Free Invasion by Dc Alden Page B

baked in the Cairo heat, here was Geoffrey Cooper at the palace of Sharm El Sheikh.
    Presently, the buggy left the shade of the trees as the path carried them through the ornate gardens towards the splendid marble palace ahead of them. Cooper was impressed. It was every bit as magnificent as it was rumoured to be – a seven-storey circular marble building with a huge, ornate brazier at its pinnacle, the natural gas flame that burned inside said to be visible for fifty miles. The grounds that surrounded the building were perfectly manicured and alive with flora and fauna of the most vivid colours. Designed and built specifically for the accommodation and entertainment of selected diplomatic guests of Arabia, the palace was the pinnacle in luxury without the decadence of western avarice, a place where the real business of Arabian politics was carried out, away from the superficial posturing of Cairo. An invite here meant that the Arabians wanted to do business. Copper had arrived, in more ways than one.
    The British party was met by a large group of Arabian officials in the towering glass and marble atrium. Palms were pressed, photographs taken and Cooper was shown to his private penthouse on the top floor. The suite was a sumptuous, ornate affair, the huge bed and furnishings bedecked in the finest silks and fabrics and woven in the richest colours. The bathroom was enormous, encompassing a walk-in bath, whirlpool and the most wonderful multi-jet shower that Cooper had ever experienced. Outside on the balcony, Cooper towelled himself dry as he admired the view, the surrounding oasis giving way to the Red Sea that shimmered in the distance under the warm rays of the setting sun.
    After dressing in the traditional silk gown provided, Cooper made his way down to the atrium. He was ushered out across the ornate gardens where dinner was being served in the balmy night air. The meal was an informal affair and Cooper mingled happily with the twenty or so businessmen and politicians already there. Some he knew, others he did not. They sat around a low wooden table, propped up on mounds of large silk cushions. As the shadows lengthened, huge candles bathed the gardens in soft light and the exotic night call of birds could be heard from nearby palm groves. A quartet of musicians played quietly in the background whilst, overhead, a billion stars created an ambience that bore no comparison. As he looked around, Cooper thought the scene quite surreal, almost magical in its composition.
    They ate from the finest china and feasted on curried soups, roasted chickens, succulent fish, sweet potatoes, green salads and vegetables, all washed down with crisp white wines and deep, fruity reds served by attractive young women in traditional Arabic dress. Unlike most of Arabia, the palace was not alcohol-free. In fact, to further facilitate an atmosphere of conviviality, it was positively encouraged, the Arabians skilfully managing the meal and the conversation, neither singling out nor ignoring any particular guest, ensuring that stomachs were full and glasses continually topped.
    After dinner, Cooper found himself engaged in an interesting debate with a Turkish businessman and a low-level Spanish diplomat. The Turk was baiting the Spaniard about his government’s historically harsh policies towards immigrants from North Africa and Cooper was keen to hear the official Spanish line. Immigration was a sensitive issue in Western Europe and Cooper was always keen to get a new angle on things.
    ‘Would you like a refill, Sir?’
    The moment he turned around, Cooper decided she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her eyes, so warm and brown, her long eye-lashes and sensual lips, her face perfectly framed by a cascade of dark ringlets, all combining to form a vision of exquisite female splendour. Her smile was genuine, disarming, and her skin, lit softly by the myriad of candles, was tanned and flawless. Cooper held out his glass, speechless