The Djinn's Retribution

By Michael Saint

In 1936 and at just 17years old, Yusuf Abbas murders two desert travellers for their camels and worldly goods. In 1950 and now calling himself Sheikh Yusuf Abbas, he murders a British Ambassador and the members of a British oil exploration company, shortly afterwards, when a neighbouring Sheikh and his family are poisoned, he merges their lands to create the Sabba Oil empire.

On the other side of the world, Richard Neilson, a sickly 14-year-old is devastated when his beloved father (whilst working in Egypt) is decapitated by Arab fanatics. He vows to avenge his death. Two years later, and having thrown himself into a gruelling fitness regime, he enlists in the army and eventually wins selection into the SAS.

Najeeb Abbas (Yusuf’s son) is a malevolent, unremorseful psychopath who, upon leaving Cambridge University with a degree in nuclear physics, persuades his father to fund a desert research facility to tackle global warming. But beneath the façade, his intentions are much darker and the consequences of his actions prove fatal for his remorseful father and potentially devastating for the Gulf of Mexica and Canadian Cantrell’s oilfields.

Fate throws these two polar opposite lives together, and once again Richard’s family is threatened by Abbas’ deep-rooted intentions to destroy. Will he succeed? Or will Richard finally get the revenge he’s spent most of his life planning?

Discover for yourself in this dark, gritty, and electrifying world of Al-Qaeda, terrorist conspiracies, SAS heroes, M16 agents, suicide bombings, assassination plans and desert ops – where revenge stops at nothing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035804214

Michael Saint

Michael Saint was born in Cardiff, South Wales, in 1939. His late father, at the age of fourteen (fifteen was the legal age) was employed as a cabin boy on a tramp ship out of Barry. During his three years at sea, he visited many countries. He didn’t have much leisure time; however, he spent much of it listening to the tales of the Arab stokers in the boiler room and sampling their strange meals. Obviously, they took advantage of his youthful innocence, taking artistic licence (with much bloodletting) to tell him stories from their varying lifestyles. These remained in Michael’s mind until he retired and became the inspiration for the dramatic prologue of The Djinn’s Retribution.

Book preview

Prologue

1936—The Arabian Desert

Yusuf Abbas and his friend Abdul sat huddled together in front of a crackling fire; a blanket draped across their shoulders to protect them from the cruel chill of the desert night. Close by, tethered goats and camels lay chewing fodder as their families slumbered in a gathering of ancient sagging Bedouin tents.

Yusuf’s dishdasha—a full-length white gown—masked an unusually tall and muscular frame for his age. His strong urge to win in any sport matured riding his uncle’s racing camel from six-years-old. Approaching his tenth birthday it was a natural transition to choose wrestling, a sport involving even more aggression. Aged seventeen, he remained undefeated after 125 bruising contests against all comers.

Throwing another precious branch onto the fire, causing sparks to spiral upwards, he sighed deeply as he followed them on their journey. A heavenly mass of pulsating stars was urging him to follow his ambitions for wealth and power. From his family’s constant struggle to survive, it was obvious that this would only be earned without their assistance, by violent means. Yusuf made up his mind, at this moment the stars resembled diamonds cast out by the hand of Allah. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for—his kismet—his destiny. Running his finger along the razor-sharp edge of his curved khanjar dagger, there was no alternative—he’d have to kill them.

Shaking his friend’s shoulders vigorously, he whispered into his ear, ‘Wake up, Abdul.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Abdul cried out, forcing Yusuf to clamp a hand over his mouth.

‘Silence, you fool!’ he hissed, looking around to make sure nobody had overheard Abdul’s outburst. After an agonising few minutes he breathed a sigh of relief, all he could hear was snoring. Maintaining his grip on Abdul’s mouth he said, ‘I’ve made up my mind it’s my best opportunity yet to tear myself away from this accursed existence. Those two were dripping in gold. Are you with me, or do I have to kill them on my own?’ he demanded, sliding the dagger into its scabbard tucked inside the sash tied around his slim waist. ‘I can see the glow from their campfire; they cannot be too far away from us, perhaps a few hours.’

