by Jack Hayes
“I’ve got an appointment,” Asp lied.
“He’s a fascinating man,” the youth replied. “Sent an email around the office last week. Tomorrow’s his tenth wedding anniversary. He’s given everyone the day off in celebration.”
“That so?” Nate said.
As the Filipino reached his floor and began to leave, he turned and bowed his head deferentially. His jet black, ear-length hair flopped forward obscuring his eyes.
“Best boss I ever had,” he said and scuffled away.
The lift continued on its way.
Nate wondered if his own employees were so polite when he wasn’t around.
He grinned.
It seemed unlikely.
***
Blake considered his options.
He quickly scanned around his garage. Plastic dustbin with a flexible, rubberised lid. A small piece of pine shelving from a half finished Ikea bookcase. A cracked cat litter tray, from before they’d let box-cat out of the house. Some garden secateurs.
“Not much of use here.”
He could sneak around the back, through the communal parks, making his way to the rear garden. If he whistled for Jeffrey, there was a good chance the little stoat would come running. That said, he was a cat – while he often came when whistled for, if he had anything marginally more important to do, from sleeping to staying hidden from the strangers now rooting through his home – he could just as easily ignore any calls.
“So... retreat?” Blake asked himself.
Blake thought briefly of all the troubles he’d experienced since arriving in this town. If Dubai had taught him anything it was that appeasement just led his foes to take it as a sign of weakness.
No.
Fuck these people.
A line had to be drawn.
And, stupid as it seemed, it was here.
These bastards weren’t keeping his cat.
22
The elevator pinged, metal doors sliding open to reveal a cavernous room.
“Wow,” Nate found himself saying, unable to suppress the words before they left his lips.
It was a museum.
Plinth after plinth was arranged with suits of armour supporting knights in battle. Romanesque columns stretched up to a vaulted stone ceiling, providing a labyrinth in which some frozen trial of champions was in mid flow.
Asp had never seen anything like it – not even in an English fortress or stately home. It was a magnificent collection, polished and perfected. Along one side, an Anglo Saxon shildburh, an interlocking shield wall, was prominently on show.
“Outstanding,” he whispered.
“Can I help you?” a voice called firmly from further down the display.
Nate looked up.
“Asp? What are you doing here?” the voice asked.
“Jakob?” Asp replied, “I might almost ask you the same thing.”
Dr Jakob Sangley – a consultant oncologist at one of the Emirates most exclusive private hospitals. He was a regular player at the monthly touring expat poker nights that oscillated between the houses of Nate’s friends. Jakob had one child at the same school as Ginny. His other had already graduated to boarding school in Durham.
“Dubai’s a small place,” Jakob said. “You’re always tripping over people you know. Are you sure you’re in the right place? I thought Rasoul had cleared his calendar for the day?”
“Doctor patient confidentiality, I understand,” Asp replied, nodding politely. “No, I’m here for Al Calandria. I presume they’re in the office. I’ll head on over.”
Jakob flashed a look confusion.
“You’re sure you’re supposed to be here?”
“How the hell would I have got past all the security if I wasn’t?” Asp replied.
“Yeah,” Jakob said, moving swiftly past Asp for the lifts. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. They’re in the usual spot in the corner. I’ll see you next Friday?”
“Sure,” Asp replied, watching the doctor head for the exit. “See you Paul’s house next weekend!”
Asp exhaled long and hard.
At least he had a confirmation that Al Calandria was here in Kaskhar’s building. Now he had do decide how to handle the situation. Sure, he knew he’d get thrown out by security, or perhaps even picked up by the police – but how exactly did he stir the pot to bring something useful to the surface?
He moved calmly between the pedestals, heading toward Kaskhar’s office. Getting closer he could see the Iranian leaning over his desk, weight on his knuckles like a gorilla, dressed in a Savile Row suit, talking sternly to a man in a dishdasha.
Hopefully, the second person was Al Calandria.
Asp stopped behind a mannequin of a medieval crossbowman, complete in leather gauntlets and iron bracers, crouching low behind a bright pavise – a painted convex full-body shield intended to protect archers from an enemy’s returned fire. The renaissance artwork on the pavise was stunning – resplendent in bold colours and depicting a crusading knight on horseback in full charge against a fleeing foe.
Asp looked askance at the statue.
Dubai was a broad-minded place but certain subjects were just asking for trouble: depictions of the crusades was an obvious one.
The crossbow in particular was a magnificent working replica, fully loaded with a feathered quarrel. Making it would have cost thousands.
“What the hell is going on here?” he thought.
He settled in low and began to listen to the conversation.
“The project will continue regardless,” Kaskhar said. “Yes, I’ll be in Brasilia with my wife but I’ll be back in a few weeks. The engineers on the second floor will be able to push ahead without my presence.”
“Rasoul,” Al Calandria replied, “There is a narrow window here. We have the government subsidy confirmed but with the financial crisis, if we don’t draw down on the cash, who knows if it’ll be rescinded. We’ve got to break ground before the end of the month.”
