Shadow of the Burj

by J Jackson Bentley

  “I’m not sure this was an invitation, Jamie. I think he’s prepared to have you relocated under duress, if necessary.”

  Jamie considered her reply. “OK. Tell him I’ll travel back as soon as my injuries have healed.”

  “But that could take weeks!” Ron Styles suggested, smiling conspiratorially.

  “You said it. Thanks for coming, Ron, and please leave your card. I have a habit of getting into trouble.”

  Chapter 26

  Apartment above The Madrassa, Al Safa, Dubai:

  25th February; 8am.

  Jamil left Mullah Khaweini snoring in their large bed. The bedclothes were cast aside, and the hairy Englishman was wearing only the white cotton knee length shorts that he wore under his robes. The Mullah’s uncut hair was long and unkempt, and was the same unnatural black as his beard.

  Closing the door quietly, Jamil left the apartment and, rather than going straight into the Madrassa, he turned and went into the small tea shop beside the Mosque. It was quite common in this part of the world to have a tea shop and laundry beside a Mosque. Jamil bought tea and a pastry to take away. It was still cool enough to enjoy the park in comfort at this time of year, as the temperature was still below eighty degrees and there was little humidity.

  The young man enjoyed the solitude as he walked into Al Safa Park and sat beneath the trees overlooking the green parkland. The grass only survived here with constant watering. An occasional jogger ran by, and if it was a lady jogger he would lower his eyes as he had been commanded to do by his teachers, so as not to look upon her.

  He was looking down at his pastry when a man sat down on the bench beside him. Jamil was surprised, as theirs was the only bench occupied. He was more surprised when the man addressed him by name.

  “Good day, Jamil. It’s a lovely morning. If there was a kookaburra laughing in the trees I could almost be back in Oz.”

  Jamil looked into the weathered face of the Australian, noting the sparkling green eyes. Almost everyone Jamil knew had brown eyes and wished that they hadn’t.

  “The name is Todd. Todd Michaelson.” The Australian extended his hand, and Jamil wiped his own right hand on a napkin before shaking the hand of the erstwhile stranger. The handshake was firm and certain, and Todd emphasised the shake with a smile and a twinkle in his green eyes. “Don’t worry, mate, you aren’t in any trouble. Yet.”

  ***

  Khaweini awoke and stretched his limbs, making a grunting sound as he did so. Noticing that he was alone in the room, he scratched himself and slid off the bed to relieve himself in the bathroom. He paid scant attention to the ritual cleansing he demanded of others, and quickly donned his robes and head dress, tucking his unruly hair out of sight.

  As Trevor George Baker, he had never been too closely acquainted with bodily hygiene, and his conversion to Islam had not moved him any closer. Khaweini abhorred the scented Arab Muslims who came into the Mosque for prayers primped and pressed, their white thobes shining like the sun, almost as much as he despised Westerners.

  He knew that some of the higher ranking worshippers preferred other leaders, shying away from Khaweini’s Western roots and his slightly malodourous scent. “Do they think that Usama Bin Laden smells like a girl?” he would mutter to himself when a nose wrinkled in his presence.

  Khaweini drank lustily from the large bottle of water on the bedside table before crossing the landing and entering the study, which had bare plastered walls and only a thin rug on the wooden floorboards. There was, however, a very modern computer set up on a plain wooden table. The computer was fast, and had over a terabyte of storage. The child in Khaweini had insisted on the best Radeon graphics card available when they purchased the Hewlett Packard desktop computer, as he loved to unwind playing games. The computer was encrypted and password protected, but even so, very little was stored on it. The data was accessed via the cloud, a distant server in Pakistan which held all of the controversial plans and strategies his cell were working on.

  He sat down in a comfortable leather office chair and kicked off his sandals. He typed in the password and the screen asked for a datacard. The Mullah lifted a USB stick with the encryption software on it from a chain around his neck and plugged it in.

