Shadow of the Burj

by J Jackson Bentley

  “And give my regards to Jamie, mate. She’s a great girl.”

  “What makes you think I’ll be seeing her again?”

  “Well, mate, she strikes me as a girl who gets what she wants and I’ve seen her looking at you with a hungry look in her eye.”

  “You’re imagining things.” Max responded unconvincingly.

  “I know women and I know criminals, mate. It’s what I do.”

  A uniformed sergeant entered the room carrying a sheaf of papers. It was Todd’s statement, printed out and ready for reading and signing. There would be more papers and forms to sign before the day was out. Todd had discharged his fire-arm three times with devastating consequences; that warranted a ream of paperwork.

  “Get off to the hotel, Max. If I don’t see you before you leave I’ll see you at the trial of the century.” The two friends shook hands, and Max left Todd with a frown on his face and a pen in his hand.

  Chapter 59

  Jebel Ali Cruise Terminal, Dubai:

  7th March 2012; 5pm.

  Georges Cohsee, George Albert Baker and Mullah Khaweini were all on board the cruise ship, in the form of one man who looked like every other tourist on board. Clean shaven, close cropped hair, eyebrows and hair a dirty blonde colour and his face obscured behind large aviator style sunglasses with mirrored lenses, he gazed out over the port from the deck rail.

  The Arabian Princess was modern cruise liner, sleek and dazzlingly white. With only seven decks it was smaller than many of the cruise ships calling in at Dubai, but it usually spent its summers cruising the Mediterranean and the extra berths more decks would provide simply were not needed, especially given the rates charged for the luxurious liner’s staterooms.

  The ship was due to leave any minute, but an anxious First Mate was hovering on the quayside, glancing at his watch every few seconds. The reason for both the delay and the First Mate’s anxiety became clear as a limousine drove along the dock and parked right beside the gangplank. The cruise company had been instructed to await the arrival of Her Royal Highness the Princess Haya Al Mahani bin Hassan. An Arabic looking chauffeur stepped out of the car as two luggage captains emerged from nowhere to open the car’s boot and remove a huge heavy trunk. As soon as the trunk was making its way up the gangplank, the chauffeur opened the rear door of the car and a lady stepped out. She was entirely covered in black, her beautifully cut hijab detailed with gold thread. Her face was veiled and her eyes were obscured by designer sunglasses.

  Georges Cohsee wondered who she was, along with every other passenger who saw her, but then he noticed the number plate on the limousine. It bore a single number 9. Number plates with a single number signified a senior member of the Royal Family. The first mate escorted the Princess onto the ship, and as soon as she was on-board the door was closed and the gangplank lifted. The cruise liner was on its way to Sharm El Sheik in Egypt, via Oman and Jeddah, and whilst Georges was booked on the round trip, he would be leaving the vessel permanently at Sharm El Sheikh and using the chaos that was Egypt’s border control to slip away to Europe without leaving a trail. The plan had been developed before the Arab Spring, but it would work all the better with Egypt still in administrative turmoil.

  Georges retired to his cabin to sit on the balcony and watch Dubai and his troubles disappear into the distance.

  ***

  Her Royal Highness the Princess Haya Al Mahani bin Hassan waited until she was alone in her stateroom before removing her sunglasses, veil and Hijab. Standing alone in front of the magnificent view across the Gulf, she thought to herself, “So, this is how an Arab Princess travels.” As far as Jamie knew, the name she had been given by Sheikh Mahmoud for this assignment was fabricated, but she couldn’t be sure. What she could be sure about was that no one second-guessed a Princess, and that faxes and emails would be flying around the Gulf region to ensure that she never had to suffer the indignity of presenting a passport or passing through customs.

  Jamie looked around the magnificent stateroom. The living area alone was probably a thousand square feet, and she had a bathroom that could have graced a Royal Palace. The table was laden with enough fruit to maintain a healthy lifestyle for three months. Most of it was recognisable, but there were a few green and red fruits with spikes sticking out of them that looked foreign and inaccessible. The only jarring factor was the amount of gold, gilt and marble on the walls, floors and furnishings. Everything was designed to look classy, but none of it was wildly comfortable.

