Death of a Financier

by John Francis Kinsella

  The hotel was situated to the south of the Old Town and was surrounded by new buildings, offices, condos and shopping malls. The only negative point was the suite's layout, there was no separation between the sitting room and the bedroom area, given its price and the evident availability of construction workers he asked himself why they had not been able to afford an additional wall or partition.

  He was undecided whether to have a nap or not, it was early, eight thirty in the morning. After thinking about it for a moment he concluded that his short sleep on the plane had been sufficient and decided to take a shower before checking the mass of brochures announcing the good things to be seen in Dubai. He then unpacked the overnight case, leaving the other two closed then took the benefit of the extravagantly appointed shower to shake off the flight hangover.

  After some searching he found the coffee shop in the cavernous maze of the hotel, he ordered a coffee and croissant and started to flip through a tourist guide, after all he was a tourist and he needed to get his bearings before he decided on how to start the exploration of the Emirate. It was all a little confusing, museums, shopping malls, beaches, shopping malls, dunes and more shopping malls.

  A recurrent ad announced a two hour circular bus tour of the city; there was a picture of the bus, a red double-decker with an open top deck, which stopped at the different points of interest. His mind made up he called for the bill, forgetting any idea of an air-conditioned limousine in favour of the airy open top double-decker bus. There were two routes, blue and red, he decide to start with the red route through the Old Town. A taxi dropped him off near the Creek at the Heritage Village in the Old Town, where the Big Bus City Tour started; he paid 175 dirham for the ticket boarded the bus and took a seat on the upper deck.

  His first observation from the taxi had been the traffic, it seemed worse than London, a slow moving jam, taking about twenty minutes to do a couple miles; the second was the city seemed to be like a gigantic building site. Perhaps it would improve further on, he thought, where he had caught a glimpse of what the brochure described as the world's highest building. The bus was due to leave in five minutes and he settled back on his front seat to enjoy the warmth of the morning sun, there was no disputing that it was a considerable improvement on the dismally cold London weather.

  He was awoken from his reveries by a loud female cockney voice; he looked around and saw two girls of about ten years old arriving at the top of the stairs followed by two women who appeared to be their mothers. One of them he seemed to vaguely recognise. There made their way forward and the two girls occupied the empty seats across the aisle from him. He smiled at them and the mothers.

  'Hallo,' said the more attractive of the two mothers, 'aren't you from Epping?' The cockney accent was pronounced, the smile familiar.

  'Oh hallo,' he replied surprised. 'Of course we've spoken together in the market in Romford.'

  He felt a little uncomfortable being recognised, it was his first day out of the UK and here he was talking to somebody from Epping who knew him. On the other hand, he had done nothing, at least known to the public, he was simply taking a hard earned break, even if it was to be a long one, no one was looking for him. The girl did not even know who he was, even his name.

  'On holiday?'

  'Yes, getting in some sun. What about you?'

  'India, were going to Kerala.'

  'Ah yes, I remember you mentioned that.'

  'We arrived yesterday, doing a bit of shopping, though there's not much we really need,' she said nodding to her new camera. 'Were not short of clothes either,' she laughed alluding to her stall in the market. 'It makes a break in the flight for the kids.' The two girls were chatting excitedly and pointing to the small ferry boats on the Creek, completely oblivious to the rest of the world around them.

  'What about you?'

  'Me, well I'm staying here for a few days, after that I don't know.'

  The bus started and made its way through the Old Town traffic, passing by what was announced as the National Museum and other places of interest. Then it looped back and taking the Al Shindagha Tunnel to the other side of the Creek up to the Al Maktoum Bridge, where Barton wishing the East Enders goodbye abandoned the bus for a taxi back to the hotel before he was completely burnt up by the sun.

  It had taken an hour, without the traffic it would have been all over in ten minutes. For the moment he was unimpressed by what he had seen.

