The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

They literally struck oil. By the time his father had died, he’d left Khalil an empire worth billions of US dollars.

Khalil pictured his father’s face: deep wrinkles pitting his face, dark brown skin under a traditional brightly coloured turban. He rarely saw his father out of his ancient Berber dress, even though he’d once been beaten in the street for it by a French soldier – a story his father never mentioned but his mother told him. He wore it till his dying day. Inside the house, a portrait hung, an oil of huge dimensions, depicting the great man sat underneath a palm, surrounded by indications of wealth and status. It was positioned so that anyone visiting or working inside the house had to walk past it and admire its power.

Khalil swam for the ladder. He had an office in town, but worked mainly from his study in the house. It was as large as the main reception room overlooking the pool. The huge barbeque area dominated the outdoor space, and that’s where they ate mostly as a family, with their cook preparing various meats (except pork) marinated in spices and tomatoes and skewered on to metal spikes over charcoal, eaten with flatbread, the juices dripping onto vegetable couscous and cooled with yoghurt.

He took his towel and dried off, wrapping it around his body, which was hard from training sessions with his personal trainer who came to his private gym every morning at six a.m. Taking care of his body had become more of a priority after a stroke stole his father away, as well as turning fifty this year. He took his clothes and walked towards the house, his head full of the meetings and phone calls he had to attend to today. He took his pile of clothes to the laundry room – he was the only member of the family who did this – and left them there, making his way to his private bedroom suite. After his shower, he changed into another pair of suit trousers, with a crisp white shirt, and finished his attire with cufflinks and expensive cologne. He didn’t wear a tie.

His office was situated next door to his private rooms and was accessed by an adjoining door. One wall was entirely constructed of glass, enabling him to overlook the sea when he lacked inspiration or needed to take a deep breath. He had everything he needed to conduct his affairs, venturing into the sweltering city only when he had to. Not that climbing from an air-conditioned car out into a shaded parking lot underneath his headquarters was onerous or taxing, it was simply that he preferred the comfort of home. Meetings in the city were usually over a luxurious meal or a hospitality evening at the racecourse.

The house was hushed – he preferred the maids not to talk – and he went to the vast kitchen to make a coffee in the machine. He’d only begun to drink it when his business took him to the United States and Europe decades ago, tasting the bitter liquid for the first time. He was attracted to the sophistication of the ritual and the way that Europeans spent time savouring the frothy milk, sugar and small biscuits that accompanied the dainty cups. He always took water with his, like the Italians. He looked at his watch: the drive to the airport had meant a late start and his stomach rumbled as he realised that it was gone lunchtime. He’d lingered at the airport, not to see off his eldest son but to check details for the shipping of some of his containers bound for the French port of Marseilles. The border police headquarters was at the port of Algiers, but they had offices at the airport as well. He met with customs officials and had been offered light morning snacks with tea.

Ordinarily, he would have tasked the job to somebody else but recent developments spurred him to take control of the arrangements himself. A former associate had made contact with him recently, expecting him to offer his services for old times’ sake. He’d been wrong. Khalil’s operations might have dabbled in the grey world between international law at various points over the last few decades, but he’d found that adhering to multinational boundaries and agreements was better for the future of his company, than other, less transparent methods. This is where he broke the mould in African commercial circles: he had moved his company away from the shackles of warlords and corrupt politicians trying to shape him into something they could use and play with as a puppet. And that is why he actively encouraged Hakim to spread his wings, even if it was in the capital of the country that had tortured his father. Success was constructed not grabbed. He hadn’t come this far, securing deals with Europe and the United States, to lose it all because he was found to be in bed with the last straggling factions of revenge politics.

This is precisely what made him vigilant and nervous at the same time.

Putting his coffee on the counter, he went to nose about in the fridge. Each one of their maids was also trained as a splendid cook and they prepared all meals, leaving in the fridge a veritable gold mine of carefully wrapped leftovers. He tucked in to crispy spring rolls and a chilli dip.

One of the maids entered the room and apologised. ‘Sir, you are hungry? Why didn’t you say? I’ll make you some tortilla.’

The problem with good cooks was that they wanted you to eat their food. It was why he needed a personal trainer to keep him in shape, otherwise he’d roll about his office, eating all day long if he allowed them to indulge him. The problem with trained cooks is that they want to feed you every minute of every day. His wife, Taziri, was on the hefty side, but Khalil liked it