Invasion (7 page)

Geoffrey Cooper knew he’d made a few mistakes during his tenure as Foreign Secretary, but no more than previous holders of the post. His lack of experience and occasional political naivety had embarrassed Harry, and Cooper had been forced to grovel apologetically on several occasions. He knew his job was on the line. And it was a job that Cooper took the greatest of pleasure in. He enjoyed the status, the chauffer-driven cars, the sumptuous banquets, the first-class trips abroad. And he particularly enjoyed his relationship with the Arabians.

He’d worked hard on that front, eager to make a name for himself
as the first British Foreign Secretary to bargain the Arabians down. He’d managed a few small concessions, but it wasn’t much. No, he felt real progress had been made on a more personal level. His relationship with the Arabian Ambassador in London was excellent and had started when Cooper was Trade Secretary. He’d been to the embassy many times, a beautifully renovated Georgian building near Kensington Gore, and enjoyed their superb cuisine and well-stocked wine cellar, an indulgence reserved only for western guests. Cooper smiled
as he recalled availing himself of some excellent Grand Cru on several visits.

Yes, Geoffrey Cooper enjoyed a close, personal relationship with his Arabian friends. They listened to him, really listened. And, after too many glasses of the embassy’s equally impressive Burgundy, he impressed upon them his political ambition; to be granted a private audience with the Supreme Ruler of Arabia himself. Harry wouldn’t think him incompetent then.

Cooper’s
involvement with the Arabians had started just after Harry had come to power; at the time, Cooper had occupied the post of International Secretary for Trade and Industry. He’d flown to Egypt for a Euro-Arabian trade conference, landing at Cairo International, the only airport in the whole of Arabia that serviced direct flights from the west. Visas into the state were extremely hard to acquire for westerners and all travellers, no matter where they were headed in the Gulf region, had to pass through Cairo and continue their journey aboard the state airline.

Not that there were many holiday-makers anyway. Since being assimilated into the new Arabia, the tourist sites at Luxor, the Pyramids, the magnificent hotels in Dubai, the Great Temple of Petra in Jordan and many other holiday destinations had been closed to non-Muslims
indefinitely. Essential maintenance and architectural preservation programmes to combat the damage caused by endless tours
parties were the initial reasons, but the truth was that western
travellers were not welcome any more, their dollars and Euros no longer needed in the prosperous and unified Islamic state of Arabia.

Cooper interpreted these actions another way. He saw all this religious and nationalist posturing as the predictable growing pains of a new empire. He prided himself on his ability to gain the trust of the Arabians and, after some initial contact, felt that they, in turn, warmed to his obvious charm and sophistication.

But his ambitions didn’t stop at what he knew to be low-ranking Arabian delegates. No, the pinnacle of his career would be to gain an audience with the Supreme Ruler of Arabia, the Grand Mufti Mohammed Khathami himself. There was a possibility that, given the right circumstances and enough time, this secretive and powerful man would grant him, Geoffrey Cooper, a personal audience. Since his rise to power, Khathami hadn’t received a single Western diplomat on any official state visit. All meetings, appointments, state banquets and every other facet of diplomatic life were handled by emissaries, local dignitaries or other representatives. The man was a virtual recluse.

It was rumoured that Khathami lived in an ancient Arabian fort by the azure waters of the Persian Gulf. Another rumour spoke of a desert palace in the hills of Jabal Sawda, in south-western
Arabia. Or that he enjoyed a home in the marble city that was the newly-rebuilt Baghdad. In reality, no-one really knew. Invitations had been extended to him and his ministers by foreign governments, Britain included, and all were attended by the Cleric’s closest aides; the Cleric himself had always politely refused.