  However, none of this really mattered, because she would only be on board as far as Muscat, and that stop was less than 24 hours away.

  ***

  Georges was sitting alone in his cabin, having eschewed the invitation to the first night Captain’s Dinner. The sliding doors to the balcony were open and a refreshing breeze blew in as the ship moved quickly through the smooth waters of the Gulf. The balcony was almost the width of the stateroom and just deep enough for sun lounger, of which there were two laid out for his use. His time as Mullah Khaweini had been the best part of his otherwise unproductive life, he thought, as he leaned against the waist high balcony rail. He had found a purpose in Islam and a calling in Jihad. He had never really believed the hype about how Muslims were so badly treated by the West. To be fair, left to themselves the various branches of Islam could quite happily obliterate one another using weapons procured illegally from the West. Nonetheless, he had believed that the modern colonialism in North Africa and the Middle East was driven by oil, and that was enough to wage Jihad against the imperialists.

  His life had begun in servitude to the imperialist French, who kept the Algerian people in near poverty so that they could have cheap labour to serve in their Parisian restaurants and collect their garbage. He smiled at the recollection; those words were his mother’s words, taught to him as a young child as he lay in bed at night before he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of becoming the hero that freed his people from bondage.

  There was a knock at the stateroom door. He turned and walked back into the cabin. “Personal Steward,” a sultry female voice announced from behind the thin door. Georges opened the door to see a pretty woman standing before him, wearing tight black trousers, a white shirt with a red tie, and a red waistcoat accentuating her figure. If he had a preference for women, this steward, with her fair hair tumbling around her shoulders and ready smile, would have been Georges’ fantasy.

  The girl waited to be invited in with a large silver tray of exotic looking fruit. “Compliments of the Arabian Princess, sir. Would you like it on the table?” From her smile he could see that she was aware of the double entendre. The girl deliberately bent over so that he could benefit from a close look at how well her rump filled the tailored trousers.

  “Stewards live on tips,” he reminded himself as the girl stood and smiled and said politely, “Would there be anything else, you murdering bastard?”

  Georges didn’t see the first blow coming until his throat constricted and he couldn’t breathe. The second punch to his solar plexus added to his misery and completely disabled him.

  “You murdered a good friend of mine, George - you don’t mind if I call you George, do you? I don’t want to sully the good people of Islam by gracing you with the title Mullah.” Jamie’s tone was less polite this time. Georges couldn’t care less what she called him. He didn’t even grasp what was happening to him; he was too busy trying to fill his lungs with air.

  Jamie led Georges out onto the balcony and looked around to ensure that there were no witnesses to the drama that was unfolding on the port side of the ship. Leaning him against the balcony with his buttocks pressing onto the chrome handrail, Georges was the equivalent of three stories above the sea.

  “Just breathe through your nose. Don’t gulp down air, you’ll have a panic attack,” she advised far too late as Georges feared for his life. His breath was raspy and taken in short bursts. He was sweating and his heart was racing. He felt as though he was dying. He hadn’t felt so pani
cked since that first day in prison when they locked the cell door and said they wouldn’t reopen it for sixteen hours.

  “Your mad crusade has cost many good people their lives, Khaweini, and if it hadn’t been for my friends you would have caused chaos in Dubai and I’m sure that many more would have died in the panic you initiated. You are a deeply flawed man, a burden to Islam and a child molester, as well.” She paused. “Tell me George, do you think you deserve to die?”

  Georges wanted to argue with her, but he knew that he had only one way out and it wasn’t debating the need for innocent deaths in the fight for world domination. “Pardon, mademoiselle,” he croaked, his right hand still clamped on his throat. “You have mistaken me for someone else.” He even had the presence to affect a faux French accent. Jamie just smiled as she recited.