  The screen sprang to life and the email box opened rapidly, scrolling through numbers until it settled on twenty three new emails. Khaweini ignored the emails; Jamil could deal with those. They would be from needy followers who could not think for themselves. He quickly tired of answering their shallow questions, such as, is it acceptable to eat halal meat if it is sold by a Jew?

  The Mullah clicked on the box entitled ‘Drafts’, which was accompanied by a bold number 1, suggesting that a new draft was waiting.

  “The bus has been cleaned and is ready for service. Do you want it delivering to destination A or B?” I was signed Thil, or the Shadow. The Mullah pondered for a moment. Both targets were equally attractive, and the devastation the blast would cause at either venue excited him. Was it to be the Imperialists’ pride and joy, or the symbol of the scented princes? He decided that the Western-leaning leaders of the Emirates could wait. He typed a new draft.

  “Thank you, Thil. The bus should be delivered to destination A, all as the agreed timetable. The children will be excited to see their bus again.”

  If all went according to plan, the news of the first major atrocity in the region would be in all of the Western newspapers the day after tomorrow.

  ***

  Jamil felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but the Australian told him he must stay and listen first. He would then be allowed to leave. Jamil knew that he could not escape this man easily, and so he sat and listened, tears welling in his eyes as he learned just how much the Australian man knew.

  ***

  Max stood out of sight with the Canon Eos digital camcorder trained on the bench opposite. At full zoom the two men filled the frame. Through headphones Max could hear every word picked up by Todd’s radio microphone.

  ***

  Todd watched as the boy’s shoulders slumped when he explained that they knew all about Jamil’s regular trips to Djibouti, and that Jamil had been followed the whole way before his laptop was compromised. The boy showed visible signs of distress when the Australian showed him a warrant bearing the stamp of the Crown Prince, authorising him to ‘eliminate criminality in the Emirate’. Jamil knew as well as anyone that justice was swift and merciless in the Middle East, especially if you were accused of treason. It was not just you who suffered but your whole family. He thought of his mother and his little sister; they would be left to starve if he and his father were taken, and they surely would be if Jamil had done wrong.

  “Jamil, you’re hardly more than a boy. The Mullah had no right to use your love of Islam and the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, for his criminal acts. The authorities know that you are innocent, but someone must be punished, because the money you have transported has been used to kill Muslims and non-Muslims alike. What does the Holy Quran say about that, Jamil? What would the prophet want you to do now?”

  Todd allowed the question to permeate the boy’s consciousness. He hoped that the young man was not so radicalised that he would follow Khaweini into the jaws of Hell.

  Jamil’s mind was filled with confusion. He could not reconcile his reading of the Holy book with the ranting sermons delivered by the Mullah, but he was young and the Mullah appeared to know so much. Then there was the filthiness. He knew it was wrong, but the Mullah had told him that Allah had given the boy to him, to allow him the pleasures of the flesh without straying outside the faith.

  The boy could not believe that the Mullah would deliberately target innocent people of any faith, but he had seen vacant-eyed boys from poor families prepared for their ‘service’ before they were flown out of Dubai, never to be seen again.

  “All we ask is that you serve Allah and your leaders here in Dubai. You are betraying no-one, you are just being the best Muslim you can be. If you ca
n help avoid needless deaths and casualties, call me on this number.” Todd slipped the boy a piece of paper with a number on it beginning 056, a mobile number. “I’ll be here again tomorrow, in this same place, if you want to meet again.”

  Todd rose from the bench and began to walk away, but turned back to face him. “Jamil, you need to get to classes before you are missed.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Khaweini led the class in prayers before passing them onto a Palestinian Cleric for conditioning training. As he left, he caught Jamil’s eye and smiled. He noted that the boy looked troubled, and made a mental note to see if he could help, a mental note that would be forgotten in the passing of the day.

  Chapter 27

  Villa Afzal, 14C Street, Al Safa 1, Dubai:

  25th February; 10am.

  “Gentlemen, we have a problem.” Sheikh Mahmoud was sitting with a concerned Crown Prince in an ornate room in the Palace close to DIFC. They were linked to the villa by a secure video link.

