Candleburn

by Jack Hayes

  Oassan shot him twice in the chest.

  Aarez continued his recital. He bent down to the ground and picked up one of the spades. He began to shovel dirt back into the pit.

  A second Somali tried to use the corpse of the first to jump higher and escape. Oassan placed two bullets into the worker, who slumped back to the base of the trench.

  Finally, he took aim at the last Somali in the pit. As the golden sand was flung over him, the man, barely in his twenties, bowed his head and spread his arms wide – repeating the same mizmor sung by Aarez.

  Oassan, pistol still raised, looked at his friend. Aarez continued his recitation as he filled the grave.

  Oassan lowered his pistol and offered a free outstretched hand to the Somali. The Somali stopped chanting and reached up his own open palm.

  Oassan smiled.

  “Only joking!” he said.

  He shot the man in the cheek, then emptied his magazine into the boy.

  “I can't believe they still think this is about religion,” Oassan chuckled.

  “We shall have to disabuse them of that notion,” Aarez shook his head with disappointment as he paused his prayer. “When we’re done, have my father send across three more from the factory.”

  Oassan picked up a spade and began to help his friend put sand into the grave.

  7

  Mehr Zain adjusted the car’s rear view mirror so he could get a better view of the shop fronts. Away from the radiant architecture and bustle of Dubai’s new centre, International City was a rat-infested hive of crime and sedition.

  On the back seat, Asp snored lightly.

  Mehr had seen him work the last 30-hours straight. He didn’t know how his boss did it. They’d driven to find the prostitute’s body and found the area crawling with police.

  Mehr and Asp worked for a company called Chrome, which had a good relationship with both the authorities and the top brass of the Gulf’s gangster underbelly. Still, they tried to avoid showing their faces to the police unless they had to as it usually generated too many questions.

  Chrome specialised in completing tasks that simply couldn’t – or wouldn’t – be done by anyone else. Their business cards said it all – Chrome: Corporate Facilitators. Mehr’s wife described them flippantly, but no less accurately, as “business spooks for hire.”

  Mehr always smiled when she said that disapprovingly. He’d worked in many jobs in his 36 years but his time at Chrome was easily the most absorbing.

  Mehr Zain was Egyptian, with an Italian mother and a father from Cairo. He drank. As a youth, he’d dabbled with drugs. But no pork – that was one step too far. The day he’d met Asp, he’d been standing outside Chrome’s Dubai headquarters smoking a cigarette, waiting for a job interview with a supermarket as a delivery driver.

  He almost ignored the balding, goateed man who waddled past him like Charlie Chaplin, stopped, and then took four paces backwards without turning around.

  “Are you here for a job?”

  “I have an interview in half an hour with Ankora Food Express.”

  “I have a vacancy. I need a very particular set of skills,” Asp had said, eyeing Mehr from head to feet. “I need someone fluent in Arabic but not too religious, who would have serious qualms about breaking the law – but not so much about bending it.”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Mehr shuffled uncomfortably. “I’m married. I’m not that desperate for money.”

  “Good!” Asp laughed loudly. “Quick to make logical connections, too. Excellent. My employees need to have a brain. But careful – I don’t want people who are fast to jump to wrong conclusions.”

  Mehr took a deep drag of his cigarette, the hot bitumen choking in the back of his throat in the high humidity.

  “What’s the job title?”

  “Fluent, local muscle with a brain.”

  “And the pay?”

  “Come inside – third floor. I’ll show you your signing bonus.”

  Mehr went inside. He left an hour later with a signed contract and a cheque for six months’ salary in his pocket.

  Mehr had never regretted the decision to join Chrome.

  Asp rolled over on the back seat, still snoring. Mehr wound his window lower to leave a one-inch gap and lit another cigarette. Two hours. Still nothing was happening here at the “shop front”, the informal name of the base Chaiwat Singuptra, number two for the East Asian mafia: known colloquially as ‘Euphoric’.