Two Bedouin riders had passed the encampment in the late afternoon mounted on two proud-looking camels leading a pack camel. Their demeanour, and weapons they brandished, screamed wealth. Furthermore, the contents of their bulging saddlebags and loaded pack camel raised profound questions in Yusuf’s mind. Refusing the traditional Bedu offer of hospitality from his father to share tea, coffee, food—even shelter for the night—they had chosen to take advantage of the remaining hours of daylight to further their journey. Abdul, realising Yusuf had murder in mind, swallowed hard before reluctantly nodding agreement.

Silently, the two youths packed their leather satchels with a spare dishdasha, a little bread, some chunks of goat’s meat, and filled their goatskin water bottles.

Checking that the animals under their care remained secure, they hoisted their satchels over their shoulders and crept out of the camp in the direction of the distant glow.

***

Distances in the desert can be very deceptive, and it took them many strength-sapping hours trekking over soft undulating sand dunes, before making their cautious approach to the strangers’ camp. Yusuf caught hold of Abdul’s arm and said, ‘Take care. We don’t want to alarm the camels.’

They lay down for many minutes, observing the two prone figures wrapped in blankets alongside a dying fire. Yusuf whispered, ‘I’ll take the one on the left. Remember the first strike’s important, left hand under the chin, a jerk back of the head and a tear right through the windpipe. The end should be quick—just lie on top of him until he drowns in his blood and stops breathing. Are you ready?’

Despite a dreadful foreboding, Abdul nodded he was.

Hardly daring to breath, they crawled forward, one camel lifted its head briefly to glance in their direction then slowly lowered it. Seconds later, they launched their attack. The slumbering stranger had barely a moment to gasp before Yusuf grabbed his head and jerked it back, slashing the Arab’s throat. Kneeling for a short moment, he witnessed with morbid fascination his writhing gurgling victim grasp at his throat, blood pouring between his fingers, then silence. He turned towards Abdul, bloodied dagger raised.

His friend’s attack hadn’t been so successful—the Arab had woken as he’d made his approach. Wrestling Abdul to the ground, he’d rolled on top of him grasping Abdul’s throat—his long nails tearing at his windpipe with one hand; reaching to gouge out the youth’s eyes with the other.

Yusuf raced over, kicking the man’s jaw and driving him backwards, forcing him to release his stranglehold on Abdul to clutch his head. Seizing the opportunity, Yusuf dived towards him. Despite knowing Yusuf’s murderous intent in advance, Abdul was horrified at the ferociousness of his onslaught. In the dim light of the flickering campfire, he saw the khanjar rise, then thrust downwards repeatedly, each time accompanied by a yell of delight from Yusuf.

With stinging hot bile rising into his mouth, Abdul witnessed the victim’s torso being torn apart as the attack continued. The nightmare was too much for him to bear. With vomit spewing out until his empty stomach refused another agonising convulsion, he moved towards Yusuf, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

‘He’s dead, Yusuf,’ he cried out, shaking his friend by the shoulders, ‘both of them are. Allah forgive us; we’ve killed these strangers…’

Yusuf jerked his head backwards violently, butting Abdul. As Abdul staggered away clutching a broken nose, Yusuf forced himself to end his butchery. ‘So I have, Abdul, so I have. And I enjoyed every thrust,’ he emphasised in triumph, slumping between the two corpses, his lively hazel eyes focussing on both of his conquests. Without remorse, he remained seated smiling all the while until he regained his breath. ‘Now we’ll see if our efforts this night have been adequately rewarded,’ he said licking the travellers’ blood off his lips—it tasted good—it tasted of success. Tearing a piece of cloth off his first victim’s white robe that remained free of bloodstains, with a spit onto the material; he wiped clotting blood off his hands and face. Then with a smile, he meticulously searched the corpse, tugging gold rings from dead fingers. One refused to budge.

‘Hand me my dagger,’ Yusuf said, reaching in Abdul’s direction.

‘You’re not thinking of…?’

‘I am,’ replied Yusuf. ‘This diamond ring is worth a small fortune. It will buy us additional camels, guns and ammunition.’

