“What’s messed up?” asked Ice. The former marine was clad only in a pair of shorts; he had been training on the beach.
“Bishop, the guy Vance is trying to recruit. His parents were killed in that airliner that was shot down.”
“No shit? The Israeli one?” Ice asked.
“Yeah,” answered Vance. “Chua’s located him in Valencia, Spain. The funeral’s in two days.”
“You going to go?” Ice asked.
“Yeah, I think I will.”
“Not sure it’s the most appropriate time to pitch a job, old man,” said Mitch.
“You kidding me, terrorists have just killed his entire family. We’re going to give him the opportunity to find and kill the bastards. I know Bishop, this is exactly what he’ll be looking for.” Vance picked up the satellite phone. “I’ll be gone a few days at most. You two stay out of trouble.”
“We’re on a desert island with cold beer and no women,” said Ice. “How much trouble do you think we can get into?”
CHAPTER 9
DUBAI
The Arab Desert Construction building site was on the outskirts of Dubai. In the early stages of construction, it consisted of a concrete foundation laid over the desert and the first levels of scaffolding. Over the next six months it would transform into a five-star resort. An army of foreign workers, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, and Indian, would labor around the clock to take it from bare sand to a sparkling jewel on the shores of the Arabian Gulf.
The sun peeked over the desert horizon as the morning shift of workers arrived, transported from their accommodation in an old school bus. It looked like something from an apocalyptic movie set; bars welded across the bus windows to dissuade any attempt to seek alternative employment. Floodlights illuminated the men as they disembarked. Towels and torn blankets were wrapped tight around their wiry bodies to ward off the frigid night air. One by one they marched off the bus and shuffled toward their work areas.
Once the bus was empty the off-going shift stumbled onto it like zombies. Exhausted from twelve hours of hard labor, they collapsed onto the hard benches, many falling asleep almost immediately.
A team of muscled enforcers and a stern-faced foreman oversaw the shift change. They carried wooden clubs and long sticks to help motivate the workers. Mostly Russian, they had been selected for their brutality.
Maruf was a sixteen-year-old immigrant from Pakistan. He had been in Dubai for six long months. Since his arrival he’d realized that the opportunity presented by the recruiting office in Karachi was not as it seemed. He had been beaten, his passport confiscated, wages halved, and his life threatened by the Russian gangsters who ran Arab Desert Construction.
“What are you doing?” One of the enforcers pointed his club at Maruf as the skinny teenager leaned against the scaffolding, fighting for breath. He had finished carrying a forty-pound bag of concrete up a rickety staircase to the second level and was regaining his energy as he caught a glimpse of the sunrise.
“Working, sir, working.” He turned and ran down the stairs. Under the cold eyes of the Russian thug he hefted another bag onto his shoulder and made his way back up.
As he neared the top he felt something give way. He reached out and grabbed one of the uprights, steadying himself. The pole swayed outward with a creak. He lost grip on the bag and it dropped, hitting the wooden stairs. There was an almighty crack, and Maruf and the bag fell through, hitting the ground with a crash. The entire scaffolding toppled sideways, collapsing into a heap.
It took the workers a few minutes to pull the slight Pakistani from under the wreckage.
“You stupid shit, you brought down half the site.” The enforcer stood over Maruf’s battered body, his wooden club in hand. “Take him over to the office. The rest of you fix this mess up,” he said with a thick Slavic accent.
Four laborers grasped a limb each and carried the stunned boy toward the site office. As they crossed an access track a truck pulled into the construction site.
The Toyota Land Cruiser had a logo emblazoned on the door: two L’s facing each other and the words Lascar Logistics. It pulled up next to the office and a dark-skinned man wearing a Lascar polo-shirt climbed out of the cabin. He took a package from the passenger seat and walked it into the office.
The four workers placed Maruf in the sand alongside the demountable building. Three of them fled back to their work. One stayed to see if the boy was badly injured.
“Get back to work!” the enforcer screamed at him.
The man fled and Maruf struggled to get to his feet. His arm was held across his chest, his face scrunched in pain.
“Not you, you idiot. You’ve set us back by days, cost us thousands of dollars. Someone has to pay for that.”
The laborers had seen it happen before. Men beaten to death for less. Others so badly injured they were left crippled, beggars in the camps. They all looked away, terrified of drawing any attention to themselves.
The Russian stood over Maruf with his club raised. There was a look of pure terror on the injured boy’s face.
“Stop! What are you doing?” The Lascar Logistics employee, an Indian, stood in the door of the office. “This man is badly injured, he needs medical aid.” He stepped off the transportable building’s wooden deck and made his way toward Maruf.
“Fuck off and mind your own business,” the Russian snarled.
“Leave him alone.” The Indian was half the size of the man he faced. “If you touch him I’m going to report you to the police.”
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.” The Russian pulled back his jacket. The sun was now fully over the horizon and there was enough light to see the pistol jammed in his belt.
“Matra, you imbecile, put that away.” Another overseer had appeared in the office doorway. He was tall, with gray eyes, short brown hair, and a hard, thin mouth. “Can’t you see the man is injured? Take him to the infirmary.” He turned to the Lascar Logistics driver. “I apologize for my man. He can be a little short-tempered sometimes.”
