Close Call by Stella Rimington Read Free Book Online

­Western-style sports jacket saluted and waved him in through the gates, then walked across to open the car door as Miles parked against the wall beside a wet and muddy silver Mercedes with a two-digit licence plate – 12.
    ‘Salaam aleikum. Come this way, sir.’
    Miles followed the young man into a lofty hall. Sunlight glanced though small windows set high up in the walls, but below the room was in shade and at first Miles, coming in from the bright sunlight, could see little. As his eyes got used to the dim light he saw the rough stone walls, the red-tiled floor covered with rugs in subdued colours, and around the room ottomans and chairs covered with cushions and throws of bright silks. This was a very luxurious farmhouse.
    ‘Sit down, sir. The Minister will be here shortly,’ said the young man in unaccented English. He clicked his fingers and a servant appeared with a tray of glasses of fruit juice.
    Miles sat on the edge of an ottoman, sipping a glass of pomegranate juice. His sense of unease grew as he waited, wondering what would happen next.
    ‘My friend.’ A loud voice echoed across the hall as Baakrime in a long white robe strode towards Miles, his hand held out. ‘It is delightful to see you here. I must apologise for our weather. These rain storms blow up at this time of the year, but they are soon over. Unlike your hurricanes, they do little damage.’ He pumped Miles’s hand enthusiastically, setting up a sharp twingeing pain in his shoulder.
    ‘I thought it best to meet here. It is safe and away from prying eyes. Everyone here is family or old servants of my family. The road you came along is watched by my people and the young man who met you is one of my sons. He is my secretary. He was at school in England and at Cambridge University. Do you know England?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘I have worked in London.’
    ‘London. I love that city.’  The Minister rubbed his hands together. ‘We go there every year. My wife enjoys the shopping. Oxford Street, Harrods. I come back a poor man.’ He smiled and Miles smiled back. Baakrime’s poverty was not to be taken seriously.
    ‘But let us eat while we talk,’ and the clapping of his hands produced two servants with trays of little dishes and jugs of more fruit juice. One tray was placed on a brass-topped table beside Miles and the other beside Baakrime. Glasses were filled and the servants withdrew.
    ‘I am honoured to see you in my house,’ Baakrime began. ‘Sana’a is not a safe place for me to meet you. This is a dangerous time in my country. There is much discontent; the people are unsettled, the country is fragile. There are elements in Sana’a who want to overthrow the government and would like to be able to show we were pawns of the United States. In our desert regions, the jihadi groups have established strongholds. They are in league with groups in other countries and they want to kill us all.’
    Miles nodded. ‘Yes. These are disturbed times in the whole of this region.’
    ‘You asked about weapons,’ the Minister went on. ‘They are everywhere. Where are they coming from? Iran, Pakistan – all the places you would expect.’ He paused to eat some things from the dishes.
    ‘What do you know of arms from the United States or Europe?’ Miles was anxious to come to the point and get away. In spite of the Minister’s assurances of security, he felt exposed in this place with no backup.
    ‘My friend, with the arms trade it is always difficult to know the origin. These people are masters at deceit – false invoices, changing documentation while a cargo is en route, and of course there are corrupt officials in every port and so much money to be made. The people who run this trade are very rich indeed – unlike in my country, where the poor are everywhere.’
    He sipped his juice and looked at Miles over the rim of his glass.
    There was silence. Miles ate some food. He felt sure there was more information to come, but it seemed