  “Vastrick Security have continued to monitor the laptop draft email box and we are now expecting an attack in Dubai some time in the immediate future, perhaps imminently.” The Sheikh clicked the mouse and a copy of the draft emails appeared on the screen.

  “Destination A. Not much to go on, is it?” Max commented. “Unless, of course, the A and B are more than just letters of the alphabet.” His face frowned in concentration. “Say, for example, if B was for Burj Khalifa and A was for….” He couldn’t think of anything offhand.

  “I see what you mean,” The Sheikh answered, “and it is always good to have lateral thinking, but we would be little wiser if you supposition was true. We have a list of events taking place in Dubai in the next three days. It should be on your screen now.”

  The large flat screen divided into panels, the two Arabs in the top right hand quadrant flanked by a list of events, the email and a picture of a generic school bus.

  “What we have to ask ourselves is, why choose a school bus? Where can they go unhindered where other transportation cannot? This may be our only clue.”

  “Give us a few minutes to brainstorm this, Sheikh. We’ll come back to you in a while.” The Sheikh waved, showing the back of his right hand as it moved horizontally across the screen, and the screen went blank.

  Max and Todd trawled through the list of events, but not one stirred them. The events ranged from a thriller writers’ convention in Festival City to an Arab Woman of the Year Award ceremony at the International Trade Centre.

  “I don’t think we’re looking at an event here, Todd. I think we’re looking at an iconic landmark of some type.”

  “Dubai is full of iconic landmarks, Max.”

  “I agree,” Max nodded, “but who would be interested if someone bombed the Gate Building, or that strangely shaped hotel, the Dusit Thani? Then again, if you targeted Atlantis or the Dubai Mall you would be killing ordinary Muslim families, and that doesn’t seem to the extremists’ goal. We need to concentrate on two things; at least, I think we do.”

  Max held up a single finger. “One: a target that impacts Westerners, and,” he held up a second finger, “a target that discourages non-Muslims from coming to Dubai and enriching the so-called playboy Arabs.”

  Todd thought about that for a while and agreed that the criteria were sensible. He did note, however, that the criteria did not rule out a whole lot of targets. Then his eyes alighted on the schedule sent to them by the Sheikh. He read it aloud.

  “Armani Hotel, Schools Symposium: Emirates Spelling Bee, School Students fighting Autism and High School Musical-Dubai Style! Max, look at this one. It seems to tick all the boxes.”

  Max looked puzzled, and so Todd continued. “Western School kids, yellow school buses by the score, and the Armani Hotel!”

  The lights came on in Max’s sluggish brain.

  “Of course! The Armani Hotel constitutes the lowest thirty floors of the Burj Khalifa. Which terrorist wouldn’t want to blow up the world’s tallest building?”

  Todd was already re-establishing contact with the Sheikh and the Crown Prince.

  ***

  Jamil had appeared visibly upset all day long, and his distress had concerned some of his classmates and teachers. Javid Al Satr, the Western Culture instructor, led Jamil into a side room and asked what was wrong. Javid was more Western than Arabic, choosing to dress in a suit and tie so that he could ‘live the role’ of a Western businessman. But everyone knew from his careful selection of silk ties and Italian suits that he loved Western dress. The other teachers disapproved, but they accepted him because he had an insight into the Western mind that they could never hope to emulate.

  Jamil knew that no matter how enlightened Al Satr was, he could not tell him about the approach from the Australian, and yet he needed to confide something in Al Satr or the man would report his unusual behaviour to the Mullah. Before he could formulate a proper sentence he found himself blurting out, “I am being sexually abused.”

  The instructor’s eyes widened, and he took Jamil firmly by the forearm and led him deeper into the room where he whispered into the boy’s ear.

  “Is it another boy?” Jamil shook his head. “May Allah give me strength,” the older man intoned. “Is it an instructor?” Jamil shook his head again. Javid Al Satr visibly paled as he asked his last question, “Is it a Cleric?” His jaw dropped when a tearful Jamil nodded.

