side of the road and into a dusty grove of date palms. He climbed out, pulled the M4 and his bag with him, and then helped the soldier into place behind the wheel. Bayliss grunted and groaned with pain.
Next the stranger checked on the soldier in the truck bed.
“Dead.” He said it without emotion. Hurriedly he removed Cleveland’s Interceptor body armor and uniform and left him in the cab of the truck in his brown boxers and T-shirt. Bayliss bristled at the treatment of the dead soldier but said nothing. This man, this . . . whatever the hell he was, survived out here in bandit country through expediency, not sentiment.
The stranger threw the gear on the ground next to the trunk of a date palm. He said, “You’re gonna have to use your left leg for the brake and the gas.”
“Hooah, sir.”
“Your FOB is due north, fifteen klicks. Keep that AK in your lap, mags next to you. Stay low-pro if you can.”
“What’s low-pro?”
“Low profile. Don’t speed, don’t stand out, keep that keffiyeh over your face.”
“Roger that.”
“But if you can’t avoid contact, shoot at anything you don’t like, you got it? Get your mind around that, kid. You’re gonna have to get nasty to survive the next half hour.”
“Yes, sir. What about you?”
“I’m already nasty.”
Private Ricky Bayliss winced along with the drum-beat of pain in his leg. He looked ahead, not at the man on his left. “Whoever you are . . . thanks.”
“Thank me by getting the fuck home and forgetting my face.”
“Roger that.” He shook his head and grunted. “Just passing through.”
Bayliss left the grove and pulled back onto the road. He looked in the rearview mirror for a last glimpse of the stranger, but the heat’s haze and the dust kicked up by the truck’s tires obstructed the view behind.
THREE
On London’s Bayswater Road, a six-story commercial building overlooks the bucolic anomaly in the center of the city that is Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Comprising a large suite on the top floor of the white building are the offices of Cheltenham Security Services, a private firm that contracts executive protection officers, facility guard personnel, and strategic intelligence services for British and other western European corporations working abroad. CSS was conceived, founded, and run on a daily basis by a sixty-eight-year-old Englishman named Sir Donald Fitzroy.
Fitzroy had spent the early part of Wednesday hard at work, but now he forced himself to push that task out of his mind. He took a moment to clear his thoughts, drummed his corpulent fingers on his ornate partners desk. He did not have time for the man waiting politely outside with his secretary—there was a pressing matter that required his complete focus—but he could hardly turn his visitor away. Fitzroy’s crisis of the moment would just have to wait.
The young man had called an hour before and told Sir Donald’s secretary he needed to speak with Mr. Fitzroy about a most urgent matter. Such calls were a regular occurrence at the office of CSS. What was irregular about this call, and the reason Fitzroy could hardly ask the emphatic young man to return another day, was the fact his visitor was in the employ of LaurentGroup, a mammoth French conglomerate that ran shipping, trucking, engineering, and port facilities for the oil, gas, and mineral industries throughout Europe, Asia, Africa, and South America. They were Fitzroy’s largest customer, and for this reason alone he would not send the man off with apologies, no matter what other matters pressed.
Fitzroy’s firm ran site security at LaurentGroup’s corporate offices in Belgium, the Netherlands, and the UK, but as large as was Fitzroy’s contract with Laurent as compared to CSS’s other corporate accounts, Sir Donald knew it was no more than a drop in the bucket as far as the mammoth corporation’s total annual security budget. It was well known in protection circles that LaurentGroup ran their own security departments in a decentralized fashion, hiring locals to do most of the heavy lifting in the eighty-odd nations where the corporation owned property. This might mean something as innocuous as vetting secretaries at an office in Kuala Lumpur, but it also included the nefarious, like having a recalcitrant dockworker’s legs broken in Bombay, or a problematic union rally broken up in Gdansk.
And surely, from time to time, executives at Laurent’s Paris home office required a problem to go away in a more permanent fashion, and Fitzroy knew they had men on call for that, as well.
There was a dirty underbelly to most multinational corporations that worked in regions of the world with more thugs than cops, with more hungry people who wanted to work than educated people who wanted to organize and bring about reform. Yes, most MNCs used methods that would never make the topic list of the chairmen’s briefing or a budget line in the annual financial report, but LaurentGroup was known as an especially heavy-handed company when it came to third-world assets and resources.
And this did not hurt the stock price at all.
Donald Fitzroy forced his worry about the other affair from his head, thumbed the intercom button, and asked his secretary to escort the visitor in.
Fitzroy first noticed the handsome young man’s suit. This was a local custom in London. Identify the tailor, and know the man. It was a Huntsman, a Savile Row shop that Sir Donald recognized, and it told Fitzroy much about his guest. Sir Donald was a Norton & Sons man himself, dapper but a tad less businessy. Still, he appreciated the young man’s style. With a quick and practiced glance, the Englishman determined his visitor to be a barrister, well-educated, and American, though respectful of customs and manners here in the United Kingdom.
“Don’t tell me, Mr. Lloyd. Allow me to guess,” Fitzroy called out as he crossed his office with a gracious smile. “Law school here somewhere? King’s College, I suspect. Perhaps after university back home in the States. I’m going to venture to guess Yale, but I will have to hear you speak first.”
The young man grinned and offered a well-manicured hand with a firm grip. “King’s College it was, sir, but I graduated from Princeton back home.”
They shook hands, and Fitzroy ushered the man to a sitting area at the front of his office. “Yes, I hear it now. Princeton.”
As Fitzroy sat in a chair across the coffee table from his guest, Lloyd said, “Impressive, Sir Donald. I suppose you learned all about sizing people up in your former profession.”
Fitzroy raised his bushy white brows as he poured coffee for both men from a silver service on the table. “There was an article about me. A year or two ago in the
Lloyd nodded, sipped. “Guilty as charged. Your thirty years in MI-5. Most spent in Ulster during the Troubles. Then a change of vocation to corporate security. I’m sure that flattering article helped with your business.”
“Quite so.” Fitzroy said through a well-practiced smile.
“And I must also confess that I’m pretty sure I’ve never met an honest-to-goodness knight.”
Now Fitzroy laughed aloud. “It’s a title that my ex-wife still mocks to our circle of friends. She likes to point out that it is an honorific of gentility, not nobility, and since I am clearly neither, she finds the designation particularly ill-suited.” Fitzroy said this with no bitterness, only good-natured self-deprecation.
Lloyd chuckled politely.
“I normally conduct business with Mr. Stanley in your London office. What do you do at LaurentGroup, Mr. Lloyd?”
Lloyd set his cup down in the saucer. “Please forgive my abruptness in requesting a meeting with you, and please also forgive the abruptness with which I come to the point.”
“Not at all, young man. Unlike many Englishmen, especially of my generation, I respect the acumen of the American businessman. Endless tea and cakes have hurt British productivity, there’s little doubt. So just let me have it with both barrels, as you Yanks like to say.” Fitzroy sipped his coffee.
The young American leaned forward. “My rush has less to do with me being American, more to do with the