  A Filipino prostitute? It would be one of his girls.

  They might not be able to show their faces to the police but Asp had fewer qualms about tapping their less savoury contacts. Chaiwat received a stipend from Asp to be available when he needed information or a meeting. Three calls, Asp placed. None were answered.

  That was unheard of.

  And that’s what brought them to International City, on the outskirts of the great Sheikh’s glorious vision. The district was only half complete when the financial crisis hit. Consequently, it was euphemistically referred to as ‘unestablished’.

  Although less than five years-old, the jerry-built stores already had cracks running through the walls. Some still had the unclipped, twisted reinforcing steel bars poking through the concrete roofs, giving them the look of rusting, unkempt hair. Sand from the desert storms drifted and swamped parts of the car park near the undeveloped lots. Gradually, the desert was trying to reclaim this unestablished city.

  Worst was the stench.

  International City smelled like a latrine. Sewer mains that carried the filth of the upscale developments three miles away frequently broke, gushing human waste out onto the roads. Ponds of excrement, filled with everything anyone flushed into a toilet, were a regular occurrence.

  Mehr exhaled a long breath of smoke through the small gap in the window. It plumed in the outside air, almost clinging to the metal of the car like a musty, greying fog.

  At least his cigarette disguised the stink.

  Police presence here was light to non-existent. Rents were low. All these factors made the area one of the few in the emirate perfect as a home for a group like Euphoric.

  Zain lifted his sunglasses slightly to get a better look at the four men who’d emerged from a hostel doorway and were now patrolling the shop fronts. Sudanese or Eritrean by the looks of them. Interesting. Much of the Euphoric syndicate’s membership were made up of Thais, Indonesians and Filipinos. Curious that they should have expanded their foot-soldiers to include those from Arabic-speaking Africa.

  The nature of crime in Dubai fascinated Zain. It was a fantastic place in so many ways. For the average inhabitant it was one of the safest cities in the world.

  In the summer a car with the engine switched off quickly heats up like a furnace. It actually cost more money to turn your engine off while you go inside a supermarket than to leave your engine on with the air conditioning running.

  So, drive to any Choiterhams or Spinney’s superstore and the front row of the car park was full of empty vehicles left with the keys in the ignition and the motors idling.

  It made sense.

  Fuel was cheap. $30 filled even the largest tank to the brim. With the engine on, the car stayed cool and it was more economical. The fascinating thing was that no-one ever stole them. What fool would risk being caught and subjected to Dubai’s notoriously harsh penal system?

  Similarly, you could take out your wallet in any shopping mall, drop it in the middle of the floor and walk off. Come back thirty minutes later and it would still be there, exactly as you’d left it, untouched. In fact, it was strange how quickly your brain adapted to the raw safety of Dubai. If you came back and found your wallet gone – you’d feel aggrieved.

  There was no doubt in Zain’s mind that Dubai was the safest city in the world. Of course, there was crime. Much of it was organised by three well-established syndicates.

  The biggest component was prostitution. Dubai was an international business hub, and what lubricates transactions more
efficiently than sex? Most of that was split out by nationality.

  The Russian syndicate, Belyy Volk, the White Wolves, controlled the market’s high-end – mostly East European girls. Beneath them, Euphoric had a firm grip on the mid-tier market – professionals brought in to service Dubai’s indigenous bankers and Western expat men who played away whenever their wives were on holiday.

  Beneath these, the Indian gang, a group called Onyx, had a ruthless grasp of the low end stuff – servicing the needs of Dubai’s forgotten caste: the labourers. That meant girls brought in on the expectation they’d be maids or au pairs, and women kidnapped from sub-Saharan Africa.

  All the organizations indulged in other criminal activities – from drugs to gambling to bootlegging and counterfeit goods – but they were careful to treat Dubai only as a trading hub.

  It was strictly import-export; a base from which to operate.

