Shadow of the Burj

by J Jackson Bentley

  When she had absconded from her parents, she had been shocked to see that her credit cards and her bank account had been frozen. Her mobile phone was disconnected, and the security men at her apartment had been instructed to keep her out of the property by changing the locks and insisting that she rang home in their presence. She was alone in London with no money and nothing but the clothes she was wearing. More of a concern was the fact that she had always been chaperoned and had never had to use public transport or even make a booking of any kind herself. She realised that she was childlike in her naivety, and wholly unprepared to face this world alone.

  With nowhere else to go, she decided to give up her freedom and return to the apartment, where she would be placed under house arrest until someone transported her back home.

  As she approached the apartment block she burst into tears, and was surprised to hear her name spoken.

  “Aara, what is wrong?” She looked up, and through her tears she saw the impossibly beautiful face of Oliver, the brother of her friend Maya. Oliver was the English name Maya’s brother had adopted when he began his studies in Europe. Oliver was concerned about her, and he led her gently to his apartment block just along the road from her own.

  Oliver was a Prince in his own right, and he listened to Aara’s tale of woe long into the night. With his dark skin and eyes, and a face framed in impossibly black designer stubble, Oliver was exactly the kind of man Aara would have married on demand. Sadly, and not mentioned outside the family, Oliver had no interest in women.

  For three days she stayed with Oliver whilst he used his good offices to try to mediate between his childhood friend and her parents, but to no avail. After the three days were up, and against her protestations, Oliver paid for a month’s rent at an apartment hotel in the city and he gave her a prepaid credit card, which had been charged with almost five thousand pounds. As generous as this would have appeared to others, to Oliver it was small change, as his monthly allowance whilst studying was in excess of twenty thousand pounds.

  To Aara, too, it was not seen as being overly generous, as she and her mother had often spent five thousand pounds in one shop alone before moving on and shopping elsewhere.

  That lifeline had permitted Aara to approach a charity established in London to assist women who were running from forced marriages. She soon found herself in a tiny flat, working for a pittance of a salary, and miserable. She missed her old life, with all of its luxuries, and she missed never having to be concerned about money.

  She was at a charity fundraiser, complaining to an Australian man about the stark contrast between her current miserable existence and her former life, when he suggested a way out. He suggested a way for her to have the lifestyle she wanted and still be free from her family.

  Over the next few years she directed women who were lost and alone, who were being cast out from their communities because they were beautiful but unwilling to marry some fat old friend of the family, to the Australian, who would offer them a better life abroad. She received a handsome remuneration for every girl who left London, Manchester, Blackburn and Leicester looking for a better life with the Polletti organisation.

  Then, with help, she returned to the Middle East, made peace with her relatives (but not her parents) and had them fund her ongoing work with unfortunate and abused women.

  By the time she had returned to her roots, she was once again the burkha-wearing, virtuous girl who had dedicated her life to good works. Her relatives had no idea of her years of debauchery and unremembered one night stands, of her drunkenness or her criminality. She smiled as she fell asleep.

  They had all seen what they wanted to see.

  ***

  A silver Lexus with blacked out windows pulled into the driveway at Villa Afzal and the tall gates closed remotely behind it. The Brigadier sat behind the wheel. It had been a long day for him too, punctuated by a wedding and a bombing. Jamie and Max stood expectantly at the door of the villa as the passenger door opened and Todd Michaelson stepped out.

  Chapter 45

  Villa Afzal, 14C Street, Al Safa 1, Dubai:

  3rd March; 11:30pm

  Jamie rushed to Todd and threw her arms around him. She did not speak a word, but there was no need. Todd looked tired and drawn. Seven hours had passed since he left the villa, but it had seemed like a lifetime.

  ***

  When Aysha had left Todd alone in Aara’s office, he had picked up the Porsche keys and was about to leave when he saw something that piqued his interest. Using the remote control, he pointed the beam out of the window at the Porsche and started the car remotely to allow the air conditioning to cool the car down before he drove home. The Porsche had been standing in the direct sun for almost an hour, and the saloon would be like a sauna. The leather upholstery would be hot enough to give third degree burns. The car started and the air cooling system began to do its job.

  Todd leaned over to examine the A3 sized photograph more closely. In the centre of the picture stood a younger Aara dressed in modest western clothing. Her shoulders and knees were covered, and none of her outfit was form fitting. Her head was not covered, and her rich auburn hair flowed freely with the light breeze. The rather beautiful daughter-in-law of the Jordanian ruler was presenting an oversized cheque to Aara on the steps leading to the front door of the white painted, four-storey Jordanian Embassy in Phillimore Gardens in London. The cheque was made out to Aara’s fledgling Muslim Women’s Foundation, and was being presented before a crowd of onlookers.

  The majority of the crowd were Muslim women dressed in a variety of colourful headscarves, but standing a head taller than all of the women was a Western man. At first, the man looked as if he might be no more than the driver of the luxury saloon waiting at the kerb to take Aara to her next meeting. To Todd Michaelson, however, he was an adversary; the man had travelled under many names, but he was born with the name Pete Adams.

