I discovered - perhaps by chance, but I believe according to the will of Allah - that another criminal activity has been raising funds for the criminals who would terrorise us all, and who would take our progressive society back into prehistory. One of the rescued girls told me about the organisation behind one of Dubai’s most heinous property frauds.
As you will know, many apartment blocks are largely unsubscribed and a variety of agents have options to sell or let them. They usually charge a fee for their services, which can be several percent of the asking price. The girl who came to us is a very lovely and intelligent girl, who was asked by her agent to be a salesperson for a UK-based property company which is well known in Dubai. In a matter of a few weeks she had sold eleven properties, and had sent the paperwork to the property company at the email address given to her.
Unbeknown to her, however, she was not working for the UK property company. They knew nothing about her, or the sales. Huntleigh & Harcourt operate from their international dot com web address, but criminals had secured a website called www.huntleighandharcourt.ae, and by stealing images and text from the real site they set up a fake site. Last month a buyer mistakenly sent his deposit cheque to the real company and was told that they were not offering the apartment he thought he was buying. He sent them the paperwork, which at first looked genuine, and they discovered the fake web site and fake bank details.
The girl who came to me was arrested as a result of the discovery of the fake website, and I persuaded my cousin to investigate the scam and not to allow the police to simply arrest the innocent salespeople. So far his investigations show that over forty properties have been ‘sold’ through the salespeople and this website, with the deposits being paid into an account in the First National Bank of Burundi, in International City, Dubai. Two other fake websites are under investigation, both of which directed their receipts to the same account.”
The Sheikh took up the story. “Most of the buyers are foreigners who saw the chance of a bargain, and many are still unaware that they have been duped. We believe that the monies stolen so far amount to over twelve million dirhams, or four million US dollars.”
“The sites are being monitored, as is the bank account, but the funds have gone. They were transferred into a myriad of accounts in troubled countries in Africa, Iran and, coincidentally, Djibouti.”
The three agents’ ears pricked up when they heard that the property scam had links in Djibouti, where the stolen cars had been directed. Seeing that he had the attention of the three foreigners, he announced, “The three of you will be taking a well-deserved break in Djibouti. I have already made bookings for you at the Djibouti Palace Kempinski.”
“Where the hell is Djibouti, anyway?” Todd mused. The others all shook their heads in dismay.
Chapter 11
Djibouti International Airport, Djibouti, North Africa:
19th February; 3pm.
The flight from Dubai’s less prestigious Terminal 2 had been delayed, and so it was almost 3pm when the Boeing 737 touched down in Djibouti after a three and a half hour flight.
Jamie was the first passenger to alight from the plane, as she had an aisle seat on the front row. Luckily the three of them had occupied the six front row seats between them, as the flight had been undersubscribed. Feeling quite relaxed from watching Mission Impossible 4, her in-flight movie, Jamie stepped out onto the movable stairs and felt the dry heat engulf her. It was over forty degrees Celsius, somewhat hotter than Dubai had been.
The three agents looked around them at the sparse buildings that constituted the airport and the arid scrubland surrounding it. It was easy to see why Djibouti was a poor country. It would be virtually impossible to grow anything here.
The three were guided to a bus which had been provided for their sole use and which took them a few hundred yards to the VIP terminal. This turned out to be a large air conditioned lounge with comfortable sofas, magnolia painted walls and dark wood doors, architraves and skirting boards which matched the furnishings. Oddly enough, a painting of Sheikh Mohammed of Dubai shared wall space with a photographic portrait of a grey haired man in a blue shirt, whom the three agents took to be the President of Djibouti.
As they sat down to take in their surroundings, a smiling uniformed man approached them. His uniform was substantially khaki with red trimmings. The official was very dark skinned and probably had his heritage elsewhere in Africa, where the skin colour was darker than here in the Horn of Africa.
Located on the southern shore of the Red Sea, Djibouti is a country of less than a million people, most of whom live in Djibouti City. It has an enviable coastline which is sheltered and deep enough for cargo vessels. The home for the international fight against Somali pirates, Djibouti housed the French Foreign Legion, the US Navy and numerous other naval personnel from Spain, Germany and elsewhere in Europe. With borders touching Ethiopia and Somalia, Djibouti was once known as French Somaliland.
In heavily French-accented broken English, the smiling official asked for the passports and luggage claim tickets for each of the three visitors, and they happily complied. The man left to have their visas stamped into their passports and to collect their baggage.
“This is very pleasant,” Max offered as he relaxed into the deep leather armchair and looked up at the flat screen TV which was inevitably tuned to CNN. Jamie answered him before Todd could speak.
“From what I’ve read about the poverty here, I suspect this may be a high point in our stay.” Jamie had barely finished speaking when a well-dressed, slim, dark haired man walked into the lounge and headed purposefully in their direction. He approached Jamie first, his smile wide and friendly. His accent was coloured with a Parisian dialect, but his English was crisp and perfect.
“Hello. I am Dominic Lepeudry of Vastrick Security.” He paused to hand business cards to the three agents. “I am working here on a consultancy basis to the government on security and policing issues. But I suspect that the real reason I was sent to meet you is that I speak the best English.”
