by Frank Coles
When I could see him I held back but when I couldn’t I accelerated to catch up. It took all my concentration not to drive off the almost non-existent road.
Over a series of small humps his brake lights flashed on and off, then disappeared from view. A truck charged out of the fog like an enraged bull elephant. My small car shimmied as the behemoth thundered past. I only realized Akbar had stopped when I slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to avoid crashing into the back of him.
My wheels span uselessly in the loose sand over the edge of what was a simple desert track beaten compact by the treads of heavy vehicles.
It could have been anywhere; there was nothing to be seen. No landmarks at all. Dubai’s boastful skyline was hidden by the grey green fog, backlit by the tungsten lamps of temporary structures on the building sites around us.
Akbar’s car idled ahead. The driver’s door opened and he strutted through the unnatural gloom towards me. His knuckles rapped out three beats on the window. I lowered it a fraction.
‘You’d better come with me,’ he said. He pointed to my camera and my bag which now lay in the foot well of the passenger seat. ‘You can leave those behind.’
***
He drove us to the foot of a fledgling skyscraper in total silence. The building’s colossal skeleton disappeared into the fog overhead, its unseen presence enhancing the wordless void between us.
We got out and headed towards it. He led the way between the long lines of queuing workmen at its base. Their chatter echoed against the cave wall of moist air, a polluted rain that refused to fall.
He motioned towards a temporary lift in the distance and we trudged on through the sand, ignoring the shaded stares of the workmen, the legions of Indian men awaiting redemption but destined to continue slaving in purgatory instead.
We jumped the queue and stepped aboard the flimsy elevator.
Did I have a choice? He hadn’t said a word since he’d ordered me out of the car. His movements were efficient, verging on the impatient. But I didn’t want to upset him, not yet. I was compelled to see where this would lead.
The lift operator didn’t ask questions, he seemed to know the man and where he wanted to go.
Unexpected bursts of color filled each floor as we passed. The all in one hues of the laborers' uniforms demarcated their job or the sub-contractors they worked for. The first ten floors flared with yellow, the twenties mainly blue and then in the thirties scattered bursts of red and green until there were only occasional glimpses of color as their numbers thinned out on the higher levels.
The heat of the desert thermals fell away and we rose through the colder air returning to ground. A flash of light and we broke through the thick fog. The muffled noises of Dubai softened and gave way to a crisp stillness that few people ever experienced.
As the machine climbed the outside of the tower I had plenty of time to think. I knew something was about to happen but I had none of the normal backups on me, no pens, no pads, no recorder, no cameras.
I rummaged in my pocket for the hands free connectors on my phone, found the headphone’s jack and pushed it into the mic socket’s jill until there was a satisfying click. The same setup up I’d rigged for the club.
The lift stopped on one of the higher floors. A big whitewashed 52 told me which one. The Arab opened the lift gate, summoned the foreman with a flick of his wrist and hollered something in Arabic. He waved for me to follow. As he strode ahead I pulled out my phone, found the shortcut menu, pressed record and slipped it back into my pocket.
The foreman ordered the small crew of cowed workmen to down tools. They shuffled towards the elevator and shot sullen looks in our direction as they walked by.
My host called out and pointed to one of the men leaving the floor. The foreman avoided Akbar’s eye. He said something quietly to the laborer who lowered his head and waited off to one side a polite distance away from us.
The cage door of the elevator closed with a bang and then we were alone. He had brought me there for a reason but I had no idea what. I could only wait for things to take their course. I held the headphone mic in my hand and practiced my directional skills.
He motioned me nearer the edge of the half built floor. I hesitated. There were no walls, no safety measures, just the wind and a very long drop.
‘Trust me,’ he said.
I moved forward a step and waited for him to get to the point.
‘Look at it,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Out there. A whole new city that stretches so far we can’t even see where it ends. And when this building is finished it will be so tall we will barely see the city below. We will live in the skies. Isn’t it wonderful?’
I followed the line of his hand to a view looking out over all but the tallest towers. Their extremities thrust through the billowing fog below, scraping sky so thick it looked as if you could step out onto it and walk to the next building. It was a truly beautiful sight. You could say that so rarely about anything in that dry manufactured land.
He smiled benignly, a few grey wisps in his hair; he had the bearing of a distant uncle, not an arms dealer or a trainer of terrorists.
‘We are building a new future here,’ he said. ‘The world is changing quicker than people realize. The old friendships are insecure, those who were once the leaders will soon be the followers.’
He waited for my acknowledgement to see if I was keeping up.
‘We cannot rely on tradition to answer all our needs,’ he went on, ‘we must reinvent ourselves.’
I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘So,’ I said, ‘what has that got to do with Sunset Heights? These buildings will be finished one day, yours won’t.’
‘I know,’ he said, a sad look on his face. He sighed.
‘Really?’
‘Sunset Heights will never be finished. I have made a terrible mistake,’ he said, looking back over the skyline. I tried to follow him with my mic. Always the job.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘a man does many things in his life to feed his family, to gain respect, to generate enough power so that they never have to worry again. Sometimes he does things he regrets. A great many things. But it is never enough.’ He stood close to the edge and peered along his nose towards the ground below.