  After lunch he took the blue tour along Al Jumeirah Road that ran westwards along the Arabian Gulf overlooking the beach area, passing the palace and a series of luxury hotels: Hiltons, Sheratons, Meridiens and other look-a-likes standing almost side by side. The guide announced the offshore residential developments: behind was the Palm Deira, after Medina Jumeirah was The Crescent, then beyond the port and residential district The Palm Jebel Ali followed by the Dubai Water Front.

  Barton was astonished by the skyscrapers, one after the other, and by the offshore residential developments. He was undecided as to whether it was a real estate man's dream or nightmare; he could not deny the achievements and the reality that stood before him, on the other hand the ambitions of the developers seemed staggering and the risks enormous. He could not help asking himself how they were going to sell it all and concluded that there were a lot more oil rich Arabs in Dubai than he had thought.

  The tourist hotels situated along the beach area offered the usual combination of sea, sand and sun, as well as alcohol, which though forbidden in Saudi Arabia, just a couple of hours drive to the south, was one of the pleasures that attracted many Saudis to the Emirate

  The information booklet he had read over lunch told him that Dubai was one of the seven emirates that constituted the United Arab Emirates; Dubai City was its capital. Dubai had the largest population of the seven and was the second largest in land area. Contrary to what Barton could have thought, revenues from oil and natural gas contributed less than six percent to Dubai's economy and its reserves were soon expected to run out, as a result the Emirate was dependent on revenues from its tax free zone, tourism and service businesses. In any case evidence of the country's prosperity was everywhere for the eyes to see, whether it would last or not was another question, especially if there was a sustained global economic downturn as Barton suspected was at hand.

  The total population of the Dubai was about one point five million with three times more men than women, though less than a fifth were UAE nationals. The foreigners, more than 80% of the population, were immigrant workers, in the vast majority men: Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Filipinos. Barton soon discovered foreign nationals worked principally in construction and low level service jobs, often in poor living conditions, where it was not uncommon for six or more people to share the same room. He also observed a small minority of Westerners also lived in the Emirate, both men and women, whom he had seen passing by wearing business suites carrying briefcases, they worked in specialised jobs in the finance and technical sectors.

  The bus then turned back taking Sheik Sayed Road past the spectacular Burj Al Arab tower the world's tallest building with 164 floors, 818 meters high, he could not help thinking it would be a spectacular target for Al Qaeda.

  Barton's head was dizzy with towers, concrete and construction. It was all part of the Dubai government's decision to diversify their economy inito service and tourism; the result was real estate had shot up following the worldwide trend. All personal, corporate and sales taxes were abolished so as to transform the Emirate into the trading emporium of the world, where foreigners could invest, own property and companies, all of which would hopefully create a huge influx of businesses and skilled foreign workers.

  He wondered if he was a witness to the long anticipated decline of the West and the take over of its businesses by rising powers, just as another emirate, Abu Dhabi, had become the largest shareholder in the mighty Citigroup's investment group, the Government of Singapore took part ownership in Merrill Lynch whilst the Chinese
helped themselves to ten percent of Morgan Stanley, the list was long, though of course sovereign funds held but a tiny three percent of world businesses, nevertheless it could have been an augur of things to come.

  That evening he offered himself a lobster and steak dinner at the Manhattan Grill to celebrate the first day of his new life. The only question mark was his next stop, the Emirate did not seem like the kind of place he would care to spend the next couple of years of his life. In spite of that he would check out one of the offshore property developments and perhaps make a visit to the Bur Juman shopping mall that had been recommended by the concierge.

  Dubai would be nothing more than a stop over, it was as clear as spring water that the Emirate was surfing the ten year world economic boom, what would happen when the music stopped as it inevitably would? There was a lot of expensive real estate out there Barton thought as he watched the lights of Dubai sparkling through the panoramic windows of the restaurant.

