Anil was a willing worker, and when his two year stint was up he returned to Uttar Pradesh to his family, but only for four weeks. His Arab employer had seen within him a cruel and determined streak that enabled him to exert power over his countrymen without feeling any remorse or kinship. In short, he was a bully. Raised in a middle class home, his family had fallen on hard times when their shops fell foul of the exodus of the local population to the factories and building projects springing up all over Northern India.
Anil’s father, a proud and stubborn man, refused to acknowledge the fact that the situation was irreversible. His favourite saying was: “When they have made their money in the city, we will still be here to take it from them.” Sadly, when he died they had not returned, and that was still the case. Anil was working in Dubai to provide for his sick mother, two unmarried sisters, his wife and four children. Their shops were empty of stock, and their only customers had no money to pay, and so Anil’s income was the difference between eating and starvation.
When he returned to Dubai it was to manage a small scaffolding business which Al Muran believed was staffed by lazy workers, who should have been making super profits in a building boom but who were not. Anil turned the business around after dismissing almost half of the agency labour, the manager and assistant manager, all of whom thought they were safe as they, too, were from Anil’s homeland.
By the summer of 2008 Anil was manager of Al Muran Vehicular Recoveries, contracted by the RTA, Roads and Transport Authority, to recover accident damaged vehicles from the roads, of which there were many.
The last page of his residency file showed his application to bring over his wife and family to join him. The paperwork was still in the system.
Jamie Johnson watched the front door of the nondescript building that housed Al Muran’s businesses and concluded that the new Bahraini owners of Al Muran weren’t wasting money on high quality office accommodation. All three special operatives had read Anil Singh’s file and now they were executing a plan that they hoped would have him biting the hand that fed him before the end of the day.
***
Shortly after six thirty in the evening, just as the sky was darkening and red streaked the desert sky, Anil Singh left the office, locking the door behind him as he left. Checking for traffic, he crossed the road into the surface pay and display car park which serviced the local offices and the Lamcy Plaza shopping mall.
Still yards away from his car, a silver Nissan Altima, he opened the trunk remotely, ready to deposit his briefcase. As he approached the car, two men fell in behind him, but he didn’t notice them. He laid his briefcase on the floor of the trunk, holding onto the lid of the trunk with his left hand. As soon as his case was placed he straightened up.
Suddenly, and without warning, his body stiffened and he felt himself passing out. The last thing he heard was the voice of a concerned bystander, who asked, “You alright, mate?” It sounded like an Australian accent.
***
To Max’s surprise, Todd’s death grip, as the Aussie Special Forces liked to call it, worked a treat. Just a few seconds after Todd placed his big hand on Singh’s neck and applied pressure, the Indian folded.
As the team had suspected, a few people had seen Anil slip down into Todd’s arms and were alarmed, but Jamie’s little script helped them to manage the situation.
Todd said to Max, “’Scuse me, mate, can you give me a hand? My friend here has had a bit of a funny turn. He suffers from diabetes. I need to get him to hospital.”
Max spoke loudly to Todd as he helped Todd place the slumped figure of the Indian man in the back seat. “The American Hospital is less than a mile away. Do you need me to come with you, to help you with him at the other side?”
“If you could, mate, that would be bonzer!” Max could hardly control himself as he saw Jamie smiling at Todd’s deliberate overacting.
A small crowd had gathered, and they were watching the scene unfold as Jamie paced up and down in front of them to avoid any video footage appearing on You Tube. She spoke loudly into her phone, which was not connected to anyone.
“Yes, two men are accompanying him to the American Hospital at Oud Metha. Yes, I will tell them you will meet them there.” Jamie made a pantomime of telling the boys that the police would meet them at the hospital. Then, in a flash, they were gone and the crowd dispersed, leaving Jamie to retrieve the operatives’ car and follow her colleagues.
