Welcome to Dubai (The Traveler)

by Omar Tyree

  Saleem stood from where he sat on the floor and had to stretch out his legs to avoid stiffness. The armed guards showed him into a bedroom to the right of the kitchen that had been converted into an office. There was a small desk with a tall leather chair behind it where Mohd sat, and a much smaller chair in front of the desk where Saleem and the rest of the men were shown to sit. Behind Mohd’s desk were a small cot and a pillow for him to rest.

  Saleem sat in the chair across from the desk as a lone guard stood behind him with an assault weapon cradled in his arms.

  Mohd looked directly at the Pakistani and smiled. “You are a military man,” he stated.

  Saleem nodded. “Yes.”

  “But now you want to make a civilian living for your family.”

  Mohd spoke as if he knew everything. That was his way.

  Saleem paused and thought out his words before responding. “It was a very difficult decision.”

  Mohd nodded back to him. “I understand. I had to make difficult decisions as well. How many children do you have?” he asked next.

  Again, Saleem paused. He didn’t want to discuss it, but he had lost much of his family from the constant warring in and around Pakistan, including his young wife and children. It was a reason he had left his homeland, deciding to live a civilian lifestyle. If only that civilian lifestyle could be more profitable and respectful, he would have no complaints.

  “So you no longer have children or a family?” Mohd assumed.

  Saleem was surprised by this, and he remained hesitant.

  “I have lost loved ones as well,” Mohd told him calmly, “and my war was an economic one. I had a decision to make between my family and modest wealth, which was no decision at all. Every family must eat and have shelter; otherwise, you will have no family.

  “Do you know the man you used to work for?” he asked Saleem next. His questions were rapid and continuous, as if he had a lot to ask.

  Saleem shook his head, uncomfortable with not knowing. But he hadn’t come to Dubai to know all of his employers; he was there to work, provide a new living for himself and create some peace of mind.

  Mohd continued, “His name is Abdul Khalif Hassan. I used to work for him myself, when he was far too young to know his influence. I served as his first overseer on the construction of the International Suites hotel.”

  Saleem nodded. He knew that hotel. It was very popular with international tourists. He had imagined what it would feel like to have a room there for a night.

  “He owns that hotel?” he asked Mohd.

  The wise old man grinned momentarily. “Abdul owns many things, but he lacks the ownership of a strong conscious. In his world, the completion of a task overrules all of humanity. So the construction of his buildings will go on, regardless of who pays the price with death.”

  Mohd paused, then added, “Including my wife, Faiza, of thirty years, who needed money for an operation.”

  Saleem narrowed his hardened dark eyes, sharing Mohd’s pain. Men of pain could relate. It was spiritual. Even the armed guard flinched with irritation inside the room, and he had heard the story several times before. “You did not have enough for your wife’s operation?” Saleem asked him. He was immediately sympathetic. Deprived men lacked the monetary resources for many of the needful things of life, let alone the extravagances that men and women desired. Poor men had been trained to do without.

  Mohd smiled and remained calm. “I did. And my wife was able to have the operation. But I was not allowed to return home to be with her in the hospital, nor during the time of her recovery. I was asked by the Emirati child to keep it all in the hands of Allah. Not because of his faith, but because he needed my experience here in Dubai to finish the job of construction.

  “But I should have told him to keep his construction in the hands of Allah, and gone back home to Egypt to be with my wife and family during her operation and recovery,” Mohd added sternly. Then he paused again and breathed deeply. It was his moment of revelation. His armed guard breathed deeply as well.

  “There were complications with my wife’s recovery, where she came down with a life-threatening fever. So I told the Emirati child that I was returning home to Egypt immediately to be with my ailing wife and family. And at that time, he told me that if I left my post, I would no longer have employment in Dubai when I returned.”

  Mohd stopped and shook his head, looking down at his dark wooden desk. He peered back into the sympathetic eyes of Saleem. “I had a moment of hesitancy, where I thought about how much money I could lose. As an experienced engineer from the Egyptian Army, there were not many here who were in my position. The majority of the building engineers of Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Sharjah and the surrounding Emirates were European. So there was a lot for me to lose, not only for my family, but as a representative of Arab professionals here in Dubai. Nevertheless, I eventually made the decision to go home, where my wife, Faiza, died in my arms.”

  He stopped and shook his head again, gravely.

  “My personal dilemma should not have been such a difficult decision. It would have been honorable and gracious for an older and wiser developer to allow me the time I needed back home with my wife. And although there is no way to guarantee that my wife would have lived had I been there earlier, there is no argument that the ignorance and youth of Abdul Khalif Hassan was in complete negligence, as he continues to be today.

  “He is driven by his insanity to complete each and every building yesterday instead of today or tomorrow. It is an insanity of youth and inconsideration that must be dealt with. He must understand, and all those who have allowed him into power, that there is a penalty, not only for poverty, but for wealth.

  “So yes, I too have had a difficult and painful loss in which to deal with, my friend,” Mohd added. “And I can no longer sit idly by and allow thousands of good men and families to lose their lives, their dignity and their human spirit through the continuous practices of greedy and inconsiderate men. Do you agree?” he asked Saleem with opened palms.