  Todd was puzzling over the picture when the bomb exploded and the opaque glass from the window blew inwards with some force. Shards of glass showered the room. The force of the blast threw him across the room, but he was aware of little except noise, dust and then blackness.

  He had awoken on the glass-strewn floor of the office with an Arabic paramedic passing smelling salts under his nose. As far as he could gather, he had been unconscious for around twenty minutes. By the time he was sitting up in a chair, the door to the room was firmly closed and was being guarded by a policeman every bit as tall and tough looking as Todd himself.

  The Brigadier had eventually come into the room to debrief him, and to isolate him, telling Todd that the only way he would be safe was if his adversary thought he was dead. The Brigadier pointed out that this was the fourth attempt on his life in as many weeks. Todd had not needed the reminder. He reluctantly agreed to be isolated from everyone, including his friends, until nightfall, and until anyone who might know he was still alive had been questioned.

  Aysha, the girl who had shown him around, clearly believed he had been killed. When she was apprehended, as she was making a run for it, her first statement had been, “I was involved in the trafficking but not the murder.”

  ***

  Todd explained everything that had happened during the hours since he had last seen them to his two colleagues. The Australian looked particularly saddened when he explained that Aara had clearly been a party to his intended assassination, but he was equally distressed that the shelter had been little more than a grooming centre for the trafficking of women.

  It was now clear that for some years Aara had been rescuing women from abusive surroundings, only to primp and preen them before sending them off to even more oppressive employers. Worse still, if the photograph in her office was taken as evidence, she had been in partnership with Vincente Polletti.

  Jamie told Todd that he had been reinstated, without having to offer an apology, by the Sheikh, who was still too embarrassed to speak to him directly. The Sheikh had expressed horror that he had a
llowed Aara into their small team. It now appeared likely that she had been responsible for the various attacks on that team.

  Once the bombs were secured, he would be offering his resignation to the Crown Prince. He had told Max and Jamie, in a voice cracking with emotion, that he was too old and too naïve to run an operation like this again.

  As he was leaving, Max had rested a hand on the Sheikh’s shoulder, which was strictly against protocol, and said to the older man, “If I know Todd, and I think I do, he has already forgiven you, if forgiveness is even necessary. He may act otherwise, but I believe he has a great affection and respect for you.”

  The Sheikh looked gratefully at Max and responded, “May Allah’s blessing rest on all of you and on your household.”

  ***

  Aysha sat miserably in a cell at Bur Dubai Police Station, knowing that this was her future. She would not sleep tonight; she feared she would never sleep again. The cell door opened, and a lady stepped inside. She looked as though she might be a lawyer. Although it was now after midnight, the woman was dressed and made up impeccably. Her head was covered in the traditional style, but she wore a simple long skirt and a matching tunic, both in black.

  “Hello, Miss Aysha. My name is Iffat, and I am from the Special Investigations Division where I handle women’s affairs. It seems to me that there are two possibilities here; you are as guilty as your evil bosses, or you are just another victim.” Iffat looked into Aysha’s eyes. “So, which is it?” Aysha began to cry.

  By the time Iffat left the cell thirty minutes later, they had decided that Aysha was just another victim who would earn her freedom, and subsequent deportation back to India, by cooperating with the authorities.

  Chapter 46

  Magriff Services Building, Jebel Ali, Dubai:

  4th March; 7am.

  Just eight men would be required for the delivery and placement of the charges to the sixteen turbines, due to the fact that most of the sites had more than one turbine. Out of the first floor window of the Magriff Services Building they could see almost half of their targets.

  The bare suite that they had rented for the morning was furnished with formica tables pushed together to create what was hoped would look like a conference table. The flooring was vinyl and the chairs were plastic bucket style seats. A much used whiteboard, scarred with scratches and indelibly coated with multiple ghostly presentations from recent events, took up most of one wall.

  Khaweini had chosen the venue because it was cheap and badly run. It was also close to most of the power stations, and his men needed to be at work in an hour. Dressed in his robes, complete with a headdress concealing his shaven head and a five day growth of beard, the Mullah addressed his group of followers.

  “Brothers in the cause, my fellow travellers in Jihad, the time is upon us when we must bring Allah back into this heathen nation. They pretend to be faithful and true but they are weakened by the West. Their eyes are continually feasting on the riches that can be theirs by pandering to the West. Oil should have been our friend; it should have spread Islam across the globe. Take our religion and we will sell you our oil! But we did not. The pampered and perfumed princes of Satan bowed to their former colonial masters, and they are now indistinguishable from their Western masters. They allow our Palestinian brothers and sisters to be beaten down because Israel controls America. They sit silently by as warmongering nations invade the region because they do not like Islam to be practiced as it should be. They would have our wives and daughters dress as whores and be made weak and needy by drugs and alcohol. But we will not. We will stop this hedonistic and wicked society dead in its tracks, tomorrow.”

  “You, my brothers, will be remembered! People will talk of you in whispered awe as the revolution spreads across Islam and the world. They will say, it started with those few. Oh, why could I not be there? The people will rejoice and call you blessed. Allah will place you at his feet. You will earn your place in history and in Heaven.