Abdul closed his eyes before tugging the dagger from deep in the other victim’s chest, handing it to Yusuf. Within seconds, the vicious blade sliced through skin, bone and sinew. ‘There you are,’ Yusuf said, raising the severed finger to eye level before removing the bloodied ring, tossing the finger aside.

***

At sunrise with shadows being cast upon the nearby sand dunes and a golden glow on their faces, Yusuf and Abdul sat cross-legged brewing coffee, enjoying an unexpected bonus of dates from one of the camels’ saddlebags. Their victims were buried deep in the sand at the bottom of a hollow created by a desert storm. Yusuf patted one of the saddles lying alongside him. ‘From this day onwards, my trusty friend, with these two fine animals beneath us, the pack camel loaded with munitions and the trappings of wealth we’ve earned, I’m going to call myself Sheikh Yusuf Abbas.’

‘All Sheikhs must have a kingdom to rule,’ Abdul said, eating the last date in his hand, spitting out the stone. ‘What kingdom might yours be, my Sheikh?’ he said slowly bowing, waving his hand in front of his throbbing forehead waiting for Yusuf’s response. He didn’t have long to wait.

Yusuf leapt to his feet sweeping his arm full-circle—barely missing Abdul’s head—the golden inlaid rifle extended at arm’s length. ‘Why, all that you see around you,’ he replied. ‘This will be my kingdom, as far as your eyes can see, and the sun can travel,’ he shouted. His voice lowered into a snarl. ‘And any man who gets in my way, and that includes the desert djinn (spirit), does so at his peril.’

Abdul remaining seated, staring at Yusuf through swollen and blackened eyes with a mixture of fear and admiration coursing through his body. He had no doubt his friend meant every word he said. For a brief moment last night, he saw a look of extreme evil in Yusuf’s eyes—licking the Arab’s blood off his lips like a vampire—that sent a ripple of fear through his body. Later, he’d dismissed it as a reaction of guilt to the killings—now he knew differently. Tribal codes of honour were cast aside. He realised he was committed to following the orders of his friend for the rest of his life, or suffer the consequences.

Breaking camp, they mounted their camels; then with rifles slung over their shoulders, the animals’ heads were pointed towards the distant horizon. With a jab of their heels into the animal’s ribs, Sheikh Yusuf Abbas’s conquest of all that he surveyed had begun.

Chapter 1

August 1950—Da-Al-Saud

Da-Al-Saud was a dusty town situated at the junction of two ancient camel tracks. The surrounding area witnessed bloody feuds by warring Arab tribes for many centuries; consequently, it was seldom visited by westerners. The increased use of vehicular transport and aircraft, during the Second World War, condemned the town—now bypassed to crumble into the desert’s embrace.

A breath of hot air came out of the wilderness beyond—the precursor for the simoom that struck early morning. The inhabitants gathering up valuable and vulnerable belongings from outside their dwellings, took them inside, accompanied by the odd prized saluki hunting dog. Camels were tethered in sheltered areas, their eyes masked as dark billowing clouds of dust and sand—reaching a kilometre high—rolled swiftly in from the east, blotting out the dazzling sun. The sky rapidly changed from a wondrous cobalt-blue to an angry red. Doors were hastily slammed, and window shutters secured against the onslaught of humid choking dust. Nobody would dare guess how long the storm would last. It could paralyse normal life for days. All they could do in mitigation was to offer fervent prayers to Allah. On this occasion, it swept past them within a matter of hours.

***

The sentry looked up at the retreating storm from the sanctuary of the gatehouse, then with a shrug returned to his patrol outside the gates of the British Embassy. Gazing towards the clearing horizon, was it a mirage, or was a camel rider following in the wake of the storm’s wrath? Squinting, one rider became two. Were they Bedouin, or crazy lost foreigners who occasionally appeared out of the desert near to death, throwing themselves at the mercy of the Ambassador? As they approached, he slid a bullet from the five round magazine of his 303 rifle into its breech. Raising the rifle to hip level, he curled his finger around the trigger. On closer inspection, the camels were fine animals more for racing than everyday use. The leading rider exuded authority; a long rifle slung over his shoulder; a jewelled dagger tucked under his gold belt. His companion with a bandolier draped over each shoulder, a rifle clutched in his right hand cut a menacing figure, his face hidden by a black turban.

