for if not to work for us?"

"Mr. Dance – exactly what is your experience of ultra-high net worth individuals?" Chloe asked, slightly exasperated.

"My dear," the man began, using the same diminutive greeting as before, a fact which was now beginning to grate on Chloe, "I do have
some
experience working in the hospitality industry, as I'm sure you'll understand."

"Yes, of course," Chloe began politely, not wanting to needlessly antagonize the man who she would doubtless be working closely with, even if not under. "But at least from my experience, working with the super-rich is an entirely different kettle of fish than you might be used to. How much does your Presidential Suite go for per night?"

"£45,000," the manager said, proudly. "It'll be the most expensive in London."

"And your regular rooms go for what, £1,000 a night?" Chloe asked, guiding the man to the inevitable conclusion she wanted him to reach.

"Well, I suppose so, sometimes perhaps slightly under," the man allowed. "Ah. I do rather see what you're saying…"

At least for the moment, Chloe decided, that would have to settle in place of an apology for the man's behavior.

"Exactly," she continued, ensuring that she didn't sound the slightest bit smug at her victory. "And the room rate is really just the start of the financial rewards of entertaining these extremely wealthy clients – they demand the best of everything, and that's our job to source."

"Yes, of course," Mr. Dance replied, to Chloe's amusement almost beginning to argue her own case for her. "And the Gloucester must of course be known for providing the very best in service."

"So you see, it wouldn't possibly be worth the
hotel's
investment
in my services to deploy me in any other capacity than ensuring that the residents of your Presidential Suite are anything other than absolutely satisfied with their stay."