For the first ten feet Todd could hear the screams of his trapped adversary, but they died out before the car crashed hood first onto the concrete floor below. Aspinall’s crushed body was half out of the vehicle, his staring, empty eyes looking upwards, accusing.
***
Todd knew that there was little connecting him to the deaths of the five men who had plotted to kill him, but even so he was nervous. He had wiped down all of the surfaces in the Land Cruiser earlier and he had been careful not to touch any hard surfaces when he forced Aspinall into the car. He had also wiped down the mobile phones and the gun, at least sufficiently to blur any of his prints. Now Todd needed to put some distance between himself and the scene of the deaths.
Todd slipped behind the wheel of Aspinall’s car and reversed the Lexus off the building site before relocking the gate. He parked the gold Lexus in its parking bay and wiped down every surface he had touched. Luckily for him, Dubai has such a low car crime rate that car parks are not generally monitored by CCTV.
In his heart, Todd knew it was only a matter of time before he was linked to Aspinall or his company. Somewhere in Aspinall’s desk, his diary, on his laptop or on his phone the name Todd Michaelson would appear, unless the whole plan for his demise had been developed orally, and somehow he doubted that was the case. Whatever happened, he needed to be as far from the scene as he could get before the authorities reacted.
***
Having taken a taxi from the Crowne Plaza, a few doors down from Mercury Towers on Sheikh Zayed Road, he called in at the Dubai Mall and bought a soft sided carry on case, filling it with clothes and toiletries he picked up at a variety of shops for cash. He knew that if he travelled by air without luggage he would be questioned. Having done his emergency shopping, Todd hailed another of the ubiquitous beige coloured Dubai Taxis for the fifteen minute ride to the airport.
***
Todd was in luck. The girl at the Emirates ticket counter said she should be able to get him onto the next Muscat flight, as he was in such a hurry, but he would have to travel business class. Todd happily charged the pricey flight to his credit card, even though he knew the astronomical fare was a rip off for an hour long flight. The sales girl smiled at him as she checked his passport.
“As you are travelling business class, you need to check in at the business terminal. I will get someone to accompany you.”
Five minutes later Todd was on a golf cart manoeuvring its way through the new terminal towards Business Class check in, accompanied by a pretty guide dressed in the same uniform worn by the air stewardesses.
As they arrived at the check in area Todd picked up his case and headed towards the check in desk. The young girl took him gently by the elbow and explained that check in was closed and he needed to be fast tracked through security. Todd was surprised, as the flight was over an hour away, but he was always happy to get preferential treatment.
The young girl led him through the metal detector and into an office, politely asking him to take a seat. “You will be checked in here,” she explained, before backing out with a small bow. The door clicked closed and he heard the lock engage.
“Damn it!” he cursed. “I guess I’m not going to Muscat.”
Chapter 3
Dubai Airport:
11th February ; 7.00pm Local Time.
Max shook the weariness of the long flight out of his muscles and walked down the skyway towards the airport terminal. At the entrance to the gate stood five young Asian women in bright yellow jackets; their primary coloured outfits identified them as ‘greeters’. Their job was to speed passengers through passport control and customs. One of the pretty Asian girls was carrying a board showing his name.
Setting his laptop bag onto his shoulder, he approached the young woman who was smiling at him and shook her extended hand, introducing himself.
“If you come with me, Mr Max, I can ensure that you get to your hotel as soon as possible,” she said. As they walked she made small talk, asking about the flight and his plans for Dubai. Had he visited Dubai before? Did he need any information, or require any help with anything? True to her word, they bypassed the queues at the passport control and as soon as the baggage carousel buzzed and started its continuous motion a young Indian man appeared at his side with a trolley. His young yellow jacketed guide, Sung Li, introduced him to Pasha, who would ensure that the bags were transferred directly to his limousine.
