The long, flat object jutting into the picture from the left came clear. It was the wingtip of an aeroplane, but no more than six feet off the ground. So, not an airliner, but a smaller craft.
Then he recognized the buildings in the background. Not warehouses, hangars. Not the huge structures needed for sheltering airliners, but the sort needed for private planes, executive jets, whose tailfins rarely top more than thirty feet. The man was on a private airfield or the executive section of an airport.
They helped him at the hotel. Yes, there were several cybercafés in Belgrade, all open until late. He dined in the snack bar and took a taxi to the nearest. When he was logged on to his favourite search engine, he asked for all the flags of the world.
The flag fluttering above the hangars in the dead reporter’s photo was only in monochrome, but it was clear the flag had three horizontal stripes of which the bottom one was so dark it looked like black. If not, then a very dark blue. He opted for black.
As he ran through the world’s flags, he noted that a good half of them had some kind of logo, crest or device superimposed on the stripes. The one he sought had none. That cut the choice down to the other half.
Those who had horizontal stripes and no logo were no more than two dozen, and those with a black or near-black bottom stripe were five.
Gabon, Netherlands and Sierra Leone all had three horizontal stripes of which the lowest was deep blue, which could show up black in a monochrome photograph. Only two had a bottom stripe of three which was definitely black: Sudan and one other. But the Sudan had a green diamond up against the flagpole as well as three stripes. The remaining one had a vertical stripe nearest the flagpole. Peering at his photo, Dexter could just make out the fourth stripe; not clear, but it was there.
One vertical red stripe by the flagpole; green, white and black horizontals running out to the flapping edge. Zilic was standing on an airport somewhere in the United Arab Emirates.
Even in December a pale-skinned Slav could get a badly burned nose in the UAE.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Gulf
There are seven Emirates in the UAE but only the three biggest and richest, Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Sharjah, spring readily to mind. The other four are much smaller and almost anonymous.
They all occupy the peninsula at the southeastern tip of the Saudi landmass, that tongue of desert that separates the Arabian Gulf to the north and the Gulf of Oman to the south.
Only one, A1 Fujairah, faces south onto the Gulf of Oman and thence the Arabian Sea; the other six are strung in a line along the northern coast, staring at Iran across the water. Apart from the seven capitals, there is the desert oasis-town of A1 Ain that also has an airport.
While still in Belgrade, Dexter found a portrait photographic studio with the technology to rephotograph the picture of Zoran Zilic, increase its clarity and then blow it up from playing-card to softback-book size.
While the photographer worked on one task, Dexter returned to the cybercafé, enquired after the United Arab Emirates and downloaded everything he could get. The following day he took the JAT regular service via Beirut to Dubai.
The wealthy Emirates derive their riches mainly from oil although they have all tried to broaden the base of their economies to include tourism and duty-free trade. Most of the oil deposits are offshore.
Rigs have to be resupplied constantly and although the vehicles used for heavy cargoes are seaborne lighters, personal transfers are faster and easier by helicopter.
The oil companies operating the rigs have their own helicopters but there is still ample room for charter firms, and the internet revealed three such, right in Dubai. The American Alfred Barnes had become a lawyer when he visited the first. He picked the smallest, on the grounds it was probably the least concerned with formalities and the most interested in wads of dollar bills. He was right on both counts.
The office was a Portakabin out at Port Rashid and the proprietor and chief pilot turned out to be a former British Army Air Corps flier trying to make a living. They do not come much more informal than that.
‘Alfred Barnes, attorney-at-law,’ said Dexter, extending his hand. ‘I have a problem, a tight schedule and a large budget.’
The British ex-captain raised a polite eyebrow. Dexter pushed the photo across the cigarette-scorched desk.
‘My client is, or rather was, a very wealthy man.’
‘He lost it?’ asked the pilot.
‘In a way. He died. My law firm is the chief executor. And this man is the chief beneficiary. Only he doesn’t know it and we cannot find him.’