Matra gave his boss a nod as he helped Maruf to his feet. They disappeared around the corner of the building.
The Lascar Logistics driver looked at the supervisor with suspicion. “I should be going.”
“It’s OK, I promise nothing will happen to the boy.” The man smiled and thrust out his hand. “My name is Simeon. I’m sorry for the actions of my colleague; he can be overzealous at times.”
The Indian nodded and shook the man’s hand.
“Come, you can see for yourself.”
“No, I need to get back to work.” He edged toward his truck.
“No, no, I insist. Come see our medical facility. I don’t want you thinking that we treat our workers bad. Of all the companies, we treat them the best.” Simeon put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and guided him around the corner.
Two rows of shipping containers with a corridor between them housed the building site’s tools and materials. “Our infirmary is at the end. We have a nurse and everything,” Simeon explained as they walked into the corridor.
The Lascar employee knew he’d made a fatal mistake when they passed the last container.
The enforcer was standing over Maruf’s crumpled body, clothes speckled in blood and gore, club dripping scarlet. The teenage worker’s face was an unrecognizable bloodied pulp.
“No, no,” the Indian said with wide eyes.
“Oh yes, you stupid brown monkey.” Matra grabbed him and wrapped a powerful forearm around his neck. “I’ll teach you to stick your nose in where it’s not wanted.”
A thin stiletto blade punctured the man’s lower back as he struggled against the headlock. It twisted upward, searching for vital organs. The tip ground against the Indian’s spine and he convulsed. Blood dribbled from his mouth as his life ebbed away.
Simeon Isayev, the head of the Karelin mafia family’s Dubai-based operation, watched with impassive features. “Bury them in the desert.”
“Yes, boss.” The enfor
cer grinned as he wiped the stiletto blade clean on the dead man’s pant leg.
“Make sure you get rid of the truck.”
CHAPTER 10
THE MALDIVES
The satellite phone buzzed its way across the table like a crazed insect. It was Ice who reached for it, putting down the tablet he was reading from. He answered the call, listened for a few seconds, then dropped the phone back on the table. “It’s Vance, he’s ten minutes out. Got the new guy with him.”
Mitch looked up from his laptop. “Probably be a good idea to head down to the dock and welcome him, what do you say?”
“Yeah.”
Ice grabbed two beers from the chest and they set off through the palm trees toward the island’s short jetty.
“You keen for a dive later?” Mitch asked.
“Yeah, we might take the new guy.”
“Good plan.”
They reached the wharf as the high-powered cruiser bumped up against it. Grabbing the lines thrown by the skipper, they held the boat tight as Vance and Bishop leaped onto the wharf with their bags.
“Aden Bishop, I’d like you to meet Mitch and Ice.” Vance made the introduction with a sweep of his arm.
The newcomer was medium build, around five eleven, and wore a tired smile. He had the kind of rugged looks that you would see in a TV commercial for four-wheel drives or gardening equipment: an unruly mop of brown hair, strong jaw, and nose that had been broken more than once.
“G’day, pleasure to meet you both.” Bishop extended a hand to both men.
“Thought you might like a refresher.” Ice handed him a cold beer.
“Nice one.” Bishop smiled, took the Corona, and examined it. “What, no real beer?” he joked.
“I’m afraid we’re all out. I could get you a Bud Light if that’s more your style.”
“I’ll leave the lolly water for you Yanks.”
“As long as it’s not Foster’s, I’m happy.” Mitch smiled. “Not that keen on convict swill.”
They all laughed except for Vance. “So, no one brought me a mojito?”
“Negative, boss, we’re all out of rum.” Ice picked up one of Bishop’s bags and led them back along the jetty, over fine white sand, and into the resort.
“Welcome to our humble home,” said Mitch as they all pulled up chairs around a table.
“Not for much longer.” Vance selected a beer from the ice chest.
“What’s the go?” asked Ice. “Has Tariq found us something more permanent?”
“It would seem that way. I got the feeling there’s something on the boil and he wants us close.”
“More of his evil relatives?” said Mitch.
“No, I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s stockpiled a lot of the gear you ordered.”
“When are we off?” Bishop asked. “Should I bother unpacking?”
“It’ll be a few more days at least.”
“Plenty of time to get in another dive,” exclaimed Ice. “Bish, you in?”
The Australian took a long pull from his beer. “Yeah, sounds good.”
“Get it in while you can, boys. Something tells me that when we get back into the UAE we’re going to be pretty damn busy.”
***
ABU DHABI
Lascar Logistics’ headquarters was perched on the top floor of one of the many high-rises dominating Abu Dhabi’s skyline. From behind his desk Tariq could look out through the floor-to-ceiling windows and take in the expanse of the Arabian Gulf.
“Mr. Ahmed, there is a Major Mohammed Al Shamsi here to see you.” The assistant’s voice came over the intercom on the desk.
“Send him in.” Tariq stood and smoothed out the creases in his pants. He put his jacket on and walked across to the door.