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh you know,’ he waved a hand and smiled. ‘The usual.’
‘You mean kill, smuggle, trade arms, traffic people, train terrorists, that sort of normal?’
‘Whatever you like Mr. Bryson,’ he said, amused.
‘So you do know who I am.’
‘Of course I do, in that silly little car of yours the whole city knows who you are. Even my teenage niece wouldn’t drive such a thing.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with her?’
He glared at me.
‘So what were you and Orsa fighting about this morning?’ I said. ‘Who had the biggest car? Or was it just more of this old man bullshit?’
‘Hah! Yes you could say it was old man bullshit. Or you could say I saved your life. If Orsa had his way you would be dead already. The only reason you’re still here is that according to my nephew you could be more trouble dead than alive.’
‘Your nephew?’
‘You told him you had recordings of his officers and the traffickers they were connected with. Is this true?’
The cogs turned. ‘Ah, Khadim,’ I said. ‘Well, there’s the rub, if you throw me off this tower you’ll never know.’
‘Hmm,’ he smiled. ‘As you probably saw I had some trouble persuading Orsa that he should leave you to me. He suggested torture to get the answers we needed and then a violent and painful death. In fact, you should already be dead.’
‘I see.’
‘No. No you don’t. I am getting old. You are right in that. I have tortured and killed too many in my life, and I am tired of it. I have won so many times now, I want to stop competing. Can you understand that?’
‘Not really, I’ve never tortured a
nyone.’
‘I want beautiful things to happen,’ he explained. ‘This building isn’t mine, though I wish it was. I want to build a legacy for my family like the one we’re standing in, instead I have to deal with unimaginative thugs like the Russian and nobodies like you who cannot even hold down a job.’
‘Hey no fair, writing is my business. It’s not a job, it’s my vocation.’
‘So that is why you make so little that if we charged you tax on your income you would be destitute. That silly little car and the silly little life that you lead are worthless, your actions are that of a blackmailer Mr. Bryson, nothing more. You have something on me, on my family, at least the respectable part of it,’ he said gritting his teeth. ‘And when you threaten my family, you threaten me.’
‘Khadim?’ I said. ‘Is he that important to you, don’t you have a son of your own?’
The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. Here was an impotent man who wanted to build towering edifices to his unborn progeny. Freud would have loved him.
He looked away for just a second, processing my understanding. ‘You have recordings that could jeopardize the future we have planned for him. So I am forced to make a deal with you. But you can also be useful to me.’
‘A deal?’
‘One which only a fool would refuse. If you write this story involving my family how much will you make?’
‘I’m not sure. A few hundred, a few thousand maybe, but the money…’
‘…isn’t important, yes I’m sure. So of course you will turn me down when I offer you let’s say an introducer’s fee of one percent of Sunset Heights' book value?’
‘What?’
‘Mr. Bryson, surely you can figure out what one percent of 300 million is? We will make believe that you provided the professional introductions between Lawrence and myself. For that you shall have a fee, all legal, all above board.’
‘One percent?’ I worked it out. ‘Jesus…how much?’
‘What’s more, I will give you your story, only Orsa will be the central feature, me, my family and anything to do with us will be omitted.’
‘Why? Why Orsa?’
‘I told you, the legacy I want to leave has to be real, not the fiction created by Orsa and Lawrence. But Orsa resists.’
Stunning. He’d just confirmed what I knew about Sunset Heights and, if his offer was to be believed, three million dollars as well. Not only was it the inside line on a killer story but enough cash to set me up for life.
But.
But what? Take the freaking money.
‘That sounds too good to be true,’ I said. ‘Why would you want to give me so much money?
‘Ah, there you go, typical journalist, making assumptions. It’s not my money.’
I got it. ‘Orsa,’ I said.
‘Yes, Orsa.’
‘Let me guess, he won’t be around to spend it?’
‘You are more perceptive than you look.’
‘So you are going to kill him?’
He didn’t answer.
‘What happens if I say no? The hell with you and your money?’
‘Let me make it easy for you.’ He shouted to the lone workman, ‘Come.’
The man shambled over; he was older than he first looked. He had the body and frame of a teenager but the grey hairs of the early thirties. He was small from malnourishment and scared. Unlike a cocky journalist who had grown up with an expectation of food, education and a place to sleep, he couldn’t say no to Akbar.
Akbar grew tired of waiting for him. He grabbed the shaking man and pulled him to the floor’s edge. He held him in one hand by the leather work belt he wore and leaned the man forward until he teetered over the sheer drop and the swollen mists below.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I said.
I’d find out soon enough.
Tears streamed down the laborer's grimy cheeks as he shuffled along the unfinished edge of the 52nd floor. The foothold that would have stopped him plunging into the thick cumulous smog in the manmade valleys below didn’t exist. Only one thing prevented him from falling between the half-built towers of Dubai’s brave new Arabian world. The hand on his work belt. Akbar’s other hand was on the laborer's collar.