  Saleem grinned and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Then we will leave it at that,” Mohd said. “One day I will hear your story. But for now, I am tired, and a man must rest,” he joked.

  Saleem smiled back and stood from the chair to leave. But before he could reach the door to walk out, Mohd told him, “You are a good man, Saleem. And you are loyal to justice. But smart men must also be loyal to their intelligence. And it is not intelligent to speak about everything that you know. I can sense that in you, that you understand what information is yours to keep and that which you are allowed to share.”

  He looked into Saleem’s eyes again to make sure that they understood each other.

  Saleem nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Mohd said. “Foolish men do not. And they will not be allowed to breathe amongst us.”

  As Saleem turned to walk out, he was sure to comprehend the seriousness of their conversation. The assault weapons carried by Mohd’s personal guards were there to remind him that their talks were not to be repeated. However, Saleem had no fear of most of the guards. As Mohd had already noted, he had been a militant man himself—and a good one.

  With a confident and lightning-fast maneuver, Saleem could easily disarm the guard and use his weapon against every man inside of the apartment. Bakar, the huge Algerian, would be his only concern—but there was no need to have any. From what he could read inside of Mohd Ahmed Nasir’s eyes—promising the softness of tears—he was a man of deep thought, peace and regret. As Saleem walked out of the gray cement building after hours of gathering vital information, he still did not feel that he had enough.

  That man does not seem like he is ready for war, he told himself as he paced the sidewalk and crossed the street. Yet his men are all armed and ready to go. Interesting.

  He had not been used to peaceful men leading revolts. Pakistani men who spoke of war would show it. However, Saleem was quite respectful of Egyptians. They were old an
d revolutionary fighters with a very proud history. And they demanded respect in Dubai, even as laborers. So maybe Mohd could inspire a group of men to revolt.

  Maybe … or maybe not, he contemplated.

  *****

  As Saleem walked the streets of Deira through the night with deep thoughts, there was a commotion of police cars and an ambulance up ahead of him. He was then rejoined by his two comrades from earlier.

  “What is going on?” he asked them.

  “It was Rasik,” one of the men stated in a low tone. “They found him stabbed in the back and robbed.”

  Saleem looked to the second man to confirm it. The second man nodded.

  “There was a pool of blood on the sidewalk. Someone stabbed him in his back.”

  Saleem took the information in and nodded back. He had never liked Rasik much anyway. But the man was harmless and penniless. He sent every dime he made back home to his wife and kids in India.

  Saleem frowned and asked, “Who would want to stab and rob him?”

  “They said he was also drunk,” the first man added. “He threw up on the sidewalk and peed his pants from his drinks.”

  Saleem looked more confused. Rasik had not been a heavy drinker. And it was too late at night for him to still be out. The dedicated Indian man continued to work at the same construction site from sunup to sundown, while many others had quit.

  Saleem wanted to get a better look for himself at the crime scene, so he walked toward the crowd that had gathered out in front of him.

  Sure enough, the blood, alcohol and urine stains remained on the sidewalk after the ambulance and police had carried the body away.

  “Move back! Move back!” the police continued to shout at the crowd. The authorities had roped off the area on the sidewalk.

  “You see?” Saleem’s comrades asked him, confirming it.

  Instinctively, Saleem began to look around at the faces of the men in the crowd. Who could have done it or knew more about it?

  This was not a robbery, he told himself. It was an assassination made to look like a robbery. I wonder what Rasik did? And who did he offend?

  Saleem kept silent. None were trusted enough to know his thoughts. But just as the investigating police would do, he would start by returning to the bar where Rasik had bought his drinks earlier to find out who was there with him and who he had spoken to.

  *****

  In an apartment building not far from the crime scene, two older immigrant men cowered from a pair of masked assailants who had broken into their apartment. The attackers wore black ski masks and long dark clothes, while wielding blades that were larger than the one that was used to kill Rasik. They had broken into the apartment with a master key, like professionals. And they knew exactly who they were after.

  “What have we done?” the first older man asked the attackers. He knew that it was an assignment. The masked men were there for murder and for murder alone. So he protected himself with raised hands in front of his face. He and his roommate had been inside of the kitchen, cooking when the men broke in.

  But there was no answer to his question, only a forceful grab of his arm, a forward twist of his body and a swipe across his aged throat with the sharpened blade. The fatal move of the assassin was so brisk that it hypnotized the second older man. And as the murderer carefully cradled his dear friend and roommate’s body in his arms to stop it from crashing loudly to the floor, the second older man froze and stared in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. So did the second assassin.

  “Don’t stare, do it,” the first assassin ordered. He was obviously the more experienced leader.

  Suddenly, the second older man broke out of his stupor and moved to grab a frying pan from the stove that was filled with fish and hot grease. He tossed the contents toward his attacker.

  When the hot fish and grease caught the masked man flush in the face, he began to yell in pain, but he was silenced immediately with a towel that his leader cleverly wrapped around his mouth, tying it into a knot around his head. The lead assassin, with his large blade still out, then faced off with the second older man.