  Sure, the authorities looked the other way when it came to prostitution because that cemented the city’s reputation as a regional capital, but bringing other business ashore was a risk few were stupid enough to take.

  There was a flash behind the car, Mehr realised he’d drifted off into daydreaming.

  He heard the screaming battle cry and glanced in the rear view mirror once more.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he yelled switching on the car’s engine.

  A tall Algerian was sprinting towards them with a full-drawn samurai sword.

  8

  “Guys?” Blake said uncertainly. “I’m logged into the main network and I can’t find my folder?”

  Alice wearily raised her eyes to heaven.

  “What folder?”

  “These laptops only have limited memory. Video footage takes up a lot of space. I created a folder on the system last week and placed my extra footage in there for this week’s story. Now the folder’s gone.”

  Alice looked at Duncan. Blake saw a smirk cross his lips and quickly fade. Duncan brought a hand up and rubbed it through his ginger hair.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

  “Did you label it?” Alice asked.

  “Sure – I called it ‘Blake DO NOT DELETE’.”

  “Well the main server isn’t for general use. You know how temperamental it is. Did you have anything important in there?”

  Blake stared in disbelief at her.

  “The folders labelled ‘Alice’ and ‘Duncan’ are there and intact. You both have projects you’re working on in those. I don’t understand where my stories and footage have gone.”

  “Well, I’m sure you can write and film them again. They couldn’t have been that important.”

  “Alice – it was an exclusive I had on a prostitution ring. I’ve been building those contacts for months. I can’t just get access to a brothel and secretly film it.”

  Alice half stood. She wrapped her knuckles on the desk and pretended to type into her computer. Blake watched her screen. All she was doing was messing around.

  “Well, I can’t see your files either. But brothels?” she sneered. “Frankly, it doesn’t sound like the piece you were working on had anything to do with work.”

  “What are you talking about?” Blake ignored the insinuation. “I told you I had an exclusive I was producing for the World News team. They’d set aside a full page for it next Sunday. The video was going up on the Web site.”

  “We cover economics here,” she snapped. “Your first focus is our team. That should be your output. If you have any spare time, then you can work on side projects.”

  “That’s not relevant,” Blake continued. “I produce my stories for our part of the Web site – and the newspaper. Where is my other work? Have you deleted it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” She replied with rising anger. “You’re so paranoid and unprofessional.”

  Blake took another few seconds. When he spoke, he was calm and clear.

  “I’m not paranoid, I’m just wondering why the work I’ve done is no longer here. Especially since the work the two of you have archived is all present.”

  He stared at Duncan.

  The ginger haired weasel avoided his eyes. Tall and lithe, with ears so large they could almost pick up satellite broadcasts, Duncan was so deep in the closet he was practically hiding behind the coat rack.

  Blake had never considered him a friend – but this?

  Could he really support this? Maybe he alone was responsible and Alice’s surprise and anger, as fake as it seemed, was justified and real?

  Blake tapped his fingers slowly. Both his colleagues were staring at him as though he was mad. They were a picture of virtue.

  “Well played,” he thought, “well played. Damned if I complain and damned if I don’t. If I call New York to speak with the main editors, they’ll think I can’t get along with my team here and, if I ignore the clear deletion of my work, this shit will run and run for the next eighteen months. Fuck this three year contract.”

  He took a deep breath and considered his options. He had no proof that someone had erased his folder – it would be easy to argue that it was a computer error; after all, Alice was correct that the server was unreliable.

  And yet...

  The itching claw of addiction scratched at his skin. He needed a cigarette.

  “Well, if that’s all on that subject perhaps we should hold the weekly editorial meeting?”

  As Alice said it, a wicked glint lit her face.

  “Oh Christ,” Blake muttered. “What fresh hell is this?”

  ***

  The car roared to life.

  Mehr slammed the gearstick into reverse. His foot hit the floor. Wheels screeched as they gained traction on the dust strewn tarmac. The Algerian reached the driver’s side door, its window still open, and lunged his sword towards Mehr’s head.