A seasoned world traveller, Max had never experienced service like this and he was enjoying it. Once his bags were loaded onto the trolley the threesome headed through customs unchallenged, and then Sung Li introduced him to a man in a smart airport suit whose badge represented him as the Limousine Coordinator.
“Please follow me, Sir.” The man turned and walked towards a small office. “Your luggage will be in your assigned limousine when you have completed the forms, sir.” The smartly dressed man opened the door and ushered Max into the small room.
Sitting behind the desk and a computer screen was a middle aged man, at first glance perhaps in his mid forties. He was bearded and dressed in traditional Arab dress of a collarless white dishdasha with a red and white shumag on his head, which Max thought resembled a tea towel. Max knew that the man would be wearing a white embroidered skull cap, a tagiyah, under the scarf that keeps the often lengthy hair of the Muslim man in place. The scarf was fastened in place by a black rope band called an ogal. Max had written a number of articles on the Middle East and knew well that, depending on where you were in the Middle East, the capacious white full length shirt could be called a dish-dash, a galabiya or a thobe. He also knew that the quality of the garment could denote the importance of the wearer.
The man continued to type on the keyboard and Max examined him closely. It was apparent that the beard was dyed black; it was too consistent to be natural, and so the man could be in his early fifties. His clothing was of the highest quality and the sleeves of the galabiya were fastened with very expensive cufflinks. The watch on his left wrist was obviously real gold with a white face, plain and simple, but it was branded Patek Phillipe, which meant it would have carried a price tag of around fifteen thousand US dollars.
Max suddenly became aware that this meeting was not about limousines. Nonetheless, the journalist decided to keep his own counsel and wait for his counterpart to explain what was really going on here. He didn’t have to wait long. The man looked at him.
“Very good, Mr Richmond. I believe that you have rumbled me. By my watch it took you less than a minute.” The man’s dialect was slightly accented but had all the hallmarks of an English university education. Max sat quietly, waiting for what came next.
“I am in receipt of a number of reports about you, Mr Richmond. May I call you Max?” Max shrugged his silent assent. The Arab settled back in his chair and continued.
“The UK authorities would rather like to know the whereabouts of a certain man who answers to the name ‘Bricko’, and they have asked me to enquire as to whether you can help before you embark on your Dubai holiday.” He smiled and made it clear that Max was required to answer.
“I have already explained to the British police that I can’t help them with their enquiries,” Max answered calmly. “I only ever spoke with the man by telephone.”
“Forgive my rudeness to a new acquaintance, but we both know that was a lie. Before we go further, let me introduce myself. I am Sheikh Mahmoud Hussein Al Hashrani. I am the head of Dubai’s Criminal Investigative Service.”
Max knew the name and elicited confirmation by a simple question. “Hashrani is the family name of the late leader and his son, who sits on the United Arab Emirates Ruling Council.”
“My more illustrious brother, yes. You are well informed.”
“As are you,” Max replied. “What makes you think I know where Bricko is hiding?”
“Because, Max, Bricko is here in Dubai!” Although Max tried to hide his surprise, the Sheikh recognised that his accusation had shaken the
journalist. Before Max could frame a response, the Sheikh turned the computer monitor around so that Max could see it. The screen displayed a grainy image of his hand sliding over his passport to the passport officer in Dubai just a few minutes earlier. The crudely inked temporary tattoo that spelled out the word H A T E on his fingers could clearly be seen. Max had deliberately kept his hands below the desk during this interview, but now knew that the Sheikh was holding all of the cards.
“Max, you are a visitor to our country and we fully intend to respect your privacy. We rely on tourism, as you know, and we will soon lose valuable revenue if we interfere in people’s private lives. No, my intention is to reply that you have no idea where the fugitive is hiding.” He looked at Max and they locked eyes. “If that is what you want me to report?”
“I’m very grateful for your understanding, Sheikh,” Max replied, not knowing what else to say. “I was hoping that you would be, as I have a favour to ask,” the Sheikh said, smiling.