  “You know why we are here, Shyam. You have been telling secrets that don’t need to be told.”

  The older man grabbed a kitchen knife from the stove behind him and held it up to defend himself.

  “But why now?” he asked.

  The masked assassin took a position of attack while his companion continued to recuperate from the shock and suddenness of his burns.

  “That is not of your concern,” the assassin answered.

  “So it is time then? You have set your vengeance for Abdul?” The older man had a hunch who his attacker was. In fact, he was sure of it. That only made him more nervous.

  “You know too much already,” the masked assassin responded. “And you will never tell another soul.”

  As he faked forward to strike the older man with his blade, the poor man swung his kitchen knife with all of his might, and missed. That was all that it took for the masked assassin to find the angle he needed to slash the man’s throat. He then grabbed his arm with the kitchen knife to restrain him long enough to take him slowly to the ground while allowing the fresh blood to run out of his severed neck as he died.

  When it was done, the assassin looked to his companion and scolded him. “If you had not fallen asleep on the job, you would have never gotten yourself burned. But now you’ll have a souvenir for the rest of your life to remind you of this moment. And you will never hesitate again,” he assured him.

  He then leaned the dead man’s body up against the kitchen stove and asked for the first one.

  “Drag the body here and place it beside him.”

  The burned man did as he was told and pulled the first kill to the stove to lean him next to his dead friend. The lead man then walked to the door and looked out of the peephole. He checked to see if anyone was in the hallway before they would make their exit.

  “You follow right behind me, and we will deal with your burns later.”

  His burned man nodded and prepared himself to leave, while still in obvious pain. He hoped that the mask he was wearing had protected him from most of it, but it surely didn’t feel that way. He felt as if his skin was peeling off.

  But once the hallway was clear, they made their move for the exits, while leaving the dead men positioned with their slashed throats against the stove inside the kitchen. And their message was clear: Do not talk to anyone.

  Chapter 13

  Johnny picked up Gary outside the Ali Rashid Cuisine restaurant in the business district of downtown Dubai, and he promptly teased the American about the beautiful international waitresses who worked there.

  “So, how many phone numbers did you get?”

  Gary chuckled. “None. They were busy doing their jobs.”

  Johnny looked at him from the driver’s seat and grinned, knowingly. “You have a lot to learn about Dubai, my friend. And you’ve found the right man to teach you.”

  Gary didn’t know about all of that. Maybe he had found the wrong man. Johnny seemed to be into a lot of things that were “extra.”

  “So, where are we off to first?” Gary asked, changing the subject. He wanted to get out into Dubai and see the people.

  “Well, this early, we’ll go to an after-work bar that has a hot DJ. It’s called The Beach. They have a nice mix of young professionals there that you’ll like.”

  Gary frowned. “An after-work party? At eleven o’clock? Well, what time do the regular parties start?”

  “Around this same time. As The Beach winds down, the other parties are just starting up. That’s why we’ll go there first. Then we’ll catch everyone leaving out and see where they’re going next.”

  The plans sounded makeshift to Gary, but he didn’t complain. He allowed Johnny to be the host. And when they arrived at the Jumeirah Beach Resort, he was impressed with the wide-open splendor of the bar, which had a large dance floor. The location was right off of the Persian
Gulf. It reminded Gary of the beach clubs in Miami.

  “Yeah, this is nice. Right off of the water,” Gary commented.

  Johnny smiled. “I know what you like,” he bragged.

  The confident Sri Lankan man walked right in past the security, with his American friend on his heels, and acted as if he owned the place. All eyes were on them as Johnny introduced Gary to a dozen people around the room, including several gorgeous young women. They all spoke over the pounding dancehall music.

  Gary shied away from most of the introductions though, preferring to keep his conversations light. He had a hard time stopping himself from having flashbacks of Colombia, so he continued to eye the men inside the room to make certain that they were not offending anyone.

  I don’t need to make any extra trouble for myself if I can avoid it, he thought. Nevertheless, he refused to be afraid of the international social scene. He could protect himself much better now. And he felt safer without having any family or loved ones there to worry about.

  I can handle myself anywhere, he insisted. That’s what I’ve been training for. I have nothing to fear.

  “Gary, this is Saeeda. She’s Lebanese,” Johnny said, snapping him out of his thoughts. The traveling man had finally broken down and given his name. So Johnny introduced him to a curly- and dark-brown-haired beauty, who looked like a Mexican-American siren straight out of Los Angeles. Gary even joked with her. “You’re Lebanese? You look like an American movie star from LA.”

  She laughed with perfect white teeth. “I wish. You wanna put me in a movie?”

  Gary looked at Johnny before he answered her. Johnny nodded his head feverishly behind the young woman’s back. But Gary shot the idea down.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not into movie productions.”

  “Really? You look like a movie star to me.” She even reached out and rubbed his three-day-old beard.

  Johnny grinned and interjected, “We could shoot a local movie. I know some guys with cameras.”