Majid Al Mualla floats in the lighted pool, its aquamarine water dotted with small islands covered in sand and palms, its undulating shape that of interlocking circles, its surrounding landscaping accented by specialty palms, its outer border of grass and mature palms separating it from the beach. He can hear the dark waters of the gulf lapping against the white sand.
Majid looks up at the hotel towering above him. The Jumeirah Beach is a blue wave of architectural glass, convex and ascending on the north side, concave and descending on the south. The hotel is a marvel of architecture and engineering, clearly not afraid to make a statement. Jumeirah stands for beautiful, a name attached to the surrounding coastal residential neighborhood, one frequented by ex pats. In fact, they used to call it Chicago Beach.
Majid is alone in the pool at this hour, the setting completely peaceful and relaxing, a sharp contrast to the office he left a while ago. There the people who work for him are often required to work overnight. There the pace is anything but relaxed. Majid has already been up for over twenty hours and this is not unusual for him.
He hears his name called, but can’t see in that direction. He rolls into the water, turning, and sees Kadin Sa’d moving assuredly toward him through a thicket of palms on the other side of the pool. Majid and Kadin move toward each other, to where the pool curves and the sidewalk runs near a cabana.
“Kadin.”
“Sorry to pull you away,” says Kadin.
“You didn’t. I left work and was at the Oberoi.”
“The rooftop?”
The tech style rooftop bar at the Oberoi is known for its view of the Dubai skyline. In addition, its glass ceiling provides a sky view.
“Let’s take the beach,” Kadin says.
Majid climbs out of the water and grabs his towel and a robe. Together they step down to the sand and are enveloped by the warm, moist night air. Their walk takes them past a jetty that projects into the Gulf to a restaurant at its end. Another jetty circles from the opposite direction, creating a protected cove for the hotel’s marina and visiting yachts. The jetties and piers are illuminated but the yachts parked near them are dark so late at night. Bits of moonlight fall on their white hulls, as the yachts make lapping noises against their moorings.
Kadin and Majid come to a stark white round pavilion projecting into the water at the end of the beach. The two story glass building has awnings shaped like white sails and a brightly lit interior filled with exercise equipment, a familiar sight to both men.
“So. Are you on your own?” Majid asks Kadin.
That Kadin would call him in the dead of night just to work out, this doesn’t surprise Majid. They’ve done it a few times. Really, how many people can work all hours without some kind of break? But Majid knows that even in his off time Kadin is a man not lacking for company.
“Connor, Angela and Samira are waiting at the Three Sixty.”
This is the round restaurant bar at the end of the jetty, the experience of which is a lot like sitting in an upscale disco surrounded by the sea, to Majid’s mind, and which is a favorite of western tourists. Majid knows only of the three mentioned persons, but he suspects he will soon be able to meet them in person. Regardless, he is sure they must be young, single, hungry and without any lives of their own.
Kadin uses a passkey on the door. They enter a round gymnasium where a few men are already starting early days. Majid knows that Kadin has a locker with an extra pairs of trunks, so he never bothers to bring anything. Kadin quickly undresses and they jog up a steel staircase to the second floor, which has exercise equipment laid out radially facing the curving windows. Kadin and Majid take machines not far apart. Majid plugs in earphones, selecting music off the treadmill’s console, but turning it up for Kadin’s benefit.
As they run they view the Burj Al Arab hotel across the way, beyond the yachts in the marina, surrounded by the waters of the gulf, reachable only by a short bridge. Shaped like a billowing sail, the Al Arab has a vaulting and fanciful interior of honeycombed balconies separated by giant gold pillars. With palatial rooms, it’s as if the Arabian Nights themselves had come to life.
Majid is done after forty minutes and is dressed and sitting in the lobby, cooling off, before Kadin comes down from the second floor to the wide open lounge occupying most of the first floor of the exercise pavilion.
“I’ll be just a minute,” he assures Majid, on his way to the lockers, only to re-enter the lobby moments later, bare-chested, holding his shirt in his hand and still sweating profusely.
“Come with me and we’ll get something at the Three Sixty,” he offers.