***
Anil awoke to confusion, bright lights and panic. None of his limbs would move, he could not even turn his head and one of his eyes was covered with something, probably a bandage. His open eye was returning a blurry and unfocussed vision of ceiling tiles and bright lights, which was not surprising without his prescription glasses. A voice from outside of his field of vision spoke firmly but gently.
“Try not to move, Mr Singh. We have you restrained. You were in a terrible road accident and we are concerned that any movement of your neck could damage your spinal cord.”
The lady doctor leaned over him. She wore blue scrubs and had a surgical cap on her head. Anil noticed that stray hairs were escaping the cap and falling on her beautiful pale face. He shouldn’t be thinking about women now, and so he silently rebuked himself; he could be in mortal danger, after all. He told himself it must be the effect of the drugs.
The lady doctor pinched his fingers and toes. Anil sighed with relief as he felt each touch. “Just lie still, Mr Singh, we should have the results of the X-rays in a couple of hours. There are some men from the police here who need to talk to you. I’ll be back soon.” She turned to speak to someone else.
“He’s all yours,” Jamie said to Max and Todd as she removed the surgical cap and went to sit outside the room.
When Max and Todd entered the room they saw what Anil Singh could not see - a bare service room, with a single hospital bed in the centre. Anil Singh had been restrained so that he could not scupper their role play, not because he was injured in any way.
“Mr Singh,” Max adopted one of his myriad of accents; this one was probably best described as American mid Atlantic. “You have been in a serious road accident with a senior Emirati government official, and the initial finding of the police is that you were liable. The diplomat suffered only minor injuries, but his wife is in another hospital in intensive care. He was keen to see you, but we have a guard on your door.”
Any colour in Singh’s face disappeared, leaving him ashen and scared. Anil Singh had been in the country long enough to know who was assumed to be responsible for an accident between an Indian driver and an Emirati driver, and the consequences of that assumption.
“I don’t even remember driving my car!” he protested. “The last thing I remember is placing my briefcase in my car and feeling giddy.” The confident and overbearing boss of immigrant labourers was humbled and frightened.
“Look, I’m going to be honest with you, Anil. We have nothing to do with the accident. We have some more serious questions to ask you.” The Indian looked puzzled. “How long have you been stealing cars from the Police Academy and sending them to Africa?” Max paused. “Oh, and who is at the head of this little criminal cartel, if it isn’t you?”
As Max had anticipated, Anil Dilip Singh was initially more afraid of his bosses than the authorities and so he would admit to nothing, repeating his request to see a lawyer, like some bad episode of CSI.
“Anil, you have committed crimes against the Emirati people, you have all but killed one of their beloved leaders’ wives by reckless driving, and we believe your thefts are funding terrorism. How much patience do you think your Emirati hosts have? How much patience do you think we have?”
Todd placed his hand on Max’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Anil strained to hear their conversation, but he could not make out what they were saying. Max spoke to him again.
“We have the authority to make a one-time offer. You spill everything you know on your bosses, and you get to go back t
o India without charge.”
Anil seemed to be considering it, before he suddenly remembered what would happen if he spoke the unspeakable.
“If I tell you anything they will kill me wherever I go. I am saying nothing. I will face my own music.”
Out of sight of the restrained patient, the lady doctor re-entered the room. Max spoke to her and this time Anil was meant to hear every word.
“Hey, doc, our patient here is not cooperating. We were thinking how his mind would be cleared and he would do the right thing if he was to perhaps lose a leg, for example?”
The doctor was as horrified as she was insulted. “How dare you? Have you even heard of the Hippocratic Oath? The legs may be damaged, but with surgery I’m quite sure they can be saved.”
“Doc, this man is a terrorist. He’s threatening the lives of you and everyone who wants to live a peaceful existence. Added to that, he’s responsible for serious injuries to the Minister’s wife, and you know what power he wields.” The question was left hanging. Jamie responded.
“Mr, er - I’m sorry, I don’t know your name - I can’t just remove a leg on the say-so of the authorities.” Her tone was less confrontational and, Anil feared, more cooperative.
