‘One moment, Hassan…’ It was Raschid who stopped him from rising. Worked in and timed to reach this point in proceedings, he said, ‘I have some objections to put forward against your decision.’
Hassan returned to his seat. Raschid nodded his gratitude for this, then addressed the table as a whole. ‘Rahman’s land borders my land. Your oil pipeline runs beneath Behran soil and mixes with my oil in our co-owned holding tanks when it reaches the Gulf. And the old ones criss-cross our borders from oasis to oasis with a freedom laid down in a treaty drawn up and signed by Al-Kadah and Al-Qadim thirty years ago. So tell me,’ he begged, ‘with whom am I expected to renegotiate this treaty when an Al-Qadim is no longer in a position to honour his side of our bargain?’
It was an attack on all fronts. For Rahman was landlocked. It needed Behran to get its oil to the tankers that moored up at its vast terminals. The treaty was old and the tariffs laid down in it had not been changed in those thirty years Raschid had mentioned. Borders were mere lines on maps the old ones were free to ignore as they roamed the desert with their camel trains.
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