  “Georges Cohsee; born of a French Algerian mother and British father, deserted by his father whilst living in London. Mother brought him up as George Albert Baker, her husband’s family name. George missed more school than he attended and was running with an Algerian gang at the age of fourteen. Remanded to prison as soon as he became an adult and was found guilty of violent disorder, assault, drug dealing and attempted murder. Converted to Islam in prison and disappeared before his parole licence expired. Turned up in the Middle East six years later as Mullah Khaweini, probably after a long spell in Pakistan.” She paused. “How am I doing so far?”

  Having partially recovered, Khaweini made a rush for Jamie, hoping that, with his bulk, he could push the slightly framed girl over the balcony and into the sea below. Jamie was ready for an attack and her finely honed body and quick reflexes did not let her down. The toe of her right shoe crushed his testicles before he could reach her, and he folded again. Once again, propped up against the balcony rail, his face was contorted with pain.

  “If you have been sent here to kill me, do it!” he spat. “Do the bidding of your masters, the leaders of the so called free world who will not be happy until the rest of the world is enslaved and working to bring them their precious oil.”

  “George, you misunderstand. I’m not going to kill you. I’m an officer of the law. You’ll get your chance to defend yourself in a court of law.” She paused, and Khaweini shuddered at the thought of spending his remaining days in a Middle Eastern prison. It would be nothing like Belmarsh, with satellite TV and a choice of meals. “But then again,” Jamie said, breaking his chain of thought. In a blur of movement Jamie’s right foot came up and crashed into the ex Mullah’s chest. The force of the blow pushed the man over the rail and he tumbled down towards the sea, somersaulting as he went.

  “I’ve given you more of a chance than you gave to others,” she yelled after him, not caring whether he heard her or not.

  ***

  When Khaweini hit the water it felt cold and frigid, despite the fact that it was probably amongst the warmest sea-water in the world. He crashed into the sea almost head-first, and was soon being spun around under water by the wake of the ship. The shock of hitting the cold sea made him gasp, and he swallowed a mouthful of water.

  Regaining his senses, he used his arms to pull himself to the surface in an ad hoc breast-stroke. It took a moment for him to realise that he had become disoriented and that he was heading further down into the Gulf waters. He was pulling towards the sea-bed. He stopped swimming and held his breath. Gradually he felt himself rise in the broiling waters and swam in that direction instead. His lungs were bursting. He needed air, but he was unsure of how far he was from the surface. He was just about to give up and breathe in the sea-water, when his head burst through the waves left behind by the disappearing vessel.

  Treading water, and gasping lungfuls of air, he watched the boat sail off without him. He could tell in which direction the coast lay, but he had no idea how far from land he was. He was also aware that even when he reached land he would probably be in the middle of the desert and miles from anywhere. His best chance lay in coming aground at a power plant or desalination plant, of which there were many along the coast. He could worry about that when he got close to shore. For now, he had to swim for his life. Despite the fact that the Gulf waters looked calm and flat from the vessel, they were choppy and turbulent when you were trying to swim in them.

  Off in the distance Khaweini saw a flare of flame, evidently an oil-rig or a gas rig. He was in luck; he wouldn’t need to make it all the way to shore, after all. He guessed it was a mile or more away, but it was impossible to tell in the near pitch black that surrounded him, and so he tried to conserve his energy and swam with purpose but with efficiency. It was not a race, after all. Or perhaps it was, he thought; a race for life.

  He guessed that thirty minutes had passed and he was tiring quickly now. The flare stack was now visible when the gases were intermittently burned off. He was making progress, but hyperthermia was beginning to take its toll. At least he wasn’t in the North Sea, where life expectancy was around seven minutes in those frigid waters.

  As he swam he felt something brush past him in the water; a dolphin, he hoped. They were sociable creatures. It might even tow him to safety. That thought was extinguished when he felt an agonising pain in his left thigh. He kicked out instinctively, and whatever had been holding his leg let go. Khaweini felt like crying; he was so close to safety and he had fallen victim to a shark, probably a large tiger shark. Whilst these relatively small sharks rarely ventured close to the shores of the gulf Khaweini was far enough out to sea to become its prey.

