‘Hakim ibn Khalil Said Dalmani, son of Khalil—’
‘I know who he is.’
‘He was abducted from Le Bourget airport yesterday, shortly after landing from Tangier.’
Chapter 5
Grant Tennyson watched the electronic iron gates open slowly and steadily as the driver waited patiently. They both looked about the vicinity for opportunists with bad intent. Many people in Algiers knew that this was the home of the richest man in the city. Grant didn’t like not being in control and he was as unhappy being driven as he was being flown. Helicopters were the worst, with their clunky blades threatening to spin off at any moment, leaving the bird to drop like a stone.
But it was a relief from the relentless heat to be sat in the air-conditioned car, and Grant leaned back in his seat and pushed his floppy sandy hair off his face with his hand. He’d allowed it to grow since leaving the military. He also remained unshaven for several days at a time. He was tanned by the sun, fresh from his visit to the Sahara, where he’d spent three weeks touring the AlGaz site, identifying vulnerabilities and vetting staff. It was a pleasure to be dust and sand free and in clean clothes again.
He travelled to the house of Khalil ibn Dalmani, the owner of AlGaz. The disappearance of Grant’s boss’s son yesterday, along with his head of security, was no secret, and in all probability the reason why he’d been summoned. The city air was clearer up here on the hillside and Grant felt the pace of life slow down, compared to the hectic chaos downtown, where he stayed at the Marriott Hotel in between visits to Dalmani’s oil and gas facilities all over the country. His job was to make sure that the company’s perimeter was watertight.
The engine purred. Khalil made sure that the manufacturers of all of his vehicles disabled the eco-friendly system that cut out the engine when static, designed to save on fuel and bail out the environment. It was too risky. A trained driver’s foot was quicker than any system made by an engineer in a factory, sat in front of a computer. The vehicle nudged forward when the width between the gates allowed, and they waited on the other side as they closed behind them. The driver clicked his key fob to open the inner set of gates only once the outer ones closed.
The grounds were immaculate, and they drove past water features, garages – no doubt housing Khalil’s collection of classics and one-off editions – as well as elegant palm trees, pruned to look identical, and bushes full of brightly coloured flowers. The approach to the main house was long, and Grant peered ahead with curiosity. He’d never been here before. His final interviews for the post had taken place either on the phone, or downtown in the Marriott. AlGaz’s headquarters occupied a whole block not far from the hotel district and rocketed skyward over fifty-two floors of metal and glass, and that’s where he’d met the man just that one time and secured the job.
The car stopped outside the mansion and the driver got out, opening Grant’s door for him. He climbed from his seat and the heat hit him like the inside of an oven. The main door of the house opened and Grant was received by a chunky male in a dark suit. When he’d first been employed, Grant had been given a tour of the company by Jean-Luc Bisset, the family’s personal security head. Grant, an Englishman, had found the Frenchman decidedly aloof, and their relationship got off to an awkward start. Khalil’s family security was made up of 90 per cent locally employed staff and the rest were, like him, Europeans who’d served in the military for their country. Grant questioned what experience Jean-Luc had, if any, and settled on the fact, found out later, that he’d been under the wing of Khalil forever: a hanger-on with no formal training. But his boss had affection for him, and Grant was the newcomer.
Jean-Luc was a man of few words, which no doubt complimented his hard-man image to those ignorant of what personal security actually involved. Grant had seen plenty of the type before. He’d winced at many of the routines and procedures he’d witnessed since starting with AlGaz, but he couldn’t simply barge in and trash the system: he had to get Khalil’s ear first. Perhaps that time had come.
He was ushered quickly through the house, and he took in the decor and opulence afforded to a residence of this quality. It was a style that one saw only in magazines, with crystal fireplaces, animal-skin rugs, vast polished tables, panes of glass the size of his whole room at the Marriott and stunning works of art. A huge portrait of a dignified gentleman in traditional Berber dress caught his eye.
They walked past a laundry room and two maids were busy sorting and folding, in silence. They didn’t make eye contact. Finally, he was shown into a massive office suite facing the ocean, framed by the biggest single windowpane Grant had ever seen. The first voice he’d heard in an hour spoke quietly in English on the telephone. It was Khalil himself.
Grant waited. The man who’d escorted him left the room and closed the door gently. He’d noticed that the first time he’d met Khalil; that he liked hush, and Grant enjoyed the respite from the cacophony of noise that accompanied his usual work. Compared to repeating himself in English and French, with a little Arabic, in an attempt to make himself understood in a sandstorm, this place was a haven of peace and tranquillity, and Grant understood why Khalil preferred it to his office downtown. But the serenity emanated from the man, not the other way around. There was something about Khalil Dalmani that commanded equilibrium.
‘Mr Tennyson,’ Khalil said, finishing his phone call and standing up to greet him. ‘Welcome to my home.’
Grant took the