“Doctor, to save the leg is a long and expensive process, and this man has insufficient insurance to cover it. Surely it would be better for him, the hospital and the country to simply remove the leg, as it’s so badly damaged.” There was a silence.
“Look, I’m not saying I will. I’ll look at the X-rays again, but if he has no insurance he is in desperate trouble. Amputation may be the best answer. I’m guessing that you people are from one of the American agencies that uses acronyms as their title.”
“I couldn’t confirm or deny that, Ma’am,” Max said, his accent all the more pronounced. Jamie continued in her role as doctor.
“I need to be back working in the USA. My daughter is still there, but there was this thing with my selling of prescriptions, all a big misunderstanding, of course, but that’s why I’m here. If you could arrange anything, I’d be grateful.”
“Thanks, Doc. I think you can safely book a flight. After the surgery, of course.”
“No, Doctor! No! This is very wrong!” Anil shouted, panic heightening the pitch of his voice. Max answered him.
“Too late, Mr Singh, she’s gone. We’d better leave you now, so you can be prepped for the amputation. By the way, if you still don’t talk the second, terribly injured, leg comes off, as well. Then we send you back to Uttar Pradesh and let your mom nurse you back to health. What are the prosthetics like in your village?”
Anil Singh cried openly. Tears ran down his face as he contemplated a life being a burden to a family who already could not afford to live. It took a while, but soon Max and Todd were recording everything the distressed Indian man had said. He was speaking far too fast for Max to write it down, even in his famed shorthand.
Sobbing and distraught, Anil Singh was relieved once he had told the men everything he knew and they left him alone. The lady doctor stood over him, holding a transparent mask. Placing it over his nose and mouth, she purred.
“Come on, Mr Singh, this is not doing your injuries any good. Breathe deeply and relax.” Singh took several deep breaths and felt dizzy. There was a taste of gas at the back of his throat, and then nothing.
***
Anil Singh came awake with a start. He was wearing his glasses, and he could see clearly. His head was throbbing and the clock on his car dashboard read 1:18 am. He shook his head and ran his free hands down his body. He was uninjured, his car was intact, and he was parked in the underground car park of his apartment block.
He wanted to believe it had all been some awful dream, but then he remembered the details of what he had told the Americans, and he knew that if he wanted to live he must never say anything about this to his bosses, or to anyone.
Chapter 10
Media Rotana Hotel, Al Barsha, Dubai:
16th February; 2pm.
It was still early afternoon, but the roads were busy with people leaving work for the weekend. With the Muslim weekend being Friday, the Sabbath, and Saturday, and most Christian denominations fitted in with the routine celebrating their own masses and sacraments on Friday morning, Thursday evenings could be wild.
Jamie, Todd and Max had made the short journey across Sheikh Zayed Road. This took almost twenty minutes, because it required a U turn of significant proportions, and the trio now sat in the spacious lobby of the Media Rotana. A pretty girl in oriental dress had brought them coffee and cake. The cake was simply spectacular; rich yet light, with dark chocolate, and now they waited.
The lobby of the five star hotel was bedecked with gold wallpaper and dark wood desks. There were comfortable sofas in the simple plain materials and ornate upright chairs in the Arabic style, with embroidered seats and backs. Flattering paintings of the President, the Prime Minister and Sheikh Zayed were prominently displayed behind the reception desk. The three special investigators were awaiting a meeting with the Sheikh and an individual whose identity was being kept from them at present.
Max opened the report they had prepared after their interrogation of Anil Singh. He had proven to be the source of a wealth of information. He had knowledge that should never have been in his possession but which came to him via overheard conversations and illicitly copied emails.
The facts supported the theories that the three had formulated with the Sheikh after their last meeting. The brief summary for the Sheikh read:
“Anil Singh confirmed that he reports directly to Bahrain, where the parent company is headed up by Ali Hirin. Anil Singh has been mistakenly copied in on emails containing his reports on the stolen cars, to an email address, something like; [email protected], which is the domain name for Pakistani websites.