‘You don’t want to be responsible for this man’s death,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
Quiet unruly sobs pulsed through the workman’s chest.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course I bloody well don’t.’
Akbar bared his teeth. ‘That’s the trouble with you people,’ he said, ‘you have no idea of responsibility, you are given everything, herded into your shops and your election booths, you do nothing. You have no idea how to be responsible for your own lives let alone anyone else’s. I take responsibility for life and death. This is why I will let him fall. That is power, power over yourself and power over others.
‘Power?’ I said. ‘Is that what you think this is?’
‘Hah,’ he said, the laborer squirmed in his grip, ‘I imagine that in your country you are what they call a “bleeding heart liberal”. I am confident that given the choice you won’t let this man fall to his death.’
Akbar prodded the laborer in the small of his back. The laborer whimpered but didn’t resist as he swayed over the dizzying heights.
‘Face facts, you just couldn’t live with yourself. You would never sleep.’
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Let us have a trial run. I will give you 24 hours to bring these recordings to me. One sleepless night to see how you get on, hey?’
‘Okay, okay, look I’ll get you your damned recordings just let him go. He has nothing to do with this.’
‘Oh but he does. He is my guarantee.’
‘Guarantee of what?’
‘If you decide to flee the country, if you think you have choices, then this man,’ he shook him, ‘what is your name?’ The man was too terrified to answer. Akbar steadied his grip and leant him even further over the edge, ‘Your name!’ On tip toes there was nothing but the draught between the trembling laborer and the drop.
‘Mani’ he said, sobbing like a child. Then he started to talk quickly in his own language, a panicky little prayer, no fight in him at all. He’d been taught to think he was worthless so long he believed it.
Akbar gloated. ‘Bryson, you have one day to decide whether you want to take Orsa’s money and write the story of his demise, or I can accept the Russian’s offer to kill you. If you go anywhere, talk to anyone, send these recordings of yours to anyone then our little worker bee here will die.’
He swiveled Mani’s tear streaked face towards me. ‘Am I getting through to you?’
I seized the moment and the laborer and used my weight to drag his small frame from Akbar’s hands to the safety of the hard floor.
I rolled off him and heard Akbar laugh.
‘I’ve already made my decision,’ I said, rising to my feet.
He cocked an eyebrow, ‘So tell me.’
I ran at him. But he moved quickly for an old man. He side stepped and left nothing but the void for me to run into. Then his knuckles slammed into my throat. I grasped for breath and staggered back, stunned, suffocating on my own larynx, grateful for the reprieve.
He seized me with both hands and swung me out over the edge until I was in the same position the laborer had been. I struggled to breathe, and hung there, lame, watching the city, the irresistible pull of gravity beneath me.
The towers of Business Bay tapered off in a line beneath us, the mirrored facades of Sheikh Zayed Road glittered in the distance. The five-star view made my eyes blur.
For the first time in my life I didn’t feel that strange attractor that normally drew me to the edge of a cliff or the rail of a high balcony.
Instead I arched back and tried to shift my centre of gravity away from the sucking vertigo below. The strength of his grip prevented me from being anywhere other than where he wanted me to be.
Wraith like wisps of humidity drifted out of t
he smog filled abyss. I imagined my impact on the hard ground beneath.
The muscles in my stomach clenched into a nauseous fist and tried to punch out.
You’re supposed to see your life flash before your eyes at these moments. Everything is supposed to become clean and pure and simple.
I pictured the seven figure pay-off I’d receive if I simply said yes to Akbar.
But I couldn’t. Could I?
I cursed the terrible beauty of certain death below and my own insatiable hunger for something more meaningful – for someone meaningful – the folly that brought me there in the first place.
***
I watched myself dangle over the building’s edge with Akbar’s hands on my belt and collar. A peaceful disembodied perspective of a helpless man running out of time.
The man struggled, then failed to breathe. When panic flared in those familiar eyes my attention snapped back into my own body. The will to live just too strong to sit back and give up. Back arched, arms flailing, I grabbed Akbar by his hair and tore. A handful pulled free. He shrieked. I ran my hand over his face and clawed desperately for his eyes, to gouge that soft flesh, to inflict more pain before my inevitable fall.
He jerked me back inside and slammed me to the floor.
Then the gray-haired devil stood over me and grinned with smug satisfaction as I struggled to inhale after his blow to my throat. The air began to flow into my lungs again. I cried out. Happy to be hurting. To be alive was wonderful; to be scared a joy.
He looked down with that benign smile of his and kicked me.
‘Hey,’ he said. ’You either live or you die; only you can decide.’ He stuffed a business card into my shirt pocket. ‘Call this number when you have what I want.’
He left me struggling for breath on the cold grey floor of his aspirations. Mani crawled after him trying to figure out what he had done wrong.
Chapter Twenty Six
It took some time before I could breathe normally again. The 52nd floor was empty apart from the sad figure of Mani huddled in the corner. I sat up and looked out over the city and let the rising warm air soothe my aches and pains. My lips were devoid of moisture, cracked like a wall in one of the badly built suburbs. I tried to moisten them and considered my options.