Twenty-seven

The headquarters of Globalcom were forged from black glass and steel, a towering expression of corporate power that rose forty storeys into the North African sky.

The building’s roof was paved in giant satellite dishes and television masts. The only zone clear of them was marked with an enormous letter ‘H’, and was reserved for the Globalcom Eurocopter EC135, finished in metallic blue.

Every few minutes a satellite truck would arrive or leave through the main security gate on the north side of the perimeter fence. The only vehicle permitted to enter by the other, smaller entrance, was the chairman’s black Maybach 57.

The barrier rose as the car approached, the duty guards saluting in unison. A moment before the vehicle had reached the building, a cluster of staff hurried out. They fell into line and stood to attention as the tyres drew to a halt.

At the head of the line was Patricia Ross. A tall redhead, she was dressed in a tailored business suit, her hair tied up in a bun. Omary regarded her as a confidante and a friend, and entrusted her with far more than the duties of an ordinary PA.

‘Cancel all my meetings,’ he said, as he strode fast towards the great revolving door. ‘And assemble my senior policy unit in the boardroom. I want them there in...’ Omary glanced at his wristwatch. ‘On the hour.’ He paused, thought for a moment, and added: ‘Oh, and make sure you get security to sweep it first.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Is there anything on the agenda that can’t wait?’

Ross touched a hand to her hair as they walked to the elevator.

‘Just a lunch meeting.’

‘With who?’

‘The Portuguese Prime Minister. He’s here with a trade delegation.’

‘Oh God. Where’s he staying?’

‘At the Hyatt.’

‘Send my sincerest apologies. The usual excuses. An international crisis. Something like that. Send a huge bouquet... and a case of Dom Pérignon from my private cellar.’

‘Right away, sir.’