  Now, go and prepare the way. Ensure that all is ready for tomorrow at Dhuhr Prayers, shortly after noon. If the charges explode at that time, many workers will be at prayer or in their lunch break and we can take away a way of life without taking a single life.”

  The men muttered their confirmation by reciting from the Quran under their breaths, or by praying for Allah to make them successful. As they filed out, taking their explosives with them, Kwong Chong Lee simply smiled. He would be on his way to the Cayman Islands when the bombs went off. To wait until the power and water was cut off would mean having to fight the inevitable crowds of Indians, Filipinos and Westerners also trying to get away from this dying desert city.

  ***

  Max was up early. There was still a lot to do. They knew a bombing was coming, but where and when was still a mystery. He was sitting at the dining table, the projector showing the contents of his laptop screen on the expanse of white wall. He also had the desktop computer open to their combined Outlook accounts. Deep in thought, he hardly noticed the notification icon in the bottom left hand corner of the desktop screen. Opening the main Outlook screen, he saw a list of his emails and those of Todd and Jamie. The latest email was addressed to Jamie, and was from Homeland Security. As he had the early watch, he opened the email and read the contents:

  Dear Jamie,

  The Information you received from the FBI yesterday on Jussuf Khalid was incomplete. We attach a portfolio which includes his CV. The FBI were concentrating on the risk he posed by helping the Iranians with their nuclear program, having read the file I don’t think he offered them anything. We may have been somewhat premature in our assumptions.

  In short, Jussuf was a talented engineer who interned at GE and worked for American General Power. He is credited with designing turbine blades that were thinner and more efficient than their predecessors. Apparently all of the main turbine manufacturers use similar designs now. Despite this, when he first designed these blades the experts said they were too fragile for industrial use and dismissed them.

  I’m not sure what this has to do with anything but can I urge you once more to return home so that you can continue your rehabilitation at home. I assume you are still resting on Doctor’s Orders.

  Brett.

  Max almost laughed. Anyone who knew Jamie would know that resting wasn’t an option she would consider. He opened the attached CV, but it revealed little more than the email had about the man’s specialisation.

  “Specialisation!” Max said out loud, even though there was no-one else around. “Why hire a turbine blade engineer specifically?”

  Max spent the next twenty minutes on Wikipedia, GE, Alstom and Westinghouse’s websites, learning about turbines. At the end of his research he concluded that Khaweini and his mad bomber friend were planning to either blow up a plane, which used the same engines and blades, or a major power station. Unfortunately, hundreds of planes took off every day from Dubai, and there were probably thirty power stations in the region. The problem would be finding which plane or power station was the target, and finding it in time.

  ***

  By 9am Khaweini and Kwong were back at their safe-house. Kwong was packing his suitcase, and Khaweini was shaving, changing and becoming his western alter ego again.

  Kwong had spent an hour last night watching his abandoned hire car standing alone in the Mall car park before deciding that it was safe to retrieve it. Clearly the police had not connected the car they saw pulling away from the Gold and Diamond Centre with the Shadow.

  As he drove the car out and placed his ticket in the barrier console, an error message flashed and the barrier remained in place. Kwong was about to reverse out when a smartly dressed Mall Security man approached him. Kwong explained that he had parked the car yesterday, but then had been taken ill and had only now been able to retrieve it. He apologised for leaving the car overnight, but he’d had no choice in the matter.

  The security man had heard it all before, and said that he could only raise the bar
rier if Kwong paid the late fee of one hundred dirhams. Kwong gladly paid the fee, and within a minute the barrier lifted. Kwong was relieved that he had not needed to use the Glock 19 pistol which was sitting in the door pocket.

  Now he was making himself ready for the long road trip to Muscat in Oman. It would take four hours, but he would be leaving the UAE by the most popular route, he would be passing through passport control at the point where his passport and luggage would be likely to receive only a scant inspection. Thereafter, as the authorities in Oman were not looking for him, he could fly out with Oman Air to Frankfurt, where he would connect with his flight to the USA. With any luck, he would be on his way across the Atlantic by the time the bombs went off.

  His flight to Frankfurt was scheduled for an 11pm departure, and he would be in the air again out of Frankfurt by daybreak in Dubai. By the time the news cycle was reporting the devastating impact of his bombs on Dubai, he would be in a hotel room in New York.

  Khaweini was extremely displeased with the Korean. He wanted the bomber to stay until the bombs had done their work but, despite his threats, the man was leaving. Still, there was little that could go wrong, and there would be a mass exodus from Dubai in the next few days, and so Khaweini understood the Shadow’s concerns.

  Khaweini took a moment to check his supplies. The oil tank was full; he could run the emergency generator for a full two weeks after the electricity failed, he had six full bottles for his water cooler, and the small swimming pool was topped up with chlorinated water. Khaweini could hunker down for two weeks or more in relative comfort, while savouring the despair of the local population as their cash cows left Dubai in herds. In a month the mosques would be full as people turned to Allah and turned away from the Sheikhs, who were powerless to help them and who would probably flee the Emirate themselves until order was restored.