  Mehr span the steering wheel, his foot hammering the pedal. The blade missed his nose by inches as it whipped past his face – first in, then out – as the car shot backwards.

  Metal ground as Mehr changed gears. The four men who’d been milling outside the shop were now charging towards him too, carrying baseball bats and meat cleavers. Mehr released the clutch.

  The car engine stalled.

  “Shit.”

  He tried to start it again.

  Before he could speed away, the Algerian thrust his sword again through the gap in the window. Mehr ducked. The cutting edge skewered the headrest. He hit a button on the door, locking it, then the one next to it.

  Mechanical whirring.

  The glass wound slowly higher.

  Mehr saw the Algerian’s anger: teeth clenched, veins high in his neck as he kicked the aluminium door and wrenched his weapon free. The steel blade grated across the glass as the window trapped it in place.

  Grabbing the grip firmly with both hands, the Algerian began slicing back and forth, jabbing and poking. Mehr weaved. The other gangsters were nearly at the car, bats raised high.

  Mehr tried the engine again. It sputtered to a start.

  His shoe pushed the accelerator back to the floor. The car surged away. A gangster bounced off the bonnet, his shoulder shattering the windscreen before he rolled over the roof and landed prostrate in the car park.

  The Algerian released his sword as the car sped up. Two more henchmen made half-hearted attempts at hitting the car. Their blows swung wide.

  Asp, his eyes still closed on the back seat, spoke for the first time.

  “I hope we’re not going anywhere. I really want to get in to see Chaiwat.”

  “Absolutely,” Mehr replied.

  He skidded the car round violently.

  The three standing gangsters were again charging forward, led by the Algerian.

  The engine revved.

  Mehr sped towards them. Faster and faster. At the last minute, the Algerian tried to dive away. Mehr turned sharply. The Algerian rebounded off the boot. His head hit the pavement. He was out cold.

  Mehr opened his door, smashing it into th
e first thug to arrive. Winded, the man took two paces back. Mehr climbed out and extracted the sword. He punched the thug in the throat, causing him to collapse.

  The second thug stepped forward.

  Arms high above his head, he brought the baseball bat crashing down.

  Mehr dodged the blow and kicked him in the testicles. The gangster keeled forward. There was a loud crack as Mehr connected the sword hilt with the back of his skull.

  A meat cleaver swung in towards him. Mehr deflected it with the sword. A second swing, a second deflection. It was the winded gangster, back for a second try. Mehr stepped close.

  The head butt is a total stranger to any Middle Eastern fight. For Europeans a standard compliment to the traditional menu of fists and feet – for Scotsmen an almost obligatory requirement of any barroom brawl – in the Gulf, despite all of Hollywood’s best attempts at public education, the move always stuns.

  Mehr’s forehead connected with the gangster’s nose.

  Blood spurted.

  Mehr stepped underneath the reeling attacker and tossed him like a sack of flour. When the thug landed on the tarmac two metres away, Mehr stood tall and brought the flat of the sword to bear on his assailant’s throat leaving him gasping for breath.

  “Come along Zain,” Asp said, hopping out of the car’s back door. “You can’t stay here playing with your new friends all day. We’ve work to do.”

  Mehr let out a deep exhalation as his boss moved through the mayhem of sprawled bodies to the parade of stores.

  “Yes boss,” he said calmly.

  9

  “Okay,” Alice started. “Let’s begin with my stories, go through to Duncan’s and then discuss Blake’s.”

  The three of them huddled around the conference table in a backroom just off the main office. Alice and Duncan both placed their tablet computers squarely in front of them and clicked to open their notes.

  The room was a confined, grey space, barely big enough for the furniture and chairs. Along the back wall a bookcase stood empty save for a fine veneer of dust and a small collection of model aeroplanes, each a gift from some corporate public relations firm or other.