His Holiness would see no-one, his responsibilities to his people and to the State were too demanding. But international diplomatic relationships were important. Why would he not see foreign representatives? The man had a dream for his people, his aides would answer. The moral and religious fibre of some Arabian states had been corrupted and westernised over the years. They’d lost their way. The Cleric was out there somewhere, deep in the desert or by the shores of the sea, spending his time in quiet contemplation or with other Holy Seers. He would be reading and interpreting the holy scriptures, forming new laws, new religious guidelines that would lead Arabia from out of the dark days of their recent past and into a bright future of Islamic Brotherhood. For not only was Khathami a great leader, but he was also a learned scholar and Holy Man. He didn’t soil his hands with the grubby business of politics on the world stage. His only concern was for the Islamic state and the future of its peoples. Everything
else was unimportant.

As Cooper travelled around Cairo, he saw the Grand Mufti’s image everywhere. His face adorned posters plastered on roadside hoardings, was lovingly painted in glorious colour on the sides of buildings, or found in cheap picture frames behind shop-keepers’ heads. The slight, bespectacled Khathami, head held high
in profile, looking bravely into the future, or maybe gazing benignly downwards, head tilted and hands clasped together in divine compassion.

However, since his rise to power, he’d rarely been seen in person. The man was an enigma, a mystery, the key to Cooper’s
future. As Trade Secretary he travelled to Cairo often, officially on government business, but unofficially to ingratiate himself with the Arabians, to become their friend. It was during his fifth trip to the region that Cooper realised his growing importance to the powers that be.

At a multi-national conference in the port city of Alexandria, he’d given a speech outlining the importance of Arabia, its spreading influence
across the globe and the desire of western governments, particularly Britain, to extend the hand of friendship towards the Islamic state. His Arabian hosts had responded well and Cooper was invited to extend his stay in Arabia, a guest at the palace resort of Sharm El Sheikh, where a banquet was to be held for important friends of Arabia. Cooper was over the moon. Finally!

In a carefully-worded
call to Harry in London, Cooper had dismissed the invitation to the desert resort as
a possible stunt, but felt that a refusal may offend. Harry had agreed and Cooper could barely conceal the excitement in his voice. He was whisked by limousine to Cairo airport, where he boarded an executive helicopter, along with his secretary and personal aide. Despite his protestations, Cooper’s bodyguard was ordered to stay behind at the embassy by Cooper himself. Couldn’t have a potential snitch in the group, reporting back every little conversation to Harry. Besides, the Arabians had guaranteed his security and Cooper had simply glowed with self-importance.

The helicopter travelled southeast under the hot sun. Their destination was paradise, or so the rumours went, located a few miles inland from the old tourist hotels and dive beaches of Sharm El Sheikh, where the Gulf of Suez emptied into the Red Sea. But the tourists had long gone, the coastal hotels demolished, the ground bulldozed and returned to nature. In the rebuilt harbour, erstwhile tourist dive boats once again trawled the warm waters for fish.

Looking beyond the pilot’s windshield,
Cooper’s heart beat a little faster as he caught a glimpse of the huge oasis up ahead. The helicopter landed a few moments later, settling onto a raised helipad above the trees. As the rotors wound down, Cooper and his party were escorted by a small welcoming committee into an elevator that took them down to the oasis floor, where they boarded a large electric buggy.

The British party were very excited, none more so than Cooper. So, this was where the favoured friends of Arabia were taken, he mused happily
as the buggy hummed along, snaking asphalt paths beneath the trees. It was beautiful, and Cooper watched with delight as colourful
birds flitted between the palms,
diving and swooping around the cool waters of gurgling streams and deep rock pools. Cooper had met one or two European diplomats who’d been here before, but he was the first Briton. In the past, he’d had to sit and listen with gritted teeth as
the Italian and German Ambassadors
had both waxed lyrical about their own visits and expressed mock sympathy at Cooper’s continued exclusion. Cooper had been quietly furious and he burned with envy, but now the boot was on the other foot. While his European comrades baked in the Cairo heat, here was Geoffrey Cooper at the palace of Sharm El Sheikh.

