Prologue
’Breaking News.
‘It had been assumed that President Kafelnikov would fulfil the role of Russian president for another ten years. But it has been confirmed, only moments ago, that the Russian president has submitted a resignation letter to the Russian Federal Assembly. His wife Angela was reported to have been hospitalised recently following a routine check-up. What do we know, Jacqui?’
‘Thanks, Brad. I am standing outside the hospital where the president’s wife was recently admitted. Although authorities have not given any details, it is understood that she died on the operating table last night. As you know, Brad, President Kafelnikov and his wife were inseparable. Wait a moment…’
‘What is it, Jacqui?’
‘That looks like the president’s daughter, Maria Kafelnikov.’
‘News off.’
The screen went blank, and Prince Al Atarique’s shoulders slumped.
I shall have to message my condolences. Another potential member of the consortium gone.
The prince checked himself in the mirror and adjusted the top layer of his robes. His face was clean shaven if anyone asked, but for those close to him, he was late to puberty and had yet to grow any whiskers, never mind the full beard that his father told him was a sign of a true leader. His headdress sat perfectly central.
‘That will suffice,’ he told the teenager in the mirror.
As Prince Al Atarique stepped towards the door, a valet opened it from the other side. He nodded, signalling his thanks, and headed down the corridor. His father had booked him the whole floor despite the prince’s argument against showing off his excess when the world was on the precipice of disaster and ruin. There was never any argument. They’d simply had a discourse before he set out on the journey.
‘Father, there is no need,’ the prince had said in his clipped English boarding school accent.
‘There is every need, Zayed. The West should always be reminded of our dominance in the world. Every hotel, we should be in the top floor with no expense spared.’
‘There will be no others from the group in the same hotel.’
‘That is of no matter. You know how all the hotel staff talk about such things. It would not take long for news of my son, Prince Al Atarique, taking a basic room in an economical hotel. There would be questions asked. Questions of what has happened to our wealth. I will not have that happening to you, my son.’
‘Are we still rich, Father?’
Sultan Fahd bin Rashid Al Atarique smiled. ‘We need never worry. My advisors through the years guided me to diversifying. We own many companies in many industries across the globe.’
‘And the space industry?’
‘You need not concern yourself with commerce, my son—yet.’
‘But if I am to appear knowledgeable in front of the selected autocrats, surely I will need to come from a position of knowledge rather than just position?’
The sultan stopped and stared at his son. ‘You have reminded me why it was you I selected as my true heir above all others.’
Zayed smiled at the praise, then frowned, realising his question had yet to be answered. ‘So?’
‘We have a minority stake in the largest international engineering and drilling company.’
‘And does that include work in the space industry?’
The sultan nodded.
***
Zayed scanned the room, and each time he couldn’t remember the name of a representative, he raised a finger.
‘Your Highness, that is the North Korean delegate on the left. He is the CEO of the largest industrial sector of the country,’ his aide whispered in his ear.
He knew the man opposite to be the head of Coben Engineering, the rising star of international conglomerates that covered all industries, including the space industry. Zayed looked away from the piercing blue-grey eyes under the extraordinarily bushy eyebrows. The man’s mouth was tightened into a slit which made him appear hostile.
Not the only one who appears to want to be elsewhere, Zayed noted.
He saw a woman sit down at the far side of the table. Her angled, Slavic cheekbones and pencil-thin eyebrows made him think Eastern European.
‘The Russian delegate, Your Highness,’ his aide whispered before he indicated that he had a question. ‘She has replaced President Kafelnikov.’
Zayed nodded in thanks for the unsolicited information.
The majority of delegates were presidents, prime ministers, and dignitaries of countries from across the globe.
The current leader of Project Exodus stood and the room quietened abruptly, and it was this that Zayed had been feeling—a mix of exultation and foreboding.
‘I hereby resign from the position of chair of Project Exodus.’ The elderly man with wrinkles creasing his face stared at the young prince from the Middle East with intense, piercing eyes. ‘I recommend that Prince Al Atarique replace me, for he has shown wisdom beyond his years and an ability to listen, which is a truly remarkable skill for one his age.’ The outgoing leader of Project Exodus passed his searing gaze around the room, only pausing once or twice to challenge anyone who looked to go against his advice.
‘All those in favour?’ the head of Coben Engineering called out loudly.
‘Aye.’ The Russian delegate surprised everyone by being the first to agree.
One by one the delegates agreed, some after a brief pause, and some answering indifferently.
So, it is done. I’m the new chair of Project Exodus. What have I agreed to?
