Close Call Read Free

him cash for information. If the approach failed he would be quickly withdrawn and posted somewhere else where he could be useful.
    He parked on a wide street and walked, turning into a much narrower side street lined by squat government buildings, concrete blocks mostly, put up in the Sixties with US aid money. They were interspersed with a few more recent constructions built as Yemen began to develop its oil resources. Not that Yemen nowadays showed much sign of being oil- or gas-rich. On the streets, even here in the capital, poverty was rife, and as he walked along Miles reflected that if the Minister’s charity existed there was plenty for it to do.
    Inside the Trade Ministry, a guard with a holstered pistol was sitting in a chair in one corner of the entrance hall reading a magazine. He raised his eyes lazily as Miles came in, then resumed reading. A young uniformed woman behind the front desk took his name, consulted a sheet of paper, then waved Miles to follow her. She led him up the stairs to the first floor, into a large open-plan office where a dozen men and women sat typing, and on into a long corridor with dark little offices on either side, occupied by men sitting behind desks covered with piles of papers.
    At the end of the corridor she knocked on a large, closed door. A loud voice boomed out in Arabic and the woman opened the door and ushered Miles inside.
    Baakrime’s office could have been in a different world. It was roughly forty feet long, lined by picture windows with fabulous views of the mountains. The floors were polished mahogany boards overlaid by a rich sprinkling of fine Persian carpets. Gaudy oil paintings hung on the walls, scenes from the Arabian Nights, featuring scantily draped female figures.
    Baakrime came out from behind a large antique desk, his hand extended. He was a diminutive square-shouldered man, with short black hair brushed back in a lacquered wave, and a thick Groucho Marx moustache. ‘It is delightful to meet you, Mr Brookhaven. Your predecessor and I had an excellent relationship,’ he declared. ‘Come, let us make ourselves comfortable.’ He gestured towards a sitting area, where two sofas were adorned by soft cushions covered in coloured damask.
    They sat down at right angles to each other. ‘Coffee is coming,’ Baakrime said hospitably. He wore a light grey suit and a white shirt with a canary-coloured tie. A triangle of paisley silk handkerchief peeked out from the breast pocket of his jacket.
    ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ said Miles. ‘I know you have a full schedule.’
    ‘Nonsense. I always have time for my friends,’ said Baakrime. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And you know what they say – if you want to get something done, ask a busy man.’
    They chatted for a few minutes inconsequentially. Miles was accustomed to the Arab insistence that all business, however pressing, was prefaced by small talk. The coffee arrived, brought in by a young woman, smartly dressed in Western clothes – a noticeably short skirt and a blouse unbuttoned at the top. Baakrime ogled her legs with unconcealed pleasure and, as she put the tray on the low table and bent down to pour out the coffee, his eyes moved to her cleavage.
    When she had left, Baakrime continued chatting idly, asking after the welfare of Miles’s family. When Miles explained that he was unmarried, Baakrime asked after his parents. He moved on to describe the location, ambience and menu of a new restaurant that Miles must try, and recommended two holiday resorts on the Egyptian coast along the Red Sea.
    When finally Baakrime paused to sip his coffee, Miles said, ‘I understand that your Department has a role in the import of arms to your country.’
    Baakrime stopped sipping but continued to hold his cup to his mouth. He said nothing for a moment, then put the cup on the table, looking all the time at Miles. He said, ‘That is true. It is a trade that interests me greatly. We have, as you know, many