Dark Enemy. Anne Mather
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heaved a sigh. As always in matters of this kind, the Sheikh was overwhelmingly obtuse, constantly creating impasse in their discussions by remarks of this kind. There was no answer to him, and Jason knew that no matter how impatient he might become he would just have to wait until the Sheikh was prepared to state his demands without preamble.
But it was difficult to remain impassive when to add to the overheated atmosphere of the Sheikh’s magnificent habitation there was Jason’s own impatience at this needless delay. They met enough obstacles in the course of their work without meeting the unnecessary obstinacy of the Sheikh.
But now the Sheikh seemed to decide a change of subject was warranted, and with annoying urbanity, he said: ‘Tell me, Wilde, what does a man like you derive from working here? You do not strike me as the kind of man who eschews the fleshpots for more, shall we say, aesthetic pursuits.’
Jason controlled his anger. It was typical that Mohammed should endeavour to direct the course of the conversation into these channels. He had an unhealthy interest in dissecting the men who came within his sphere, examining their lives and their motivations minutely.
‘Abrahm is not the first Middle Eastern country I have worked in,’ Jason said now. ‘As a member of an oil company, one has to be prepared to work in any part of the world.’
‘Yes?’ The Sheikh sounded thoughtful. ‘I suppose this is so. Nevertheless, I understand from reliable sources that you were offered a less active part in the proceedings, which you turned down.’
Jason wondered where the man obtained his information. His refusal to accept the board’s generous offer of a seat at their table had shocked his contemporaries. But just at present it suited him to be out of England, and Sir Harold had made it plain the offer was still open.
‘Your sources of information are very astute,’ he remarked now, walking lazily across the room, as though uncaring of the swift passing of time. He picked up a small bronze statue and examined it in detail, while the Sheikh watched his movements and pondered the mind of this annoying foreigner who seemed totally indifferent to his own status here.
‘So,’ said the Sheikh at last, summoning one of his servants who produced a heavy ashtray for him to stub out his cigarette. ‘We return to the subject in hand. You think perhaps I am being unkind when I say my people are being exploited?’
Jason swung round, a ready retort dying on his lips as he realized he had almost fallen again into the Sheikh’s trap.
‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
‘Very well. Would a few more pence bankrupt your company? I think not. The English and American oil barons are growing rich on the poverty of their investment areas. My people do not have television sets, or cars or even proper homes. The standard of living here in Abrahm is very low.’
Jason could have said that it would have been useless people having television sets in a country where there was no television station. He could have said that there was no money to build roads to drive cars along until the oil began pumping along the pipeline which was barely a third completed. He could have said that the oil company was providing work for those people to enable them to have a better standard of living.
But he said none of this. Instead, he allowed Mohammed to state his case, knowing full well that to argue would cause a stream of abuse, and possibly more trouble for the company in the long run. Eventually Mohammed grew tired of the Englishman’s silence, and said: ‘Well, Wilde! What is your answer? Are you prepared to listen to reason?’
‘I’m prepared to listen to anything that is reasonable,’ replied Jason dryly. ‘All right, Mohammed, I’ve been in touch with London, and they have given me permission to offer you a two and a half pence increase.’
Sheikh Mohammed’s lip curled. ‘Five,’ he said sharply.
Jason shrugged. ‘Three – and that’s my final offer.’
Sheikh Mohammed rubbed the side of his nose with a hand that literally glittered with the rings of emerald and ruby that sparkled there. Then he summoned one of his underlings and signified that he wished someone brought to the conference chamber. Jason moved restlessly, beginning to feel impatient again. Good God, how long was this going to go on? He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, and gave an exclamation. It was already late afternoon and by the time he got back to the site the evening meal would be in the course of being prepared. That meant yet another day had been wasted.
Even so, it was pleasant to recall the comparative luxury of his air-conditioned bungalow, and the thought of a decent drink and some food was quite appealing. After all, it wasn’t his fault they were being held up, although he seemed to bear the brunt of the complaints from the boardroom in London.
Sheikh Mohammed had summoned Krashki, his chief minister, and Jason was forced to kick his heels for almost another half hour while they talked in undertones, their gesticulations eloquent of their conversation. Eventually, when Jason was on the verge of walking out of the conference altogether, Mohammed turned to him, his expression brooding but subdued.
‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet, his flowing robes giving him a dignity that European clothes would not, ‘we accept your terms. But it is to be understood that when Sir Harold Mannering comes out from England I shall discuss this further with him.’
He raised his hand as Jason would have replied, and swept out of the room like some emperor of old. His servants followed him closely and for a moment Jason remained where he was looking towards the doorway through which Sheikh Abi Ben Abdul Mohammed had passed. Then with an infuriated shake of his head he stood on the butt of his cigarette and strode after him, turning away from the inner quarters of the palace with its Moorish-styled architecture towards the searing blaze of the sunlit courtyard.
The brilliance of the sun was dazzling, and he slid his dark glasses on to his nose before walking swiftly across to where his Land-Rover was parked. He slid behind the wheel and heaved a sigh. There was a sense of relaxation in actual action after the enforced inactivity of the last couple of hours. Breathing deeply, he realized that anything was preferable to the cloying heat of the Sheikh’s apartments.
Turning on the engine, he drove out of the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the guards on the gate, and quickly rolled up his windows as the vehicle encountered the track outside which was little more than an extension of that desert that stretched between here and the drilling site. He thought Abrahm was one of the most barren places on the earth. Situated between Tunisia and Libya, with a port on the Mediterranean, it had little to commend it.
He had several miles to cover between Abyrra and Castanya where the oil company had set up their camp of bungalows, and as he drove he wondered why he had not chosen a more amenable spot in which to work. In his position he could have chosen any one of a dozen locations, but he liked the crew at Castanya, and if there was little more in Abrahm than sand, sand and more sand he wasn’t particularly bothered. He was not a man who desired a hectic social life and if the site got too boring for him there was always Gitana on the Mediterranean coast where a man could find entertainment in plenty.
He drove fast, his mind on the job ahead. Already they had wasted four days. Sheikh Mohammed was not the most reasonable of men. He used his influence carelessly, and had refused to meet anyone from the oil company until it suited his purpose. Even now, Jason was aware that the peace he had won was a precarious one and would only last as long as Sheikh Mohammed desired it to do so. There had been rumours of an uprising among the nomadic Bedouin tribes against the despotism of Mohammed, but Jason doubted whether anything would come of it. Either way the oil company stood in exactly the same position. They were a nonpolitical enterprise and he doubted whether if Mohammed was overthrown their position would be any easier. Oil was the country’s salvation; only the profits and the methods of its production could be in jeopardy.
The sun was beginning to go down when he mounted the high pass above the oil fields. In a country where inland there was so little vegetation, it was surprisingly beautiful, and only the stark drilling rigs gave any indication of the century they were living in. The desert was unchanging in its isolation, and the