Presently, the buggy left the shade of the trees as the path carried them through the ornate gardens towards the splendid marble palace ahead of them. Cooper was impressed. It was every bit as magnificent
as it was rumoured to be – a seven-storey circular marble building with a huge, ornate brazier at its pinnacle, the natural gas flame that burned inside said to be visible for fifty miles. The grounds that surrounded the building were perfectly manicured and alive with flora and fauna of the most vivid colours. Designed and built specifically for the accommodation and entertainment of selected diplomatic guests of Arabia, the palace was the pinnacle in luxury without the decadence of western avarice, a place where the real business of Arabian politics was carried out, away from the superficial posturing of Cairo. An invite here meant that the Arabians wanted to do business. Copper had arrived, in more ways than one.

The British party was met by a large group of Arabian officials in the towering glass and marble atrium. Palms were pressed, photographs taken and Cooper was shown to his private penthouse on the top floor. The suite was a sumptuous, ornate affair, the huge bed and furnishings bedecked in the finest silks and fabrics and woven in the richest colours. The bathroom was enormous, encompassing a walk-in bath, whirlpool and the most wonderful multi-jet shower that Cooper had ever experienced. Outside on the balcony, Cooper towelled himself dry as he admired the view, the surrounding
oasis giving way to the Red Sea that shimmered in the distance under the warm rays of the setting sun.

After dressing in the traditional
silk gown provided, Cooper made his way down to the atrium. He was ushered out across the ornate gardens where dinner was being served in the balmy night air. The meal was an informal
affair and Cooper mingled happily with the twenty or so businessmen and politicians already there. Some he knew, others he did not. They sat around a low wooden table, propped up on mounds of large silk cushions. As the shadows lengthened, huge candles bathed the gardens in soft light and the exotic night call of birds could be heard from nearby palm groves. A quartet of musicians played quietly in the background whilst, overhead, a billion stars created an ambience that bore no comparison. As he looked around, Cooper thought the scene quite surreal, almost magical in its composition.

They ate from the finest china and feasted on curried soups, roasted chickens, succulent fish, sweet potatoes, green salads and vegetables, all washed down with crisp white wines and deep, fruity reds served by attractive young women in traditional Arabic dress. Unlike most of Arabia, the palace was not alcohol-free. In fact, to further facilitate an atmosphere of conviviality, it was positively encouraged, the Arabians
skilfully
managing the meal and the conversation, neither singling out nor ignoring any particular guest, ensuring that stomachs were full and glasses continually topped.

After dinner, Cooper found himself engaged in an interesting debate with a Turkish businessman and a low-level Spanish diplomat. The Turk was baiting the Spaniard about his government’s historically harsh policies towards immigrants from North Africa and Cooper was
keen to hear the official
Spanish line. Immigration was a sensitive issue in Western Europe and Cooper was always keen to get a new angle on things.

‘Would you like a refill, Sir?’

The moment he turned around, Cooper decided she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her eyes, so warm and brown, her long eye-lashes and sensual lips, her face perfectly framed by a cascade of dark ringlets, all combining to form a vision of exquisite female splendour. Her smile was genuine, disarming, and her skin, lit softly by the myriad of candles, was tanned and flawless. Cooper held out his glass, speechless
in the presence of the vision before him. As she leaned over to fill his glass, his eyes darted to her deep, full cleavage. She smiled at his indiscretion and he averted his gaze.

‘If there is anything
else you need, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ she smiled. Cooper stared into the dark pools of her eyes and was hopelessly lost. He
mumbled something unintelligible as she drifted away, tending to the other guests, but stealing an occasional glance towards Cooper. For him, the conversation was no longer important. It became background noise, a muted hum that failed to distract him as he focused on this spectacle of Arabian beauty. He stumbled through the rest of the evening, barely socialising with his fellow guests, whilst watching her every move. And then she was gone. When he looked for her again, the girl had disappeared. He retired for the evening and, despite the comforts of his suite, found sleep elusive. When
he did eventually slip into unconsciousness, the girl invaded his dreams and he slept fitfully.