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He nods curtly. “I can also have a pretty good guess at what you’re offering, and I’ve no doubt it will be of interest to them. But I don’t like it. I don’t want you to get into something you can’t handle.”
My jaw drops open. The arrogant bastard thinks I’m not up to it. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping the floor, drawing attention from those on surrounding tables. “Fuck you, Clark, you self-righteous prick.”
He stands as I storm away from him. “Dayna, I wasn’t saying…”
I ignore him in the queue to board the plane, and I ignore him when he walks past me to take a seat towards the back of first class.
We land on time and I have to move swiftly for my connection to Bahrain. There’s no time for a messy goodbye. Instead, I’ll have an awkward-as-hell night at the conference, but right now, I have to get my mind back in the game.
THE SHORT FLIGHT to Bahrain gave me time to think about the meeting. I need to be firm. Show them I can be on their level, but charm them enough that they want to take my deal. This is the only chance I have of beating Caspar and taking a small piece of the revenge my father deserves, that eleven workers and their families deserve.
I fleetingly considered Teddy’s concerns this morning about Iran. If oil really does hit thirty dollars a barrel and keep spiralling, I could be putting SP in a position to lose money. It’s something I need to think about. And I will. I already have Arthur in my ear about financials, but I’m struggling to believe his motivation isn’t just to protect me from the Middle East. Right now, this well isn’t just about money to me. It’s about so much more.
A man in traditional dress holds up a sign with my name, misspelled, and leads me out to a limousine arranged by Hassan.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Bahrain, Ms Cross. We have a short drive to Mr Deeb and Mr Akbar. They wait for you.”
Twenty minutes later the limousine stops. The blue coast is on one side and an opulent hotel on the other. The heat of the afternoon is strong and feels intense against my all-black attire. The driver gestures to a concrete staircase that leads to an orange-stone archway. Two guards with guns slung across their shoulders stand either side of the double-door entrance.
Maybe I should have let Clark come with me.
I try to hide my involuntary shudder and swallow my nerves as I nod to the guards and walk into the hotel.
“Ms Cross, this way.” A man steps from behind the reception desk. I follow him out to a terrace that overhangs the sea. Two more armed guards stand either side of a short staircase leading out to the only occupied table. Two men, whom I take to be Hassan Deeb and Mr Akbar, sit smoking cigarettes, small glass cups of tea in front of them.
“Mr Deeb, sir,” the receptionist says.
“Ah, Dayna, welcome.” Hassan stands and holds out a hand. As he does, one of the guards lifts my free arm and starts to pat me down. I jerk at his touch. “Please, Dayna. I’m sure you understand; we can never be too careful.”
I try to relax as the guard frisks me, thankful that he doesn’t try anything funny.
“This is Hamad Akbar. A fellow member of the Gulf Council and our government here.”
I extend my hand, which Hamad takes somewhat reluctantly, throwing me a hostile look as he does. A waiter holds out the spare chair at the table, and I take my cue to sit.
I tell him I’ll join the men in drinking mint tea but decline the offer of food.
“Do you mind if we smoke, Dayna?” Hassan asks.
“Not at all.” I really couldn’t be more uncomfortable anyway. “Gentlemen, I know your time is precious, so let me get straight down to why I’m here.” I somehow manage to sound confident.
“We know you come to offer an alternative bid. What is it?” Hamad’s words and manner are abrupt and more than a little rude.
I try to hide that I’m taken aback. “Alright then.” I reach down to my bag to take out some papers that I haphazardly pulled together yesterday and had printed at the airport in Switzerland. As I do, a guard makes a swift move towards me, holding his gun in both hands.
I raise a palm and take the papers out slowly, feeling, frankly, terrified. I try to hide the tremble in my fingers as I hand both men a document. “This is my proposal. You may already be aware that SP has unrivalled blending know-how in the market at the moment. I think I could use that expertise to generate more profit from the well than either of the other top bidders.”
“I’m curious, Ms Cross. Why do you not do that yourself?” Hamad asks, blowing smoke in my face.
“Well, I could have, with my first bid. But I’m afraid I don’t have the capital to outbid Per— the other bidders.”
Hassan chortles. “It is alright. We expect you know who they are. Our tender process is a formality, Dayna. But… rules can be… circumvented, shall we say?”
I nod, uncertain how much of an undertone lies beneath that statement. “Well, here is my proposal. That figure there is my offer, but I’m willing to give you a ten percent stake in the profits of the well. Ultimately, I estimate that cumulative sum would outbid Persian Fuels and Layton Oil.”
“You want to work with us.”
My heart starts racing in my chest. Do I really want to get into bed with men who have four armed guards for tea? I remind myself not to tar every Middle Eastern man with the same brush as Caspar Kahn. “That is what I’m proposing, yes.”