He smiled in a self-deprecating way, and brushed his fashionably long hair from his face with his left hand. His right hand was still locked in a handshake with Jamie that neither participant seemed eager to break. Jamie broke the eye contact with Dominic, whose eyes were a deep brown, only to see her two comrades smiling widely. She frowned her disapproval and quickly broke her grip as she realised that, to them, she had appeared to be a blushing schoolgirl in the face of the Frenchman’s charm.
“I will take you to the hotel,” he continued, “and after you freshen up we can have an early dinner and discuss our various assignments. I too am staying at the Kempinski.”
Dominic shook hands with the two men, who noted from his card that his office address was No 1 Poultry in London, and that he was a forensic investigator.
“Dominic, I’m not sure how much you’ve been told, but….” Max did not get to finish the sentence. Dominic interrupted.
“I have been asked to assist you by the Sheikh and his good friend the President, but it is best we talk in the privacy of the hotel, yes?” The three visitors nodded. They presumed that the Sheikh had trusted Dominic with the information they had on the car thefts and the property scams, but they would say nothing until he explained just how much he knew. One couldn’t be too careful in circumstances such as these, no matter how charming the host.
The uniformed man reappeared and ushered the four occupants of the VIP lounge out into the lobby.
“Your limousines are waiting. Your luggage is already in the cars, and your passports will be taken to your hotel when they are ready.”
The limousines were actually mid-range French saloon cars but, compared to the vehicles they were about to encounter on the journey to the hotel, they were aptly described.
***
The road to the hotel was dusty and congested, but the driver happily drove on the wrong side of the road to avoid the traffic, instinctively knowing that the oncoming
traffic would see the government plates and move over for them. Apart from large SUVs and other 4x4 saloons which clearly belonged to Westerners, there were very few private vehicles. The taxis were hand painted green and white, and very old. Few, if any, had undented bodywork. Most of the body panels had been beaten out so many times that there wasn’t a smooth surface left on the cars. The taxi drivers must have carried hammers in the cars with them for running repairs.
On the roadside the buildings were mostly plain and old, probably form the 1920s and 1930s. Some were French Colonial in style, some were plain, and all were in a state of severe disrepair.
Curious children looked into the car windows when they stopped in traffic. Jamie was in the lead car with a local driver and Dominic, who joked with the driver in French. Max and Todd travelled behind them in a dark blue Peugeot saloon car with a government driver, who spoke halting English but who pointed out the main attractions; the Coca Cola bottling plant and the legislature building.
As the cars turned off the road towards the Kempinski they came to a halt at a guard station. The small booth housed a huge uniformed man wearing a side arm, who smiled and nodded when he saw the government cars and raised the barrier.
“There’s lot of soldiers in hotel, and importants, need safety,” the driver pointed out helpfully as he drove towards the hotel’s canopied entrance. The cars had barely stopped when the doors were opened by smartly attired valets, who led the visitors to the main doors whilst assuring them that their luggage would soon be in their rooms.
Dominic, Jamie, Todd and Max waved off their friendly drivers and stepped into the hotel, passing through a metal detector on the way. As each person stepped through, the detector beeped wildly and the person passing through stopped, expecting to be searched. In each case the smiling security man waved them on without further ado. They had just alighted from government vehicles, and he wasn’t about to inconvenience them.
***
It was just after 4pm and Max was sunning himself on a lounger by the impossibly blue swimming pool. The Red Sea shimmered a hundred yards away, and looked inviting. Max knew from previous experience that Brits abroad were always taken aback when they entered these waters because the sea was so warm – warmer, in fact, than the swimming pool, which was chilled. Max had no problems with warm sea waters and sand underfoot. He had spent too many British summers with his parents at Lowestoft, which faced the cold North Sea.
A voice from over his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.
“Bonjour, Max. I have just left your two companions in the gymnasium. They are working very hard.” Dominic Lepeudry took the lounger beside Max. He lay back comfortably, his hands behind his head.
“Those two have an unhealthy attitude to competition. Neither of them like to lose, so they will exercise until they drop,” Max explained from behind Ray Ban sunglasses. Dominic couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed. Max’s temporary tattoos had faded and were barely noticeable now, but Dominic picked up on them.
“I read your recent expose on biker gangs and underage girls. I hope you did not get too close to them, but I notice fading letters on your knuckles; LOVE and HATE.”
Max lowered his sunglasses and peered over them at the Frenchman.
“You don’t last long undercover if you don’t fit in, but I guess you know that,” he said, inviting a response.
“Indeed. Nor do you fit in easily of your real photograph appears in the newspapers,” Dominic replied, smiling, as he shifted to a more comfortable position on the towel-covered lounger. “Your best work was on the London Riots last year. I thought you might win an award for that investigation and your article in Newsweek.”
“Awards are all very well, but they don’t feed the cat,” Max replied obscurely. The two lay in companionable silence, listening to waves lapping at the shore.
