SIX.
The silver-haired
gentleman appeared to have his nose buried in the European edition
of the London Times. A soft breeze blew across the water, seagulls
played above and the lines slapped out their rhythmic notes on the
tall mast of the sailboat. To all outward appearances, Alan Church
looked to be enjoying retirement.
First observations
with such a man, though, were always a bit tricky.
The
seventy-one-year-old Brit had spent the majority of his years
trying to give people the right first impression-or the wrong one,
depending on how you looked at it.
Alan was a mechanical
engineer by training, but even that was only half true. He spent
his twenties and thirties working for a large British energy
conglomerate, and again this was only part of the story. During
that time he traveled to the world's smaller and poorer nations in
an effort to bring them hydroelectric power. It seemed for those
two decades that Alan could be found wherever things were the
nastiest, usually in a country where the transition from one ruling
group to another was taking place and not in a peaceful democratic
way. Most of those halcyon days, as he now somewhat sarcastically
called them, were spent on the continent of Africa.
In truth, his time on
the Dark Continent was anything but tranquil.
He was robbed, shot
at, kidnapped, twice caught malaria and once caught yellow fever.
It was after the second bout of malaria that the powers back in
London decided that it was time for Alan to take a new job in
international finance. He'd spilled blood and toiled for the Crown,
or more precisely, Her Majesty's Secret Service, for almost two
decades. He was placed, without having to interview for the
position, at one of Britain 's finest banks where he eventually
ended up keeping an eye on the financial comings and goings of The
House of Saud.
Officially, or
unofficially, depending on how you looked at it, Alan Church never
worked for MI6, Britain 's foreign intelligence service. To this
day, if someone asked him the question he would laugh heartily and
begin telling over-the-top tales of all the female spies he'd
boffed in the service of the Crown. People who really knew him
well, which weren't many, knew that there was a half-truth in
almost everything Alan Church said.
Even now, as he sat
on the deck of his sailboat, anchored just off the coast of the
French Riviera, one had to look closely to see what Alan was really
doing. At first glance he looked every bit the relaxed and retired
gentleman casually perusing the newspaper as another day in
paradise got under way, but upon closer inspection there were a few
telltale signs that Alan had not entirely left the employ of his
government. The first hint was a bit difficult to catch. It
involved the unusual size of the radar dome that sat near the top
of his mast and the odd-shaped antennae that sat next to it. The
next sign that was a bit more obvious was that Alan wasn't really
reading the paper.
Out of sight, but
within reach, was a small control panel with an array of dials.
Plugged into this control panel was an earpiece. Alan at first
listened intently to the conversation that was taking place between
the Prince and his visitor, manipulating the various controls in an
effort to boost the effectiveness of the directional microphone
concealed at the top of his mast.
He had dropped anchor
the morning before just off the port beam of the Prince's massive
yacht, placing one other boat between his and the Prince's. Under
orders from London, he'd been loosely shadowing the Prince for over
a week. He'd even gotten to know a few of the crew members in the
process. The captain of the ship was a retired French naval
officer, as was much of his crew. Like most mariners, they were
friendly to other sailors. While picking up provisions back in San
Remo, Alan found out the ship was headed for Monte Carlo and then
on to Cannes, a very common trip for the big yachts. Alan let it be
known that he was headed in the same direction, so they'd probably
be bumping into each other along the way. Things had progressed now
to the point where the crew knew him on sight and waved as they
went back and forth to shore in their power launch.
Headquarters was
famous for being skimpy with the information they gave to their
people in the field. They'd told Alan only to follow, observe,
record and report. They didn't tell him why they wanted him to
baby-sit Prince Omar, but then again, they didn't really need
to.
Alan knew enough
about the dysfunctional House of Saud to know what his government
was interested in.
The conversation that
was taking place on the big ship didn't appear to be what they were
after, and the dashing young man who had arrived less than an hour
ago didn't fit the profile of an Islamic fundamentalist.
With this in mind
Alan checked his dials one more time to make sure everything was
being recorded and then he began to read his paper, only half
listening to the conversation that was going on in his left
ear.
With the sun quickly
warming the cool morning air, Alan let out a yawn and crossed his
left leg over his right. The voice of a woman drew his attention
away from the paper and he looked across the water to see what was
going on. From his vantage point all he could see were the tops of
several heads, and then a blond beauty came into view near the back
of one of the upper sun decks Without warning she dropped her robe
and stretched her pale arms above her head, revealing a very nice
pair of breasts. Alan lunged for his binoculars, but by the time he
got them up she was gone. He laughingly shook his head. He was
slowing down in his old age.
He was still smiling
as he went back to his paper, and then slowly, his face turned more
serious. The conversation between the Prince and his visitor had
without warning gone from mundane to quite noteworthy.
Alan checked again to
make sure the equipment was recording and then he went back to
feigning interest in the paper. Whoever this David was, he would
have to get some photos of him when he climbed back on board the
launch to return to shore. As the two men continued their
discussion, Alan decided that London would be very interested
indeed in his next
report.