“That’s exactly the point,” the Iranian disagreed, tapping his hairy fist on the desk. “The government’s committed. They’re not going to back away from us now.”
“Please,” Al Calandria said. “Solar is a fashion fad. This country – I am intensely proud of her – but I’m also a realist: she was built on oil. Better to get things going before the winds change.”
“I’m telling you,” Rasoul replied, “These cells are improving all the time. Efficiency is increasing 10 to 15% a year. If we keep going with the design and can stall the government just six months on actually starting work on the physical installation, we’ll make millions in extra profit. In the year between now and the time the photovoltaics are sunk into the ground, we’ll be looking at a plant that’s 20% more efficient than if we start today.”
Asp shifted his position so that he could get a better view of the conversation, while still remaining obscured by the pavise. He looked through the taught drawstring of the crossbow, trying to eavesdrop further.
Al Calandria leaned back in his chair.
“Twenty percent?” he repeated sceptically.
“Seriously,” Rasoul said. “That doubles the profit margin. All for simply waiting a few months on starting work. You can blame me for the delay if you like. They know we’ve been putting in an installation to work on the roof here – tell them the plant we have is going to be upgraded again to the next generation and you’re waiting for data to see if the new circuits will make a difference.”
“While they’re bamboozled thinking we’re talking cooled electronics,” Al Calandria replied slowly, “we’ll be moving towards subbing in the Korean supplier over the Germans...”
“Exactly!” Rasoul said triumphantly.
Asp had heard enough. Their plans to build a solar power plant in the desert were of no concern to him. He stood and strode into full view.
Kaskhar, heavy set, with the thick, grey streaked hair of a badger, raised his head.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
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“My apologies, Mr Kaskhar,” Asp replied as he walked forward. “I urgently need to talk with Mr Al Calandria – by the way, I’ve been admiring your gallery here. There’s some amazing work, spanning the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy through to the Italian city states. Truly wonderful.”
Kaskhar adjusted his glasses to fit more squarely on his nose. Nate could see dandruff cumulating in the Iranian’s bushy eyebrows.
“Thank you, mister...?”
“Nate Aspinal,” Asp replied. “Now Mr Calandria, I’ve had several of my employees killed by the Russian mafia in this city in the last few weeks – do you know anything about that?”
Asp intently watched Al Calandria’s reactions – shock at the appearance of this stranger, mixed with confusion and disgust crossed his noble Arabic features.
“Who the hell are you?” Al Calandria replied. “Rasoul, do you know this man?”
“I’ve never met him before in my life,” the Iranian said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Actually, that’s not entirely true,” Nate pointed his finger at Kaskhar. “We’ve met a couple of times at charity events – most recently, the benefit gala for Iraq.”
“Yes,” Kaskhar replied, remembrance dawning on his face. “You work for that detective agency Chrome. I was considering hiring you a few years back in a dispute with business partners in Jordan. How did you get in here without an appointment?”
“Call security,” Al Calandria said. “Or better still, the police.”
“I don’t think you want to involve the police,” Nate said, joining them at the desk. “Like I said: two dead from my office in as many weeks, all working on a project that keeps linking to the Al Calandria family. What is your connection to the Russians?”
A spark of recall in Al Calandria’s eyes; the faintest glimmer of dots connected.
“Rasoul, call the police,” he said.
“I think we can let our internal security handle this,” Kaskhar replied, dialling his phone.
“You just made some connection, didn’t you?” Nate pushed. “What was it?”
The flowing robes of his national dress billowed as Al Calandria stood for the first time. He jabbed a long aristocratic finger in Nate’s direction.
“I am a patriot, Mr Aspinal,” Al Calandria said. “I too have heard of your seedy corporation of American spies – and let me tell you, your sort are not wanted in this country. When I leave here I will have personal words with our head of immigration and the ministry of economic affairs, demanding that your company is struck off and your workers are expelled.”
“That’s not a denial,” Asp replied.
Two overlarge men barrelled between the exhibits, charging elephants, towards the office.
“I have nothing to do with the Russian jackals that plague this city,” Al Calandria replied. “And I can assure you that any link between criminal organisations and my family is an attempt at dragging our name through the mud. The great sheikh’s vision for Dubai will not be destroyed by vermin and half-caste bastards.”
Strong arms grabbed Asp in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground.
“Well, Mr Aspinal, it’s been a pleasure,” Rasoul Kaskhar said, as a hail of body blows struck Nate in the ribs.
As he was heaved away, Asp managed to gain the breath to reply.
“Indeed, I look forward to our next charity ball. We can discuss the relative merits of the mangonel to the ballista in siege warfare.”
23
Blake opened the front door of his house and flicked on the lights.
“Good evening,” he said nonchalantly as he walked into the lounge.
The blond Russian stood in the open-plan kitchen, making himself tea with Blake’s kettle. The other, the dark-haired, bearded one who Blake had spoken to earlier, reclined on the settee and seemed startled by Blake’s brazen entry.
Jeffrey was sat on the Russian’s lap, enjoying being stroked. He jumped down and prowled around Blake’s feet before scampering off upstairs.
