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THE WEEKEND SEEMS to have flown over in some ways. In others, it feels like a lot has passed in these mountains.
In hindsight, I wish I’d packed a trouser suit for today, but when I packed I had expected to be heading out to Dubai for a conference, not sitting down with Hassan Deeb — a member of the Bahraini government and the Gulf Cooperation Council. I’ve heard he takes no prisoners. A my-way-or-the-end-of-your-business-in-the-Middle-East kind of man. It shouldn’t make a difference, but I’d much rather be wearing trousers to meet a man with his reputation.
Arthur has tried to talk me out of this twice. This morning, I’m refusing to take his calls. He needs to get on board with this or realise that I’ll do it without him. It’s not a choice I want to make, but I want this well and I’ll get it however I can. I’m offering something neither Layton Oil nor Persian Fuels can compete with, if Hassan Deeb is onside.
I head downstairs, Tim lugging my suitcase behind me. Clark and I are heading out to the airport, but the others are staying for one last day of skiing. There aren’t many flights from Geneva to Dubai, and given we’re both meant to be headed to the same conference, it’s not much of a coincidence that I’m on Clark’s flight. What he doesn’t know is that I’m connecting straight out to Bahrain. Nor will I be telling him. Whatever is, or isn’t, going on with us, it’s personal. This is business, and he’s still my competition.
“I’ve heard the sanctions are definitely being lifted on Iran, Clark.” Teddy is in business mode in the kitchen. “Once Iran starts selling back into the West, into Europe, they’re going to cause a real stir. Analysists are saying we’ll be at thirty dollars a barrel soon. It’s on a downward slope. Another two big dogs look like they’re going under this week. This is not a good time to buy, bud, and there’s no scope for you to increase your budget.”
I clear my throat. I’ve made a mental note of Teddy’s concern, since it affects me too, but I won’t let them talk shop without knowing I’m here; it’s underhanded.
Clark loosens his tie slightly at the neck and brazenly drags his eyes over my black pencil dress. “Eyes to yourself, Layton. We’re back to business.”
“Let’s talk about the kind of business I’d like to be getting down to.”
Raising an eyebrow, I pick up the half-eaten croissant on the worktop in front of him and take a huge bite. I wash it down with a mouthful of his coffee. “Or we could not.” We might be playing nice but crude jokes are a leap too far. “You ready?”
“That was my breakfast.”
“It was good, thank you. Can I finish this?” I drain his coffee and take the last of the croissant.
We say our goodbyes to the others and ride to the airport, Clark checking his emails, me listening to another voicemail from Arthur.
“Dayna, I don’t feel good about this. This isn’t the kind of meeting you should be going to alone. These men are bad news.”
It’d be nice if he stopped adding to my anxiety about this meeting. I’ve heard how tough the guys are in the Middle East. Damn it, I’ve seen the lengths they’ll go to get what they want. But I’m asking them to come onside with me, work with me. This isn’t a war. Arthur’s acting like they’ve baited me in and I have a shoot-on-sight price on my head. I went to them. I’m offering them a deal they’ll like.
I don’t know why I feel unsettled or why there’s lingering anxiousness in my chest, but I do know that Arthur is making it bloody worse.
Despite my protests, Clark wheels my suitcase and his own to check-in. Our other bags and ski kit are going back to England with the rest of the group. He lifts my case onto the weigh-in belt then moves to the desk next to mine.
“Dubai, sir?” his check-in assistant asks.
I cringe when my bubbly check-in lady announces, “Bahrain.”
I nod, trying not to look at Clark, knowing his eyes will be on me.
“Bahrain?” he asks as we’re heading up the escalator to security. I give him a confirmatory look without speaking. “Fuck me,” he whispers. “You were making a hand all this time. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you don’t have balls, Cross.”
Cross. I’m back to “Cross”, and I have balls. Well, that’s probably for the best. This is what I know, business. I’m more comfortable here than locked in a chalet with Clark for a weekend, and if I must have a scrotum to play business associates with him, I guess I’ll start watching sports with my hand down my pants and scratching my bollocks.
He hardly speaks as we clear security and grab coffee. We sit at a table in the window and watch the planes taxiing and taking off. We’re not exactly on good terms, but we’re at least faking being friends who have no questionable benefits or tension hovering between us.
“Let me come with you.”
I slurp my latte. “To Bahrain?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him, thinking he’s going to laugh any second. He doesn’t. “You’re actually serious. Why would I want you to come to Bahrain?”
He leans back in his seat. “I don’t want you to go alone. I don’t like it.”
My stomach twists, and this time it’s not because he cares, it’s because yet another man is telling me this meeting could be dangerous. “What do you all know that I don’t? Hmm? These are government officials, Clark. I’m not going to the underworld.”
“You’d be closer to the underworld than you think. Trust me.”
I feel my annoyance rise. “You’ve surely worked out I’m going to talk about an alternative bid.”