‘State your business,’ the sentry challenged, his weapon now raised to eye level as the riders dismounted, uncovering their heads shaking off the simoom’s dust. The leader approached the sentry. ‘I’ve important business with the Ambassador,’ he said. ‘Tell him Sheikh Yusuf Abbas wishes the pleasure of an audience.’ With his body filling his white robe emphasising his stature and demeanour, the stranger glared at the sentry, forcing him to lower his weapon.

He’d heard about this man. In his late twenties, he’d waged war against neighbouring tribes succeeding in unifying large desert areas in Southern Arabia. In the process, he’d been responsible for much bloodshed. ‘He’s a ruthless sadistic man who crushes those who dare to oppose him; like you and I would treat a cockroach,’ he recalled his father telling him.

***

Ambassador, Sir David Bronsby, checked his watch to confirm it was approaching midday. He smiled broadly before pouring himself a large gin with a hint of tonic water, and two ice cubes. Raising his glass to his lips, he was startled by his aide bursting into his office. ‘What the hell do you mean by this, Sexton?’ Bronsby demanded. ‘Next time, knock and wait until I allow you to enter, damn you!’

Sexton paused for a moment to gather his breath; then ignoring Bronsby’s fury he said, ‘Sheikh Yusuf Abbas is at the gate, asking for an audience.’

Bronsby—a Micawber-like figure with a tortoiseshell-framed monocle dangling at his waist, his light-cream tropical suit reeking of cigar smoke—lowered his glass in disbelief at his aide’s message. Peering with some difficulty through the dusty window pane behind his desk, Bronsby saw a proud well-attired Arab being guarded by the sentry. He gasped when he recognised the stranger’s features from a photograph that he had recently studied. This was the man British government had been trying to cajole for years into a partnership to exploit anything of value in his rapidly expanding kingdom. To date, the young Sheikh would have none of it; flatly refusing any meeting of minds.

Bronsby was stunned into action. ‘Good God, Sexton, you’re right, it is Sheikh Yusuf Abbas. Escort him in, man, and be quick about it.’

A dossier attached to a coloured map lay on Bronsby’s desk. The final page of the report concluded: ‘It is His Majesty’s Government’s desire to gain access to the area in question by peaceful means, bearing in mind the upsurge of Islamic activity of late generated by Sheikh Yusuf Abbas. To this end, you are to advise the Foreign Secretary what actions you consider relevant to achieve this goal.’

Bronsby, a failed politician, was dispatched to this outpost of the empire to act accordingly. The unusual decision for the British government to establish an embassy in a border town, instead of a city, was to keep their options open in their relentless quest for oil, no-matter whose doorstep it was discovered upon. Nothing of importance ever happened here before his term of office. The unexpected visit by this increasingly influential and deadly young Sheikh, conjured up a cocktail of thoughts in Bronsby’s mind, each searching for the reason why he was the target of this man. A well-worn fifty-eight years of age, this might be his last opportunity to rekindle his flagging acareer. He hastily swallowed his drink—hiding all evidence of glass and alcohol—and popped a peppermint into his mouth, chewing vigorously.

‘Sheikh Yusuf Abbas, Ambassador,’ Sexton announced standing aside respectfully, before retreating, closing the door quietly behind him.

The Ambassador swallowing the remnants of his peppermint rounded his desk proffering his hand to the Sheikh. ‘A great pleasure to meet you, Sheikh Yusuf,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard many tales about your exploits.’

‘All to the good, I pray, David,’ Yusuf replied in excellent English, bowing and shaking his hand. Bronsby was taken-aback by his visitor’s instant use of his Christian name. An Ambassador was always referred to as Ambassador by everyone in the Arab world. However, this Sheikh ignored this protocol. Added to this, Bronsby fought off the urge to grimace, humbled by the aura of supreme confidence his visitor commanded and the painful vice-like grip his hand was still experiencing.