  Javid and the other instructors did not live in the grounds of the Madrassa, and so he was unaware of Jamil’s sleeping arrangements. He was shocked when he heard of them from the boy himself. Javid had no idea what to do, and to stall for time he told the boy that he should feel no shame and that the love of Allah was especially strong for the abused and the martyred. He also spoke of the sickness that sometimes prevailed amongst men who denied themselves the comfort of wives. He gave examples from Western culture where religious men and women had sexually abused youngsters when they had voluntarily accepted celibacy as a part of their lives. The boy had stopped crying and was listening.

  “Jamil, this is wrong, very wrong. It is abhorrent to God and Man alike. It must stop, but I may be powerless to prevent a re-occurrence. The Mullah is a powerful ally, but he is a more powerful opponent. I will send you to the hospital with the Indian driver. When you get there you will complain of severe abdominal pain, sickness and diarrhoea. Do you understand?” Jamil nodded. “I will speak to Hussein, our Doctor at the clinic, and ask him to run tests and keep you under observation for forty eight hours in case you are contagious. That will give me time to try to find an answer.”

  The young boy broke down in tears, audible sobs echoing around the empty stone walled room. Javid squeezed the boy’s shoulders, looked into his tear-stained face and told him not to worry. Javid himself was worried. He had no idea how he would address this matter with the council, or whether they would choose to support their leader and expel the boy, accusing him of spreading despicable lies to avoid embarrassment engulfing the Madrassa.

  Jamil headed off in the direction of the front office with the words of his instructor ringing in his ears. “Jamil, you owe no loyalty to the man who had done this evil thing.”

  Chapter 28

  4th Floor, Surgical Ward, The American Hospital, Oud Metha, Dubai:

  25th February; 2pm.

  Jamie had listened as her two fellow conscripts explained their concerns about an attack on a prominent event or iconic building in Dubai, and shared their view that there was a reasonable chance it could be the Schools Symposium, given the fact that it was being held in the lower floors of the Burj Khalifa and yellow school buses would be used to deliver the schoolchildren to the venue.

  “We’re placing a lot of reliance on the premise that the Madrassa’s yellow school bus is being used for the attack and that this ‘Shadow’ is using the bus, just as he did to collect the explosives.” Jamie was acting as devil’s advocate.

  “We know, Jamie, but the reality is we have nothing else to go
on unless we take Mullah Khaweini into custody and beat him with rubber hoses until he talks,” Max answered.

  “And we all know that isn’t going to happen unless we have some better evidence than we do now,” Todd added.

  “All right,” Jamie said, after a moment’s careful thought. “This is what we need to do. First, have all school buses for the schools attending the event provided with a security pass. We don’t need to cause alarm, we can just explain it away as a matter of parking availability. Second, we’ll construct a database of the school buses licence tags and check them against the buses that turn up for the event. If a licence tag doesn’t match the database, the bus will have to drop the kids off on the road and they will have to walk to the Armani Hotel. The same rule applies if the bus driver doesn’t have a pass. If we notify the schools only about the drivers’ passes and one of them leaks that information to the terrorists, they’ll think that a forged pass will be enough to get them into the grounds. But they’ll be wrong.

  Third, I think we need Special Forces to be on standby. They could be in fast response vehicles parked in the underground parking lot at the Mall, as it’s only two minutes from there to the Armani.

  Fourth, check with the Sheikh, see if we can borrow a sniffer dog or two from the Airport and ensure that once the kids are off the buses the dogs are allowed to check for explosives.”

  “Is there a fifth, Jamie? Because my shorthand can’t keep up,” Max grumbled with a smile on his face. Jamie laughed.

  “Sorry. It’s just that, as the only police officer here, I thought I should offer a few suggestions.”

  “You need to be careful. If the Sheikh knows how good you are, they’ll never grant you an exit visa,” Todd remarked.