Research Note: Hasali was the name of one of the martyrs in the bombing of the US Embassy in Nairobi in 1998, which first brought Osama Bin Laden to the attention of the US authorities. He had been the right hand man of one Fazul Abdullah Mohammed who was widely credited with the Bombings.
Mohammed and a Kenyan extremist, now thought to be Musa Hussein (a.k.a. Musa Sambayo), were driving in a car carrying $40,000 in United States Dollars, as well as medicine, telephones, laptops and a South African passport in the Afgooye corridor, northwest of Mogadishu on June 7, 2011 when they were shot and killed. The laptop contained accounts of donations to the cause and an email to Mullah Khaweini, thanking him for his fund raising efforts was found on the hard drive. We assume that Mullah Khaweini is the same man that was once known as Trevor George Baker.
Singh did not seem to be aware of the connection, but he did suspect that the car thefts were being used to fund terrorism. To quote the man directly: “These monies from the stolen cars never found their way into our accounts or that of our parent company. We always teetered on the very edge of liquidity.”
In summary, it is our conclusion that, subject to further forensic accounting evidence linking Khaweini to the Al Muran’s Bahrainian parent company, the money from the stolen cars is probably being directed to terrorists by Al Muran’s new owners, who may have Mullah Khaweini as a silent partner.’
The findings were far from conclusive, but any of Max’s editors would have run the story, even if it had been against the advice of the legal department.
Todd’s mobile phone buzzed and he lifted it to his ear. “We’ve been invited up to the 21st floor,” he announced to his colleagues.
***
The corner suite on the 21st floor was numbered 2123 and enjoyed a view over Sheikh Zayed Road, Internet City and the Atlantis Hotel in the far distance, on the tip of the Palm Jumeirah.
Jamie, Max and Todd were invited in by an Arabic lady who, apart from a more olive coloured complexion, could have passed for Sandra Bullock; she even had the same hairstyle. The lady introduced herself as Aara Wadid, shaking hands with each member of the team as they entered. Last in was Todd Michaelson.
<
br /> “Mr Michaelson, I have heard so much about you, and you are as dashing as they reported.” She smiled; she was teasing. Todd shook her hand. It felt delicate, with slim fingers and red painted nails. Her grip was firm, and Todd held onto it a little too long.
Max looked at Jamie and they shared a conspiratorial grin. Todd was tongue tied for the first time since they had met him. Eventually, he let go of Aara’s hand and allowed himself to be ushered into the suite.
“Aara; what a lovely name.” Todd eventually found his voice.
“Thank you. I like it. It means ‘adoring’,” she answered, smiling at him. Todd fell silent for a second time.
The Sheikh was sitting in an easy chair in front of the window. He smiled at his recruits, and with open palms invited them to sit on the two sofas. Somewhat mischievously, Max and Jamie took up positions on the three seat settee, sitting just far enough apart so that there was no room for Todd, who settled into the snug two seat sofa beside Aara.
“You have already been introduced to Sheikha Aara. You should be aware that the Sheikha is a second cousin and the niece of the Saudi Oil minister. She is also known throughout the region as a campaigner for Arab women’s rights, which has made her unpopular in some areas, unwelcome in others. To us, here in the United Arab Emirates, however, she is a necessary and welcome advisor. Sheikha Aara established the first shelter for sex workers being exploited in the region, something that all good Muslims applauded and many criminals abhorred.
As far as you and I are concerned here today, Aara has valuable insights into the criminal underground that soils our great nation. I have invited her to share some of her knowledge with you; why I have chosen to do so will become clear.”
The Sheikh nodded to Aara by way of beckoning her to speak.
“Whilst I am respectful of my title, I would ask you all to refer to me just as Aara.” She smiled at Todd as she spoke. “I am aware that the car smuggling ring that has been active in Dubai has ties with the criminal gangs who organise prostitution and illicit drugs in this region. Your work has allowed my cousins to monitor the stolen vehicles in an effort to discover just how extensive this criminal conspiracy may be.
Shadow of the Burj Page 8