***
Todd had been sitting alone in the room for around five minutes when he heard the door open. He turned to see Sheikh Mahmoud enter the room. Drawing on all of his bravado, he stood up and extended his hand to his visitor. “Sheikh, it’s good to see you, but there was no reason to see me off. I’m only going to be in Oman for a few days!”
“Todd, I was hoping not to see you again so soon.” The Sheikh dropped a manila file on the table. Todd knew what was in the file, which was marked Highly Confidential in both Arabic and in English. The head of Dubai Criminal Investigations opened the file and looked at the papers inside, even though he knew the contents by heart.
“When we agreed to hide you in Dubai for the Australian federal police, as part of their witness protection scheme, we were promised you would be no trouble.” He looked up at Todd, who knew that a reply was not necessary. “Within four weeks of arriving, you hospitalised a high ranking Emirati’s son, breaking his nose and cracking three ribs.”
“I was providing door security. He was drunk and I turned him away. Next thing I knew he came at me with a knife. What was I supposed to do?”
“Keep a low profile, would have been my suggestion,” proffered the Sheikh. “By the way, you will be pleased to hear that the young man is now working for his father’s construction company in Saudi and living with his devout uncle. I don’t think drunkenness will be a problem for him there, do you?”
“I guess not,” Todd replied “But I need to get moving if I’m to catch this plane to Muscat.” He stood up as if to leave. Unconcerned, the Sheikh turned a page in the file.
“Mr Michaelson, it appears you have had a busy day.”
Todd slumped back into his chair.
***
It took the young Australian twenty minutes to recount his side of the story, never certain that the Sheikh believed a word of it. When the whole story was told the Sheikh leaned back in his chair, fingers of both hands steepled under his chin. After a moment’s silence Todd spoke.
“Can I ask how you knew about the situation so quickly? I mean, you haven’t had time to dust for prints or do any kind of investigation and......”
“....and the Dubai police are hardly known for their speed in solving serious crime.” The Sheikh completed the sentence for him. “Some would say that the police here in Dubai sometimes take several days even to admit that a serious crime was even committed, let alone solve it, and they wouldn’t be wrong. But today you were unlucky. It is always wise to remember that Dubai is a city of tower blocks and even those that appear largely unoccupied have at least a few apartments tenanted. This afternoon we received a call from a Dutch lady, who saw a Land Cruiser topple over the edge of a deep excavation. She had watched the whole drama unfold from a 14th floor window overlooking the incomplete basement.”
The Sheikh paused, glanced at the file and continued. “To her eyes it was simply an accident. She saw the security man try to stop the vehicle - that would be you, I suppose - and then she saw him leave and try to seek help from the Mercury Tower.”
Todd was still puzzled, and so he sought further clarification. “OK. I get that, but how did you tie the incident to me so quickly?”
The Sheikh answered with a bald request. “Mr Todd, look around your neck.” In all of the excitement Todd had lost his Dubai police panic alarm, and failed to notice until now. He thought back to the struggle in the car and how Aspinall had grabbed his collar and head butted him. “It was in the car, wasn’t it?” Todd said, as much to himself as the Sheikh.
“And now, Mr Todd Michaelson, I have a mess to clean up. Praise be that you did not shoot Mr Aspinall, and so his wife has been informed that he was killed in one of Dubai’s many fatal road accidents. The Land Cruiser is at the RTA accident depot awaiting destruction. It is an insurance “write off”, as you must know. The other four men will be interred anonymously, with the impoverished who pass away whilst living on the beach and in the underpasses, and we hope that it will be assumed that they have left Dubai.”
Todd looked forlorn and demoralised. He sensed that the next words that the Sheikh would utter would be to explain his expulsion at best, or his imprisonment at worst. He was more shocked than surprised when the Sheikh sought neither option.
“It seems to me that your crimes today, and they are many, were borne on the wings of necessity. I do not believe that to punish you would be advantageous to the city or our system of justice.”