The night breeze coming off the Gulf helps cool Kadin down as they traipse across the empty beach back to the marina walkway and the wide sidewalk running across the top of the jetty. The footpath is lit along the side by a series of lights. The lights form a bead and run the sweeping arch of the jetty to the restaurant and bar at the end. The cool walk is a relaxing one. Kadin puts his shirt back on. They meet couples coming back to the hotel and walk again past large yachts moored in the slips attached to the jetty. Flags snap in the breeze.
They approach the Three Sixty, the inside bright with violet lighting visible through floor to ceiling panels of glass that completely circle the spaceship like building. They hear voices as they approach, which come from the top of the restaurant and is open to the sky. White lights surround the base of the structure. Their glare and the purple light coming from the restaurant are reflected far out into the water. The sidewalk they are on rises into a gangplank to allow customers in. Once inside, a steel staircase rises to the upper deck.
Kadin and Majid walk in to find the interior filled with white plush and modernist furniture. In the strong techno lighting, the furniture appears transcendently lavender. The floor is glass like and is imprinted with ghostly white shapes, apparently to suggest some kind of sea anemones or jellyfish. In spite of the hour the place is busy.
Kadin doesn’t see Angela, Samira, or Connor.
“Let’s try upstairs, shall we?” he asks Majid.
The upper level terrace is ringed by lounge seating and tables butted against an outer railing. The spectacular view is dominated by the massive wave form of the Jumeirah Beach Hotel on shore and the sail like form of the Al Arab in the water nearby.
“You should check your phone,” Samira, the personal assistant, points out as soon as they sit down and finish introductions for Majid.
“You’re not fixing me up again, are you?” Kadin jokes. “I thought we were over that?”
Samira just gives him a knowing look.
He pulls out his phone, which had been turned off, and sees the call that Samira was referring to. It’s West Coast. He slips over to the next lounge seat and powers up his phone.
“Kadin!” he hears immediately.
“Adam. How goes it?”
“Are we secure?”
Kadin checks his phone. Familiar icons greet him.
“As far as I know.”
“It’s about these Stanford kids.”
“I figured.”
“It seems they’re being watched pretty carefully. There was a party planned for them at your end. They found out about it.”
There is a pause on the line as Kadin considers this. Finally he asks.
“Where are they?”
“Paris.”
Kadin sighs.
“You really need to see this, Kadin. I’m certain it was meant for you.”
“Okay. Adam?”
“What?”
“Let me figure this out.”
“Sure. Take care.”
Kadin hangs up and returns to the group. Not surprisingly, Angela is still needling Connor about being single. Samira is making a positive impression on Majid. Unfortunately, this may not be a good thing, as Majid is married.
“Samira!” Kadin says, picking up his drink, “What’s doing on the world conference circuit right now?”
> Samira is taken back. It is after all the middle of the night.
“There will be issues,” cautions Connor, always conscious of his role in Sa’d’s personal safety.
“There always are,” Kadin replies nonchalantly.
Samira Veena works her tablet furiously.
“Well, let’s see. Fashion events are out of the question I suppose? Where are we looking by the way?”
Kadin peruses.
“Say, maybe Western Europe. Find anything that’s just starting.”
“He never goes to any of these things,” says Angela to Majid by way of filling him in.
“Oh,” Samira says, startled. “That does narrow it down a bit.”
“Find something financial,” instructs Angela, striking a pose with her arms extended as if on a sunny beach. “I’m looking to get away.”
Samira glances at Angela.
“Sorry,” she says to Angela, as there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of “financial” conferences. “Here we go! How about a Summit on The Global Security Agenda in Nice? I’m sure they would be ecstatic for you to join them. Would you like to be a keynote speaker?”
“What? At this late date?”
“I know they’d fit you in. Say the word.”
Samira looks at him expectantly, wanting him to say yes.
“Better not this time, but I could do a panel. I have a feeling I’m going to be too busy taking things in. If you know what I mean,” Kadin says drily.
“I’m sure I don’t,” replies Samira, genuinely clueless and not the least bit unhappy about it.
Chapter 56
On Fire Page 55