“Good,” the bearded thug said with his heavy accent. “We were getting worried we would have to feed your cat if you didn’t come back soon.”
“Well, I hadn’t taken you earlier as the feline protection league,” Blake said. “It’s kind of you to show such dedication, but you’ve nothing to worry about, Jeffrey is very well cared for, so you’ll find you can leave now.”
The blond Russian poured the kettle into a two white ceramic mugs and swirled the teabags with a spoon from the drawer.
“Abram, he’s a funny one, this American,” the blond said.
Standing by the fridge, he seemed even bigger to Blake now than he had in the car. Muscles flexed inside his top.
“Great,” Blake thought. “A steroid junkie.”
The blond put some milk in both teas and returned the container to the fridge. His dark-haired friend – Abram – stood. He too was large; Blake estimated him to be at least five inches over his own height, placing him at 6’4 or 6’5.
“Yes, very amusing,” Abram replied. “And you know how much I love people who amuse me.”
He moved around the careworn pine breakfast table and collected his own drink from the kitchen side-board. The blond walked past the central column that ran down the middle of the house. He was flanking Blake.
“Well, glad to hear it,” Blake said, slowly shifting his own position to the far end of the lounge, keeping his face towards the thugs and an equal distance between them. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?”
The blond held his mug in his left hand as he sipped, blowing on the liquid to cool it. He slid his right into his trouser pocket.
“We are here to discuss with you an item of property that belongs to some friends of ours,” Abram said, leaning against the pine table and placing the bottom of his drink in amongst the patchwork of stained drink circles that lined its surface.
“Any indications as to what this item might be?” Blake asked.
The blond drew closer.
“This will go much quicker if we ask the questions and you provide answers,” he said.
He withdrew a taser from his pocket.
“Where is the puzzle box?” Abram asked.
“Why do you want it?” Blake replied.
“I told you,” the blond said. “We ask the questions.”
He jolted the taser into Blake’s chest and let rip with the high intensity electric blast.
24
“No,” Nate said firmly into his phone, “Al Calandria isn’t involved. But he knows who is and he certainly isn’t happy about it.”
“What do we do next?” Zain replied. “I’m at your place. Alex let me in and the kids are here.”
Asp nursed his bruises as he walked along the wide road that circled the Burj Khalifa.
“Good,” Asp said, massaging a particularly sore area of his chest. “You grab some sleep. I’m going to get in a cab and come back to join you.”
The large battlement walls of the recreated old city towered over the surrounding streets. The caramel-painted ramparts fitted remarkably well with Kaskhar’s personal museum and Asp suddenly realised that this artificial reconstruction of a Saladin Citadel was probably what drew the man to headquarter his business here.
Labelled “Old Town”, the area was a main tourist draw and contained half a dozen of the Emirates’ best hotels.
It was all a lie of course.
Not just that the “Old Town” was barely five years old and constructed of plaster covered reinforced concrete, but deeper, even more insidiously, the idea that anything like this had ever been in this part of the country.
Prior to the discovery of oil Dubai had been a devastatingly poor part of the world. Pearl fishing provided 90% of the economy. The excruciating heat made permanent habitation foolish at best and impossible at worst. The local tribes had been itinerant – visiting the creek harbours, upon which Dubai was founded, in the winter months and spending the summer in the more sen
sible, cooler climes of the mountains.
That was why the country was such a patchwork counterpane with each state owning non-contiguous portions of the others.
Everything was about tribes and access to oases.
And that was the most insidious part of the lie: venerable though their culture and history was, it was nomadic. Unrivalled oral histories, the beauty and romance of being desert wanderers and tradesmen – tales of hard living and heroism sung on the lute-like oud.
But no castles. No great fortifications. No large stone cities.
They were all a modern wet dream, a stolen fable from less harsh lands further south – Al Ain on the Saudi border, Petra in Jordan or Muscat in Oman.
“A manufactured past, worthy of its emergent future,” Asp said, a taxi calling to the curb.
“What?” Zain replied.
“I think I’ve had an idea,” Asp said, triumph creeping into his voice. “I think someone’s reading history backwards – making connections that just aren’t there.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Asp replied, getting into the taxi. “I’m going to go to the office to do research. I’ll meet you at the house after you’ve slept.”
***
500,000 volts of electricity discharged in a streaming arc of blue lightening as the Russian jabbed the taser into Blake’s chest.
Blake raised an eyebrow.
A micro-flash of puzzlement on the thug’s face. Blake’s fist connected with the Russian’s throat. Hands twisted, a wrist broke, Blake grabbed the taser and blasted his assailant in the neck.
Abram sprung into action, hand darting to the inside of his pin-striped jacket.
Blake hurled the taser like a throwing knife, hitting the dark-haired Russian on the nose. The impact startled Abram, slowing his draw by a fraction of a second. Before he could bring his pistol free of its holster, Blake’s hand was around the back of his head, forcing Abram’s face violently down onto the table.
“A gun?” Blake said. “In Dubai? Now that’s beyond naughty. That’s way outside the rules of gangster conduct for this town.”