There was a knock and he opened it. “As-salaam alaykum,” he greeted his guest with a broad smile.
“Wa-alaykum salaam,” responded the khaki-clad policeman.
“Please come, take a seat, my friend,” Tariq continued in Arabic, guiding the man to a pair of leather chesterfields in the corner of his office.
“You have come a long way from Special Branch, Tariq,” said Mohammed as he sat on the couch. “The view from your old office was nice, but this is spectacular. I just wish it had happened under better circumstances.”
“The loss of my father was tragic and has overshadowed everything this last month.”
“Once again, my condolences.”
“Thank you, my brother. Perhaps you would like a refreshment.”
“No, I am fine.” He placed his cap down on the coffee table. “I’m afraid that I bring bad news.”
“Go on.” Tariq sat in the chair opposite.
“We found your missing man. He was murdered.”
“How? Where?”
“His body and the body of another man were found in the desert. Someone had made a poor attempt at burying them. His truck was located a few kilometers away, burnt out. The police working the case think he was set upon by a gang of marauding laborers.”
“Laborers?”
“Yes, there have been reports that some of the Pakistanis and Indians have formed a gang and have been hijacking cars.”
“That’s interesting. I was not aware of such a thing.”
The policeman shrugged. “Desperate people do desperate things.”
“So they have closed the case?”
“Yes, they have.”
“That’s interesting. I wonder why a group of marauding laborers would kill one of their own.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man who went missing was an Indian national. My company offered him employment after he fled a construction company that was attempting to blackmail him.”
The police officer was silent.
“Mohammed, we have been friends for a long time. Tell me the real reason the police have closed this case. Tell me why they will not pursue justice for one of my workers.” Tariq’s cold green eyes locked with the policeman’s.
“Well, we backtracked your man to his last known location. A construction company called Arab Desert Construction. According to their chief of operations he made the delivery and left.”
“I was aware of his last delivery, go on.”
“When I started to dig into the background of this Arab Desert Construction I hit a wall. I was sent an e-mail direct from the Chief of Police’s office informing me I was off the case. It was reassigned to another branch and subsequently closed.”
“So Arab Desert Construction has friends in high places.”
“It would seem so.”
Tariq stared at the policeman for a moment. “Then I guess this is where it ends.”
Mohammed nodded. “I think that is best. Even with your connections, investigating this further is only going to cause more problems. Justice will not bring back your man, it will only endanger the lives of others.”
“I agree. Thank you for your help, brother.”
“It is my honor.” Mohammed picked up his cap and stood out of the chair.
Tariq smiled as they shook hands. “How is your family?”
“Very good. My wife told me to tell you that she has found you a suitable wife.”
Tariq laughed as they walked to the office door. “I’m sure she has. Another one of her cousins, no doubt.”
“One of these days she will find one to your liking.”
“I can only hope. Take care, my friend.”
Tariq closed the doors behind the policeman and returned to his desk. He reached into one of the drawers and removed a secure satellite phone. He had a mission for PRIMAL.
CHAPTER 11
PRIORITY MOVEMENTS AIRLIFT HANGAR, ABU DHABI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
“Welcome to your new home, gentlemen.” Tariq was waiting inside the hangar when they arrived.
The team of four had taken a Lascar flight from the Maldives direct to Abu Dhabi International Airport. They had pulled into a Lascar Logistics bay only a few hundred feet f
rom the hangar. It was a short walk even dragging their gear bags.
“Ice, Mitch, I see you’ve been taking full advantage of the weather in the Maldives.” Both were sporting healthy tans. “You must be Aden.” Tariq shook the Australian’s hand. “Vance has told me a lot about you. It is a pleasure to have you on the team.”
“Sir, the pleasure is all mine.”
“So what do you think?” Tariq gestured to the recently renovated facility.
“It’s perfect,” replied Vance.
The hangar was big enough to house a 747. Only one aircraft was inside, a sleek Gulfstream business jet that was dwarfed by the cavernous space. Across from the jet the hangar had been converted into living quarters with individual rooms, a recreation and operations room, kitchen, and an armory. In the back corner was a basic gym, complete with Olympic bars, a rowing machine, chin-up bar, and ropes that hung from the ceiling. Next to the gym were parked two black Mercedes SUVs with official license plates.
“Mitch, this is the access code and swipe card for the armory.” Tariq handed him an envelope and pointed out a block of shipping containers. “You should find everything you have ordered in there.”
“Brilliant, I’ll check it out.” PRIMAL’s science and technology guru walked over to the battered containers. They had been welded together and modified with a sophisticated security door. He opened it with the card and access code then turned on the lights.
The outside may have looked worn but inside was a different story; the armory was immaculate. One side of the room was covered in mesh and had weapons hung on it, an impressive selection ranging from compact pistols through to machine guns and sniper rifles. The other side was a geek’s wet dream; it had a workbench, mini-lathe, CNC machine, 3D printer, tool boxes, and high-powered computers. He sat on a swivel chair and surveyed the room with a smile. A bang on the side of the container brought him back to reality. He opened the door and stuck his head out.
“Nice of you to join us,” said Vance. “You happy with all your whizbangs, bud?”
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