Read Online The Gulf Conspiracy by Ken McClure - Free Book Online

weekend with his young daughter, Jenny, who lived there with his sister–in-law and her husband and their own two children. Jenny had lived with them since Steven’s wife Lisa had died some four years before.
    The summons had come in the form of a text message to his mobile phone from the duty officer at Sci-Med; it said simply that John Macmillan - the head of Sci-Med - required him back in London at his earliest convenience. Steven had managed to get himself on board the first plane to London from Glasgow Airport on Monday morning after having driven the sixty miles or so from the village of Glenvane in Dumfriesshire where Jenny lived.
    ‘ Good weekend?’ enquired the passenger smelling strongly of aftershave who eased into the seat beside him. He was a fat, loose-jowled man with a ruddy complexion. He wore a striped business suit that was too small for him, as was the collar of the Bengal striped shirt that trapped his fleshy neck, causing it to bulge over. A heart attack waiting to happen, thought Steven.
    ‘ Fine thanks,’ he replied, a bit surprised at the question coming from a complete stranger but assuming that this might well be normal for the Monday morning shuttle with many Scots who worked in London returning after spending the weekend at home. ‘You?’
    ‘ Daughter got married,’ said the man. ‘Cost me a bloody fortune. Don’t like the bugger much but there’s not a lot you can do these days, is there? Kids are a law unto themselves. Do as they damn well please, whatever you say.’
    ‘ Times change,’ said Steven.
    ‘ Damn right they do. If I’d spoken to my father the way she speaks to me . . .’
    It was a familiar theme that Steven had no wish to hear enlarged upon. He gave a sympathetic nod and pointedly turned to reading his newspaper. He was allowed to read in peace until a communal groan broke out an hour later when the captain announced that they were now in a circular holding pattern while waiting for permission to land at Heathrow.
    ‘ The all-elusive “slot”,’ sighed the man in the seat beside him. ‘Heathrow’s version of the holy grail; If I had a fiver for every time I’ve circled Watford or West Drayton I’d be a bloody millionaire by now.’
    They landed only ten minutes behind schedule and Steven took the Heathrow Express into Paddington and then a taxi to his flat where he stopped off to shower and change. He had gone to Scotland wearing casual gear – leather blouson and chinos – so he thought he would get into ‘uniform’ before seeing Macmillan. John Macmillan didn’t make a big issue of such things but he had let it be known that he subscribed to the sloppy dress = sloppy mind school of thought.
    Now wearing a dark blue suit and Parachute Regiment tie, Steven glanced out of the window to check on the weather while lightly brushing the shoulders of his jacket. His flat on the third floor of an apartment block wasn’t quite on the waterside – he couldn’t afford that – but he could see the passing traffic on the Thames through a gap in the buildings opposite. Checking his watch, he went downstairs and walked the couple of blocks necessary to reach a main thoroughfare before hailing a taxi and asking to be taken to the Home Office.
    Steven exchanged a few words with Rose Roberts, John Macmillan’s secretary, while he waited in the outer office for Macmillan to see him. As usual their conversation took the form of Rose asking after his daughter and he inquiring about her singing – Rose was a member of the South London Bach Choir. When the pleasantries finally petered out, Rose got on with her work and Steven took to idly looking out of the window at the world. It was something he’d done many times in the past while waiting to be briefed on a new assignment and he was aware that the feeling in his stomach was still the same - a mixture of anxiety and excitement. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation. In fact, it was a feeling he had courted