***
The treadmill was at full acceleration and maximum incline, and had been for twenty minutes. Todd desperately wanted to stop running. He wasn’t built for sprinting, as he had too much muscle, but stopping was not feasible whilst Jamie was running so comfortably beside him. Jamie was lithe and carried very little fat. She was built like a runner and her strides came easily. She could converse comfortably, even as she ran flat out. Todd could only nod in reply, the strain of exhaustion etched on his face beneath a sheen of sweat. Jamie smiled and decided that she had won this contest.
“I think I’ll do a slow warm down and then relax in the Jacuzzi. How about you?” Todd nodded, and Jamie saw the relief in his eyes. A few minutes later they were sitting in the hot tub, with air bubbling around them as they were pummelled with strong jets of water beneath the surface.
“Did you read the briefing notes, Todd?”
“The salient parts, yes.”
“So that would be a no, then.” Jamie had already worked out that Todd was not a great reader; he preferred action, albeit she knew from his bio that he studied military history to degree level and had gained a Master’s degree in Jurisprudence from a prestigious US law school.
Jamie proceeded to summarise the Vastrick Security briefing note on Dominic’s investigations in Djibouti.
“Vastrick’s forensic investigators were called in by two Dubai developers and a host of East and West European developers who had also been the victims of the scams. They traced the bulk of the money to Djibouti, most notably the First National Bank of Burundi. The bank is situated in a villa close by here in the Haramous Villas development. It has no tellers or even an ATM. There are only bankers sitting at desks, taking callers and visitors on an appointments-only basis. Vastrick have been watching the villa for three weeks, and one man keeps re-appearing. He flies in on the Fly Dubai service that we used, comes here, stays an hour or so, goes to a Mosque in the centre of town, stays the night and flies back the next day.”
“Do we know who he is?” Todd asked, forgetting the fact that he was supposed to have read the report. Jamie smiled and answered.
“Jamil Al Futtaim, allegedly an assistant to one Mullah Khaweini. It seems he is in training for holy orders, if that is what Muslims call it.”
Todd considered the information before answering in a thick Parisian dialect, and in questionable French.
“Mon Dieu! L’homme est un villain!”
“What was that about?” Jamie asked, puzzled.
“I was just checking to see whether it was the French accent or the soft brown eyes that turns you all gooey.”
Jamie replied by sending a torrent of water across the hot tub and into Todd’s face.
Chapter 12
Haramous Villas, Djibouti, North Africa:
20th February; 3pm.
The Haramous villas were square tan coloured dwellings with flat roofs that might have looked at home in Florida. They were, however, more aesthetically appealing than the neighbouring estate of pink villas with castellated walls, which looked as though they might be the Djibouti home of Ken and Barbie.
The First National Bank of Burundi was housed in a large villa that had been built with five bedrooms. The only signage outside was a small brass plaque on the wall. The front entrance had carved oak double doors and was overlooked by an obvious CCTV camera. Crime was low in Djibouti, possibly because there was nowhere to run if you were being pursued. Even the most desperate criminal would be unlikely to boast that, after a daring heist, he escaped to Ethiopia or Somalia with his haul of Djibouti Francs, of which there are 171 to the US dollar.
Dominic, Jamie, Todd and Max were in the empty villa opposite the bank and were looking out through film covered windows which were designed to reflect the heat, as well as anyone who might be interested enough to gaze in their direction. The walls were plain and painted white, the floors were all tiled in cool marble.
Dominic had a demountable table and two camping chairs set up behind a video camera and a still camera, both mounted on sturdy tripods. There was no air conditioning, and so they all hoped that the stake out would be short
.
Jamil Al Futtaim had landed at the airport an hour ago, and they were hoping that he would follow his usual routine and come straight to the bank. His checked bag had been secretly searched before he left Dubai, and contained only clothing and a copy of the Quran. His hand baggage had also been scanned in Dubai and contained a laptop and some papers.
When he arrived in Djibouti he was ‘randomly’ selected with two others for a body search, as the security code had been raised to Orange Alert. He was taken into a cubicle and the curtain was drawn. The papers in his bag were scanned, but there was not enough time to clone his hard drive.
The papers were all related to his training and his visit to the Mosque in Djibouti. If he was bringing anything in, it was presumably on his hard drive. Dominic had a plan to get his hands on that.
A battered green and white taxi, which was probably of 1970s vintage, drew up outside the bank and a young swarthy man with a designer beard stepped out. He was casually attired in jeans, Reebok trainers and a Superdry tee shirt. He looked around, as if alerted to their presence, and the cameras clicked, catching a full face view. Jamil Al Futtaim was a good looking young man of around twenty years old, with rich brown eyes, closely cropped black hair and a body that might have been honed in a gym.
The young man scanned the area, saw nothing to alarm him and walked over to the bank. He pressed the bell and the door opened. An Arabic looking man with a forced smile opened the door and welcomed him in with a handshake.
***
Max and Todd were waiting in a grey Nissan Patrol 4x4 at the entrance of the sub section when the taxi carrying Al Futtaim passed through the manned gate. Jamie and Dominic were in the stifling villa, clearing up.
Shadow of the Burj Page 9