Yusuf’s craggy olive-skinned face appeared much older than his age, displaying hazel eyes that widened eerily with a smile complimented by a mouthful of exceptionally large dazzling-white teeth. Bronsby gratefully retrieved his hand. ‘Please take a seat, Yusuf, can I offer you a beverage?’

Yusuf laughed heartily. ‘A beverage? I believe that’s a British colloquial for a drink. Am I correct, David?’

‘Yes you are, Yusuf,’ Bronsby replied.

Yusuf’s nose twitched in disgust. The ashtray with remnants of cigars and stubbed out cigarettes on the desktop reeked. The nicotine fingered handshake he’d been offered had been repulsive and the gin and peppermint odour tugged at his stomach. The Ambassador was an accurate example of everything he abhorred in the Christian world. He steeled himself from these thoughts, knowing that he would only be required for a short while before being eliminated. ‘Then a cup of mint tea would be very well received after that storm, David,’ he said. ‘And would you be kind enough to arrange a similar refreshment for my fellow traveller?’

‘Certainly, it will be a pleasure,’ Bronsby replied, pressing a button on his desk for his aide. Moments later, Sexton knocked the door before entering, took the Ambassador’s order and withdrew. Bronsby returned his attention to the Arab.

Yusuf was first to speak. ‘I sense you have a question uppermost in your mind before we discuss the reason behind my visit,’ he said.

The Ambassador was taken-aback for a moment—the Sheikh was reading his mind. From the first moment this man had entered his office Bronsby had yearned to learn intimate details of his background. ‘I’ve been following your career for a number of years with admiration,’ he said. ‘It seems to resemble an epic story straight out of The Arabian Nights. May I be bold enough to ask the secret of your success?’

Yusuf paused for a moment to accept his tea from the Ambassador’s aide. After savouring a sip, he replied and his tale lasted for another two cups of tea… ‘So in answer to your question, David, that’s broadly how I became ruler of the area.’

‘Capital, Sir!’ Bronsby said, ‘and the reason for your visit?’

With his widening eyes accentuated by kohl—a black powder smeared around them to reduce the glare from the harsh desert sun—Yusuf said, ‘Ah yes, the reason for my visit, David. Oil!’

Bronsby jerked back in his chair, hardly believing what Yusuf had said. It took him a few seconds to gather his senses. ‘Oil, Yusuf? You surprise me. I understood the region had been the subject of a number of explorations… and all of them had concluded that no oil was present.’

Yusuf finished his tea, placing the empty cup and saucer on the Ambassador’s desk. Settling back in his chair, staring intensely into the Ambassador’s glinting eyes, he said, ‘Many months ago, Abdul my right-hand man, came across a body in the desert. Alas, it appeared that the poor unfortunate fellow had been murdered for his camel and personal belongings down to his clothing. All that remained was a battered old leather briefcase, and a number of sheets of paper scattered about. Abdul scoured the area gathering up every paper he could find, and a notebook, returning them to me.’

Bronsby was enthralled, obviously these documents were of some significance. ‘Have you any idea of his identity or nationality?’ he enquired.

‘Yes I have,’ said Yusuf. ‘However, his identity will remain a secret. With my limited knowledge of English, it took me quite a while to interpret his writing. Apparently, he was a geologist who travelled the world as what I believe you British describe as a freelance, looking for evidence of oil deposits then sell the information to the highest bidder. It appeared, he had just completed his survey. I assume he was about to travel to the nearest telephone to negotiate a deal.’

What Bronsby had learnt from their conversation, Yusuf’s command of the English language rivalled his own. Bronsby didn’t trust this man, he exuded evil. ‘What did he conclude?’ he asked. Yusuf smiled. He knew he had the Ambassador near to frothing at the mouth contemplating what was needed of him, and what he would gain in return. ‘That a vast lake of oil lay under my land,’ he said.