Todd could not keep the relief out of his voice.
“Sheikh, I am so grateful! I appreciate your benevolence and the kind hospitality afforded me by the Dubai sons of Islam. If there is anything I can do to return the favour, please let me know.”
The Sheikh smiled wryly, and Todd almost immediately regretted making the offer.
Chapter 4
JFK Airport, New York, USA:
11th February; 8.00am Local Time.
The airport was busy and thronged with people who had arrived early to ensure that they had time to comply with the most recent security procedures, initiated by a failed bomber who had explosives moulded around his legs and arms. Since the events of 9/11 JFK had become one of the most security conscious airports in the world, and today was no different. Despite the queues and the crowds the tall, patrician official strode quickly and purposefully through the terminal. At his side was a young, athletically-built woman. Her fair hair was swept back into a workaday ponytail, and her blue eyes scanned the terminal building curiously. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse and a grey businesslike trouser suit. At five feet eight inches in height she looked a little thin, if not fragile, but anyone who saw her working out would see that her muscles were as well-honed as those of any of her male counterparts.
As they approached the security checkpoint they bypassed the line of people waiting to be searched and have their bodies scanned. Moving quickly towards a semi opaque glass door set in an opaque glass wall, they came to a locked door. The moment they came to a halt, a security guard looked through the transparent section of the specially armoured glass door, clearly anticipating some response from the pair. In what could have been a synchronised movement, they both lifted small leather wallets and pressed them against the glass.
There was a buzz followed by a metallic click and the door opened to allow them access. The private sector guard stood in front of them and asked them to identify themselves. They had anticipated the question and their badges and IDs were still in their hands.
The tall man shook his head, disappointed that his recommendation that key security posts be manned by properly vetted government employees was being ignored; instead, much of the airport’s security was in the hands of minimum wage security staff, who were often unfit, unintelligent and untrained. He spoke first.
“Deputy Director Clayton, Homeland Security, and Special Agent Jamie Johnson, also Homeland Security.” He offered no explanation as to the purpose of his visit - his name and title were enough. The security guard beckoned a female guard over,
and between the two guards they ran their wands over the two agents. When the wands found no obvious threat, the security guards carried out a close body pat down, specifically introduced to look for explosive devices attached to the skin.
Once the pair had been cleared, they headed towards the gate. The Deputy Director reached into the inside pocket of his Italian styled jacket and produced a ticket and a boarding card.
“JJ, you are on the 10:40 flight to Dubai. I have managed to get you bumped up to business class. I was able to justify it because the flight is over fourteen hours long.”
Jamie Johnson had flown all over the US and had even been as far as Mexico on business, but she had never flown for more than four hours and the thought of a fourteen hour overnight flight was daunting. The Airbus 380 would land in the United Arab Emirates at 8:30 the next morning, allowing for the time difference.
“Brett, I still don’t see why it’s necessary to send me to Dubai. Weren’t there any other candidates?”
“Jamie, we’ve been through this. The Dubai authorities have kindly agreed to host the joint task force on Somali Piracy and the USA needs to be seen to be cooperating. The European and Middle East navies have been watching over US flagged vessels for over a year now, and they need to know that we take the problem seriously. It’s only for a couple of months; it isn’t the end of the world.” The Deputy Director paused as they arrived at the gate and were instantly ushered through. “Plus, you are single, you don’t have any dependents and it’s even sunnier in Dubai than it is in California. I suggest you get a tan”.
Jamie listened but wasn’t convinced. “You think I was responsible for the Hoboken incident, don’t you?”
The Director turned and looked her in the eye. “Jamie, all the evidence indicates that four scumbag domestic terrorists blew themselves up making a bomb that could have killed hundreds of New Yorkers. The forensic evidence is clear and these career criminals will spend the rest of their lives behind bars, injured or not, disabled or not. That’s what I know and I do not, I repeat, DO NOT want, or need, to know anything else. Is that clear?”
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