  The next morning he slept until almost nine. He was feeling good when he took a taxi to Bur Juman, the weather was fine, which seemed quite normal for Dubai and the traffic seemed to move a little smoother, perhaps it was just that time of the day. At the entrance to the mall was Paul's French Caf?, he took an outside terrace table and ordered a latte, an almond croissant and a French finger; a short piece of baguette with butter and two kinds of jam. He savoured his late breakfast warmed by the rays of the morning sun, at the neighbouring table sat a couple of Emiratees, he in a long immaculately pressed white robe, called according to Barton's guide book a dishdash, his head covered with a white gutra held in place by a gizham, a coiled black head band, she in the traditional woman's black abaya its edges embroidered with gold thread. They chatted easily, wholly relaxed, nothing severe or intimidating about them.

  After his pleasing breakfast he made his way into the mall, a vast building in glass and steel with escalators to carry shoppers and strollers to its many levels, each one a maze of luxury boutiques selling everything from diamonds to fashion and luxury time pieces to fitness equipment.

  What could he offer himself as a souvenir of Dubai, which was by the minute becoming nothing more than the briefest stop-over to more distant and promising places. Why not a watch, the choice was endless, each brand claiming its longevity, quality and originality, he finally opted for a Blancpain Lehman Chronograph, he paid with his Amex card, US$12,000. He was pleased with it, but at a loss for what to do with his eye-catching Gold Rolex GMT Master II. Wearing the Blancpain he was now part of the less conspicuous rich.

  He then spotted a stand for the promotion of the Kempinski Palm Jumeirah Residences with an architect's model of their condominium project in a glass case. The salesman explained to Barton that the Palm Jumeirah was an artificial island built on land reclaimed by the Dubai government.

  It was one of three islands called The Palm Islands designed to increase Dubai's shoreline by over five hundred square kilometres. It was the smallest of the three, in the form of a palm tree, consisting of a trunk, a crown with seventeen fronds surrounded by a crescent shaped island that formed an eleven kilometre long breakwater. The trunk was connected to the mainland by a three hundred metre long bridge and the crescent connected to the top of the palm by an undersea tunnel.

  When completed the island would be covered by hotels, villas, shoreline apartment buildings, beaches, marinas, restaurants, caf?s and a variety of retail outlets. Over thirty beachfront hotels were to be built before the completion of the huge development.

  The smooth young salesman, a Turk, was promoting apartments, penthouses and townhouses being developed by the German Kempinski hotel group. The prices ranged from 500,000 Euro for a one bedroom apartment to 1,250,000 Euro for a four bedroom apartment. He was evasive when Barton asked to visit a show apartment, producing artist's impressions and announcing the scheduled project completion date was set for the end of 2010 beginning of 2011.

  The illustrations in the brochure showed an exotically designed palace situated on the crescent section, described as having a 'stunning, elegant look with a sophisticated essence', it was divided into luxurious two, three and four bedroom apartments, penthouses, surrounded by palatial villas and finally a five star luxury hotel. On completion the Emerald Kempinski Palace would be surrounded by luxuriant gardens and a private beach not forgetting an underground car park and shopping facilities.

  It reminded him of the Miami condominiums that were currently being auctioned off with no reserve price and there was no way he could imagine investing a million euros in what was a permanent construction site and what seemed so obviously an extension of the worldwide property bubble. So with little else to do he made his way back to the Grand Hyatt where he consulted Emirates time table wondering where his next stop-over would be.

  As he looked down the list of destinations the thought occurred to him he should try somewhere a little less developed, which of course eliminated Singapore and Hong Kong with their skyscrapers and computerized societies. Moreover, it should not be too far, he was not yet in the mood for another long flight.

  The route map showed Dubai as the hub of Emirates and looking at the lines that looped out from the city he saw many unappealing names including Baghdad, Kabul, Karachi and Dhaka, then there was India with Bombay, now known as Mumbai, Goa and a destination with an unpronounceable name - Thiruvananthapuram. It rang a bell, wasn't that the place where the East Enders were headed?