‘I’m a charter pilot, not Missing Persons. Anyway, I’ve never seen him.’
‘No reason why you should. It’s the background to the picture. Look carefully. An airport or airfield, right? The last I heard he was working in civil aviation here in UAE. If I could identify that airport, I could probably find him. What do you think?’
The charter pilot studied the background.
‘Airports here have three sections: military, airlines and private flyers. That wing belongs to an executive jet. There are scores, maybe hundreds of them, in the Gulf. Most have company livery and most are owned by wealthy Arabs. What do you want to do?’
What Dexter wanted to buy was the charter captain’s access to the flying side to all these airports. It came at a price and took two days. The cover was that he had to pick up a client. After sixty minutes inside the executive jet compound, when the fictional client failed to show up, the captain told the tower he was breaking off the charter and leaving the circuit.
The airports at Abu Dhabi, Dubai and Sharjah were huge and even the private aviation sector of each was far bigger than the background in the photograph.
The emirates of Ajman and Umm al-Qaiwain had no airport at all, being cheek by jowl with Sharjah airport. That left the desert city of A1 Ain, Al Fujairah out on the far side of the peninsula facing the Gulf of Oman, and, right up in the north, the least known of them all, Ras al-Khaimah.
They found it on the morning of the second day. The Bell Jetranger swerved in across the desert to land at what the Britisher called A1 K, and there were the hangars with the flag fluttering behind them.
Dexter had taken the charter for two full days, and brought his handgrip with him. He settled up with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills, stepped down and watched the Bell lift away. Looking around, he realized he was standing almost where Srechko Petrovic must have been when he snatched the photo that sealed his fate. An official stepped from an administration building and beckoned him to clear the area.
The arrival and departure building for both airline and private jet passengers was neat, clean and small, with the accent on small. Named after the emiral family, Al-Quassimi International Airport had clearly never disturbed those airlines whose names are world famous.
On the tarmac in front of the terminal building were Russian-built Antonovs and Tupolevs. There was an old Yakovlev single-prop biplane. One airliner bore the livery and logo of Tajikistan Airlines. Dexter went up one floor to the roof café and took a coffee.
The same floor contained the admin offices, including the supremely optimistic Public Relations department. The sole inhabitant was a nervous young lady robed from head to toe in a black chador, with only her hands and pale oval face visible. She had halting English.
Alfred Barnes had now become a development officer for tourism projects with a major US company and wished to enquire about the facilities Ras al-Khaimah could offer to the executives seeking an exotic conference centre; especially he needed to know if they could be offered airport facilities for the executive jets in which they would arrive.
The lady was polite but adamant. All enquiries regarding tourism should be addressed to the Department of Tourism in the Commercial Centre, right next to the Old Town.
A taxi brought him there. It was a small cube of a building on a development site, about 500 yards from the Hilton and right on the edge of the brand-new deep-wat
er harbour. It did not appear to be under siege from those seeking to develop tourism.
Mr Hussein al Khory would have regarded himself, if asked, as a good man. That did not make him a contented man. To justify the first, he would have said he only had one wife but treated her well. He tried to raise his four children as a good father should. He attended mosque every Friday and gave alms to charity according to his ability and according to scripture.
He should have progressed far in life, inshallah. But it seemed Allah did not smile upon him. He remained stuck in the middle ranks of the Tourism Ministry; specifically, he remained stuck in a small brick cube on a development site next to the deep-water harbour, where no one ever called. Then one day the smiling American walked in.
He was delighted. An enquiry at last, and the chance to practise the English over which he had spent so many hundreds of hours. After several minutes of courteous pleasantries – how charming of the American to realize that Arabs do not like to delve straight into business – they agreed that as the air conditioning had broken down and the outside temperature was nudging 100 degrees, they might use the American’s taxi to adjourn to the coffee lounge of the Hilton.