Bronsby had grasped the significance of what Yusuf had told him. The Foreign Office had hinted that his retirement as Ambassador to this dreadful country was imminent. For most Ambassadors that would be something to be savoured having gleaned perks during their term of office. However, in his case, his appetite for wine, women and the occasional pretty boy, sentenced him to retirement dependent entirely on a miserly government pension. The government’s desire to court this man was one thing; if successful, what would he gain? Maybe he’d have a pat on the back from the Foreign Secretary, or a citation accompanying a worthless medal noting the nation’s gratitude from the PM. But no more than that; to hell with them all, he thought.

‘What have you in mind, Yusuf?’

Yusuf smiled broadly. ‘You must have contacts in the wider world,’ he replied.

With his pulse racing, Bronsby said, ‘Yes, I have many.’

Yusuf laughed inwardly; he had the impression Bronsby was close to wetting himself, anticipating what he was about to tell him. ‘So I’m praying to Allah, you’ll be willing to arrange a secretive exploration to confirm the geologist’s findings. I’ll reward you handsomely, David, and all those involved with you in the enterprise.’

‘I’m sure you will, Yusuf. Give me a few days, and I’ll get back to you. Where can I find you?’

‘I’ll find you, Ambassador. However, please remember; I’d take a dim view if any of this conversation leaked out now, or after the event.’

Bronsby shivered. He’d noted an immediate chill enter the Arab’s tone of voice. His glaring eyes seemed to mutate from hazel to deep-red the moment he’d issued his threat, his knuckles turning white as his grip on his curved dagger tightened. This was a man to avoid upsetting.

A short while later, Yusuf and his henchman made their exit. The sentry presented arms, and saluted. Hopefully, the Sheikh would remember him when he made an attempt to become a member of his elite guard. They mounted their camels, with a cry, ‘Imshi,’ they disappeared into the desert as quickly as they’d arrived.

Bronsby poured himself a large brandy and lit a Havana cigar. Gazing out of the window he followed the progress of the Arabs until they disappeared from sight. Yusuf’s, ‘I’ll reward you handsomely, David,’ was ringing in his ears. This might be his last chance to provide himself a nest-egg for his retirement. Enjoying his drink, his mind was cast back to a recent visit to a Cairo brothel and to a fellow Brit he’d met. Bret Phillips was the owner of Britoil Explorations, a run-down drilling company operating out of the Egyptian capital. He savoured the heady spirit, thumbing through his diary. Reaching for the telephone he dialled. ‘Is that you, Bret?’

‘Yes it is,’ came the reply, ‘and despite the terrible line, I believe I recognise the dulcet tones of Ambassador Sir David Bronsby.’

‘Correct, Bret,’ Bronsby said, swirling the remnants of his brandy around his glass. ‘Have you anything on the go at present?’

‘Nothing involving oil exploration,’ Bret laughed, ‘apart from exploring the depths of Jasmin at the Orchid Club. I’m shagging myself to death, David; I could do with some conventional work to have a rest… she’ll be the death of me.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Bronsby chuckled. ‘I still have an ache in my loins when I recall that desirable creature…’

‘And your two bum-boys,’ Bret interceded.

Bronsby fondled his manly bulge. ‘That’s one vice I’d like kept under wraps, if you don’t mind,’ he snapped. If the Foreign Office heard about his homosexual appetite, he’d be out on his ear at the very least; possibly ending up behind bars for good measure. Bronsby winced at the terrifying possibility of imprisonment with a bunch of sex-starved inmates.

Bret said, ‘Point taken, Ambassador. What do you have in mind?’

Pouring another generous measure of brandy, another swirl condemned it to follow its predecessor, he said, ‘An oil exploration that needs to be carried out with the utmost secrecy.’

‘That’s no problem, it happens all the time,’ Bret said, ‘most companies want to keep their cards close to their chest when it comes to oil exploration. You can tell whoever it is, mum’s the word. Assuming the hire rates, I’ll read out to you are acceptable, I have one more question to ask of you, when do we start?’

From the moment they had saddled-up and left the embassy, Yusuf noticed a quizzical expression on Abdul’s face. He roared with laughter. For security, he didn’t divulge the purpose of the meeting with the Ambassador. However, he decided to channel some information in Abdul’s direction. ‘The British have a delightful saying, Abdul, Like a moth to the flame of a candle.’