  He picked up the phone and asked for the travel agency in the hotel lobby; there were just three flights a week to Thiruvananthapuram, a good sign. Seats were available on a flight the same evening, there was little point in hanging around in Dubai in the Hyatt's gilded cage and he asked the agent to make a booking.

  'Do you have a visa Sir?'

  'Visa?'

  'Yes Sir, for India.'

  'No.'

  'We can ask for an urgent visa, it will cost 1,000 Dirham.'

  'Sounds expensive for a visa.'

  'Yes, I'm sorry Sir, but if you would like to wait a few days it will cost less.'

  'Okay, what do you need?'

  'Please come down to our office Sir with your passport and we will arrange everything.'

  Sure enough they were organised, a couple of photos printed out from a digital camera, 1,000 Dirham and Barton was promised a visa for the end of the afternoon.

  That evening as he checked out of his luxurious hotel, Karen and her family boarded a bus at the Al Ghubaiba bus station, their destination the airport, just five kilometres from the centre of the Old Town.

  *

  The same day David and Barbara Parkins boarded a Jet Airways charter flight at Birmingham International Airport, it was eleven hours non-stop to Trivandrum - now Thiruvananthapuram. Their package holiday had cost them ?684 each; all included with bed and breakfast, for the two week Christmas and New Year holiday. It was the high season, but David had little choice with the dates, Christmas was quiet in the Smethwick hotel business, it suited the head office and his temporary replacement would not be confronted with too many difficulties.

  David was worldly but careful with money, the ups and downs of life had transformed him into a cautious man. He dreamt of early retirement and for that reason he and Barbara had wisely avoided extravagant living, preferring their Smethwick semi to trading up and burdening themselves with the long years of a heavy mortgage. They described their home as very pleasant, the large old trees of their neighbour's garden overhung the end of their own, a screen of greenery during the summer months that hid the houses opposite giving an almost pastoral impression. We're not far from Stratford-on-Avon they liked to tell strangers.

  The charter flight was full with little leg room, but it was worth putting up with a night of discomfort for the guaranteed sunshine they knew they could expect in Kerala. There were also looking forward to meeting Dharma Jayanthi again, whom they now considered as a friend, and discussing the business plans Barbara had in mind with him.


  *****

  Chapter 7

  The flight to Trivandrum would take about four hours, just long enough to get a little sleep after diner and drinks. As Barton sipped a glass of whisky he flicked through The Daily Telegraph stopping at an article in the business section headed Crisis may make 1929 look like a stroll in the park. It talked of the banking and credit crisis that was entering its fifth month as economists warned that the world's central banks were fighting the wrong war, running the risk of a policy error of huge proportions.

  For once I'm lucky, getting out at the right time, he congratulated himself. He then turned his thoughts to Kerala, he knew strictly speaking nothing of the south Indian state, in fact he had to admit he knew very very little of India. Their was a pang of anxiety as he wondered about the Maharaja Palace in Kovalam, the hotel where he had been booked by the travel agent at the Dubai Hyatt and had been reassured it belonged to a leading Austrian hotel chain. He pulled out Emirates in flight magazine and turned to the maps, then looking at India he was disappointed to discover no sign of a place called Kovalam, though he spotted Trivandrum, which lay near the south Indian coast, a straight line from Dubai over what he discovered was called the Arabian Sea, a giddy ten kilometres below.

  The meal was not bad and as he finished a glass of Australian Cabernet he turned his attention, for the want of nothing better to do, to a copy of the Economist. An article announced world oil production had reached 84 million barrels a day. Making a quick mental calculation based on a price of $100 a barrel multiplied by 365 days a year, the total oil producers' revenue came to about 3,000 billion dollars a year, an astronomical sum, but of little meaning. Then trying to put it into perspective he remembered that the total gross domestic product of the UK was about the same figure, in other terms about $40,000 per year for every British man, woman and child.