  He knew that by now he would be gushing blood into the sea, but he had to swim on. The shark made a second attack, and again Khaweini kicked it away. It was probably no longer than three metres, and it may even have been intimidated by the size of its prey, but the emboldened shark had the advantage of time and of being at home in its natural habitat.

  Khaweini had not swum much further when his vision began to close in and unconsciousness beckoned. Even the fear-fuelled adrenaline was failing him. The shark attacked again, this time sinking sharp teeth into his side. Once again he pushed it away, but he knew that the predator was simply circling, instinctively waiting for its prey to weaken.

  Tears filled Khaweini’s eyes as he made the decision. It meant accepting defeat, but he had no intention of dying painfully in the jaws of a shark. Khaweini stopped swimming and let the waters take him. As soon as he was submerged he breathed in the saline water and filled his lungs.

  Chapter 60

  Melbourne, Australia:

  July 2012; 6pm

  Sheikh Mahmoud sat opposite Todd Michaelson in an Arabic themed coffee shop in the centre of the city’s shopping district. The Sheikh was wearing a navy blue blazer over a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt and lighter blue trousers. He sipped his Café American and nibbled on a biscuit.

  The Sheikh had explained that, despite Todd’s ultimatum in Dubai, both he and the Crown Prince had great admiration for the Australian, and that enough time had passed for wounds to heal, and so Todd would now be welcome in the UAE, should he wish to return. Todd had thanked him for the message and for the support during the Polletti trial, where the Sheikh attended every day of the hearing.

  Polletti’s lawyers had alleged that he should be freed because of the catastrophic injuries he had suffered, and the fact that they had left him virtually catatonic and unable to plead. The judge listened patiently to the arguments and then dismissed them. Polletti glared at Todd as he gave evidence, and Todd almost felt sorry for the man who had lost the lower half of his face in an abortive suicide attempt. The prison authorities had been unwilling to cover the cost of the extensive reconstructive surgery that Polletti’s private doctors had insisted he needed, and the doctors themselves had reconsidered their position when it was pointed out to them that he had no money to pay them. So it was that Polletti had been wheeled into court breathing through a tube in his throat, with scarred skin grafted over what was probably a titanium replacement lower jaw. His arm hung limply by his side where his elbow joint h
ad failed to repair correctly, and his ankle was still encased in plaster. With a disfigured upper lip and a piece of his nostril missing, the man had almost inaudibly pleaded not guilty to all charges before sitting through the trial and whistling through his destroyed nose every time he breathed.

  The verdict had been delivered just an hour ago; guilty of racketeering, people trafficking, kidnapping and attempted murder. The State had failed to convince the jury on the murder charges, but it mattered little as Polletti was sentenced to forty-one years in prison, with a life expectancy of less than ten years, given his injuries.

  “I heard that Kwong Chong Lee was extradited to the USA,” Todd said, breaking the amenable silence.

  “It is true. That man is resilient. The paramedics did not think he would make it to hospital but he did and, Allah be praised, the miracle happened. I do not know why Allah saved this man, but his will and purposes are known to no man.”

  Todd had read online that the Shadow had been charged with a host of crimes, but he was more a prisoner of his body than of any institution. Losing his legs to Khaweini’s bomb seemed to have angered the little man to the extent that he refused to die.

  “Aara is back in Saudi already,” Todd noted.

  “Yes. On compassionate grounds, I believe. There were suicide attempts after alleged sexual attacks from other women. Her mind is broken, I think, and I do not think that her Saudi hosts will try to mend it. They will just hide her away.”

  “It’s a pity,” Todd said quite solemnly. “I was also told that the Australian government have persuaded the Thai authorities to commute Pete Adams’ death sentence. It seems that his lawyers have conceded that he’ll have to do twenty five years instead.”

  “No one survives twenty five years in that prison, Todd,” The Sheikh said mournfully, aware that Adams was in prison for one of the few crimes he did not actually commit. After a short pause, the Sheikh changed the subject.