Settled in the pleasant cool of the Hilton bar, Mr al Khory was intrigued that the American seemed in no hurry to proceed to his business. Eventually the Arab said:
‘Now, how can I help you?’
‘You know, my friend,’ said the American with seriousness, ‘my whole life’s philosophy is that we are put upon this earth by our mighty and merciful Creator to help one another. And I believe that it is I who am here to help you.’
Almost absentmindedly the American began to fumble in his jacket pockets for something. Out came his passport, several folded letters of introduction and a block of hundred-dollar bills that took Mr al Khory’s breath away.
‘Let us see if we cannot help each other.’
The civil servant stared at the dollars.
‘If there is anything I can do . . .’ he murmured.
‘I should be very honest with you, Mr al Khory. My real job in life is debt collector. Not a very glamorous job, but necessary. When we buy things, we should pay for them. Not so?’
‘Assuredly.’
‘There is a man who flies into your airport now and again. In his own executive jet. This man.’
Mr al Khory stared at the photo for a few seconds, then shook his head. His gaze returned to the block of dollars. Four thousand? Five? To put Faisal through university . . .
‘Alas, this man did not pay for his aeroplane. In a sense, therefore, he stole it. He paid the deposit, then flew away and was never seen again. Probably changed the registration number. Now, these are expensive things. Twenty million dollars each. So, the true owners would be grateful, in a very practical way, to anyone who could help them to find their aircraft.’
‘But if he is here now, arrest him. Impound the aircraft. We have laws . . .’
‘Alas, he has gone again. But every time he lands here, there is a record. Stored in the files at Ras al-Khaimah airport. Now, a man of your authority could require to see those archives.’
The civil servant dabbed his lips with a clean handkerchief.
‘When was it here, this aeroplane?’
‘Last December.’
Before leaving Block 23 Dexter had learned from Mrs Petrovic that her son had been away from 13 to 20 December. Calculating that Srechko had snatched his photograph, been seen, knew he had been seen, and had left immediately for home, he would have been in Ras al-Khaimah about the 18th. How he had known to come here, Dexter had no idea. He must have been a good, or very lucky, reporter. Kobac should have taken him on.
‘There are many executive jets who come here,’ said Mr al Khory.
‘All I need are the registration numbers and the types of every privately or corporately owned executive jet, specifically owned by Europeans, hopefully this one, parked here between 15 and 19 December last. Now, I would think, in those four days . . . what? . . . Ten?’
He prayed the Arab would not ask how he did not know the make of the jet if he represented the vendors. He began to peel off hundred-dollar bills.
‘As a token of my good faith. And my complete trust in you, my friend. And the other four thousand later.’
The Arab still looked dubious, torn between desire for such a magnificent sum and fear of discovery and dismissal. The American pressed his case.
‘If you were doing anything to harm your country, I would not dream of asking. But this man is a thief. Taking away from him what he has stolen can surely be only a good thing. Does not the Book praise justice against the wrongdoer?’
Mr al Khory’s hand covered the thousand dollars.
‘I’ll check in here, now,’ said Dexter. ‘Just ask for Mr Barnes when you are ready.’
The call came two days later. Mr al Khory was taking his new role as secret agent rather seriously. He phoned from a booth in a public place.
‘It is your friend,’ said a breathless voice in the mid-morning.
‘Hallo, my friend, do you wish to see me?’ asked Dexter.
‘Yes. I have the package.’
‘Here or at the office?’
‘Neither. Too public. The Al Hamra Fort. Lunch.’
His dialogue could not have been more suspicious, had anyone been eavesdropping, but Dexter doubted the Ras al-Khaimah secret service were on the case.
He checked out and ordered a taxi. The Al Hamra Fort Hotel was out of town, ten miles down the coast but in the right direction, heading back towards Dubai, a luxurious conversion from an old turreted Arab fortress into a five-star beachside resort.