Abdul shrugged and said, ‘What a strange saying, Master, I don’t understand…’

‘Not as strange as you might think, my friend,’ Yusuf said. ‘On this occasion, the moth is the British Ambassador. We have much to arrange in so short a time, as I have a strange feeling that our moth will shortly provide us what we want, before he succumbs to the desert’s candle.’

Abdul glanced towards Yusuf. His Master was still smiling at his choice of words. ‘Whoever heard of moths in the desert?’ Abdul muttered, more confused than ever.

Two Months Later

With the temperature touching 55° C and only two drilling rods left lying alongside the rig, Bret and his team of perspiring Arab workers hit an oil laden strata. Yusuf was sitting on a leather hassock in his tent with Abdul by his side, smoking a Shisha—the traditional Arab Hubble-Bubble Pipe—when they felt, then heard the vibrating whoosh of success.

Grabbing their rifles, they leapt out of the tent, firing them in the air in celebration, racing each other to douse themselves in the filthy spewing liquid. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, Yusuf glanced in Bret’s direction, receiving an enthusiastic nod. This was the moment he dreamt of ever since that murderous night in the desert many years ago. However, this time, the taste of success on his lips was of muddied oil not blood.

‘I’ll stake my reputation this is an excellent strike, your Highness,’ Bret said, shaking his hand, ‘and the birth of your oil dynasty.’

Yusuf glanced around him for a short moment considering what Bret had said, before gesturing Abdul to his side. ‘Take my camel, and bring the Ambassador here,’ he said. ‘As we’ve discussed, secrecy is of crucial importance. He must leave the embassy in the dead of the night with no witnesses to your arrival or departure.’

‘He will, Master, trust me,’ Abdul replied, bowing before withdrawing.

Yusuf stood watching Abdul and the camels disappear over the lofty dunes surrounding the well site. His kismet… his destiny he’d prophesied when he was seventeen-years-old was being fulfilled, there was just the epitaph left to act-out in this drama.

With a shrug, he returned to his tent and to his radio, the only means to communicate with the outside world during the exploration. With another deep draw from the pipe, he reached for the microphone and contacted the officer commanding his elite guard.

Bronsby’s alcoholic fuelled snoring was brought to an abrupt end by Abdul’s hand clamped over his mouth. Abdul whispered into his ear, ‘My Master requests you to join him to celebrate his success in the oil exploration. Put on these desert cloths I’ve brought, and we’ll make our way to the camp.’

Bronsby, still in a dreamy state did as he was told and was led by Abdul through the silent corridors to the waiting camels. The fact that there was no sentry at his post never entered his mind. Earlier, Abdul garrotted the sentry, concealing his body in a shallow grave some distance from the embassy, before strapping his rifle and belt of ammunition to the ambassador’s camel.

Two Days Later

Yusuf ordered Abdul to herd the ambassador, Bret Phillips and the drilling crew to the wellhead, and fetch a tray of drinks. ‘Use the water glasses, Abdul, no sense wasting expensive champagne glasses,’ he chuckled.

Yusuf waited for Abdul to return with the tray of drinks, handing them around before he confronted the motley gathering. ‘Gentlemen, I congratulate all of you,’ Yusuf said, raising his glass to them. ‘You have served me well, and I intend to reward you generously.’

The ambassador was sweating profusely, standing bowlegged after the excruciating camel ride when Abdul handed him a glass of Champagne. Bronsby smiled his thanks. This was the first gesture of gratitude he’d received since his arrival… he wondered what reward Yusuf had in mind for him. Bret was puzzled when Yusuf took two steps sideways, raising an arm. In the blink of an eye, ten rifles spat death in his direction. Bronsby’s right hand with a glass of Champagne raised was shattered by the first round. The second round tore through his lower trunk, spewing out vital organs before driving him backwards.

Bret with lightning reaction, ducked and commencing a zigzagging run through the oil polluted sand towards Yusuf’s tent in an attempt to reach the radio. Hamid, Yusuf’s sniper-assassin—leader of the execution squad—favoured soft-nosed dumdum bullets. In many theatres of war, these were outlawed, but not here. They inflicted hideous injuries. Taking