He was there at midday, much too early for a Gulf lunch, but found a low-slung club chair in the vaulted lobby, ordered a beer and watched the entrance arch. Mr al Khory appeared, hot and dripping even from the hundred-yard walk from his car in the parking lot, just after 1 p.m. Of the five restaurants they selected the Lebanese with its cold buffet.
‘Any problems?’ asked Dexter as they took their plates and moved down the groaning trestle tables.
‘No,’ said the civil servant. ‘I explained my department was contacting all known visitors to send them a brochure describing the new and extra leisure facilities now available in Ras al-Khaimah.’
‘That is brilliant,’ beamed Dexter. ‘No one thought it odd?’
‘On the contrary, the officials in Air Traffic got out all the flight plans for December and insisted on giving me the whole month.’
‘You mentioned the importance of the European owners?’
‘Yes, but there are only about four or five who are not well-known oil companies. Let us sit.’
They took a corner table and ordered up two beers. Like many modern Arabs Mr al Khory had no problem with alcoholic drinks.
He clearly enjoyed his Lebanese food. He had piled his plate with mezzah, houmous, moutabel, lightly grilled halloumi cheese, sambousek, kibbeh and stuffed vine leaves. He handed over a sheaf of paper and began to eat.
Dexter ran through the listings of filed flight plans for December, along with time of landing and duration of stay before departure, until he came to 15 December. With a red felt-tip pen he bracketed those appearing then and covering the period to 19 December. There were nine.
Two Grumman Threes and a Four belonged to internationally known US oil companies. A French Dassault Mystere and a Falcon were down to Elf-Aquitaine. That left four.
A smaller Lear jet was known to belong to a Saudi prince and a larger Cessna Citation to a multimillionaire businessman from Bahrain. The last two were an Israeli-built Westwind that arrived from Bombay and a Hawker 1000 that came in from Cairo and departed back there. Someone had noted something in Arab script beside the Westwind.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Dexter.
‘Ah, yes, that one is regular. It is owned by an Indian film producer. From Bombay. He stages through on his way to London or Cannes, or Berlin. All the film festivals. In the tower, the
y know him by sight.’
‘You have the picture?’
A1 Khory handed back the borrowed photograph.
‘That one, they think he comes from the Hawker.’
The Hawker 1000 had a registration number listed as P4-ZEM and was down as owned by the Zeta Corporation of Bermuda.
Dexter thanked his informant and paid over the promised balance of four thousand dollars. It was a lot for a sheaf of paper but Dexter thought it might be the lead he needed.
On his drive back to Dubai airport he mused on something he had once been told. That when a man changes his entire identity, he cannot always resist the temptation to keep back one tiny detail for old time’s sake.
ZEM just happened to be the first three letters of Zemun, the district in Belgrade where Zoran Zilic was born and raised. And Zeta just happened to be the Greek and Spanish for the letter Z.
But Zilic would have hidden himself and his covering corporations, not to mention his aeroplane if indeed the Hawker was his, behind layers of protection.
The records would be out there somewhere, but they would be stored in databases of the type not available to the innocent seeker of knowledge.
Dexter could manage a computer as well as the next man, but there was no way he could hack into a protected database. But he remembered someone who could.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Confrontation
When it came to matters of right and wrong, of sin and righteousness, FBI Assistant Director Colin Fleming would brook no compromise. The concept of ‘No Surrender’ was in his bones and his genes, brought across the Atlantic a hundred years ago from the cobbled streets of Portadown. Two hundred years before that his ancestors had brought their Presbyterian code across to Ulster from the western coast of Scotland.
When it came to evil, to tolerate was to accommodate, to accommodate was to appease, and to appease was to concede defeat. That he could never do.
When he read the synthesis of the Tracker’s report and the Serbian confession, and when he reached the details of the death of Ricky Colenso, he determined that the man responsible should, if at all possible, face due process in a court of law in the greatest country in the world, his own.
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