Max paused for thought, and Todd jumped in.
“Unless this is just a diversion. We’re meant to think this is the great disaster they had planned, but they actually have something else up their sleeves.”
“My thinking exactly. I know the bus went up in a fiery inferno, but just how much of the explosive was on board? They may still have a significant amount left.”
“Enough to blow up something like the Burj Khalifa, d’you think?” Todd asked, referring back to their original idea that the world’s tallest building was under threat. Max thought.
“We have to think like that madman, Todd. He said in his email that he would bring down Dubai and impoverish its playboy princes. How would he do that? Would damaging the Burj be enough?” Max rubbed his temples; he could feel a headache coming on.
“How about we go to the Madrassa, drag the fake Mullah from his room and beat him until he gives up his plan?”
“That isn’t going to happen.” The two men looked around to see Sheikh Mahmoud standing at the doorway.
***
Kwong Chong Lee sat in his workshop, surround by plastic lunch boxes. Each box contained C4 explosive and a simple detonator switch and battery. The explosion they would create would be small and focussed, but if the Mullah’s plan worked, this dozen lunch boxes would bring down Dubai.
His computer pinged. Mullah Khaweini was online and would soon receive the Shadow’s message, or ultimatum, depending on how you viewed it.
***
Trevor George Baker looked back at himself from the mirror. He looked strange without his black beard. He seemed to have no chin. And the mane of black hair was substantially gone, and what was left was now blonde. The man in the mirror was sporting a serious buzz cut. Khaweini seriously doubted that his friends at the Mosque would recognise him now.
As he stepped out of the bathroom he saw a light flashing on his private mobile phone. He opened a text message which read, “click here for our latest offers - Bloomingdales”. Khaweini clicked on the link, which led to a clone of the Bloomingdales Dubai Mall website. He looked at the offers and chose the blue child’s duvet liberally scattered with fluffy clouds. He clicked on the image and a link appeared, labelled PAY NOW. One more click led him to a password protected cloud account. He typed in the password, opened the folder titled ‘payments’ and read the message.
“You need to call the bank. My funds have not been made available.” Khaweini was punching out the number of the bank before he even finished reading the message. If the funds were not available, the whole master plan could fail, and the Shadow would seek him out and kill him. He assumed that was what an assassin who had been denied his promised fee would do.
***
The Djibouti Branch of the Bank of Burundi had never seen such activity in a single day, perhaps in the whole seventeen years it had been open. The Djibouti minister for finance had called in, unannounced, and had hand delivered a sequestration order for six bank accounts. The accounts were to be frozen, and the funds held in trust for the Government. A government trustee was nominated, and the bank was obliged to accept the nomination. No funds could leave the account without his permission.
The manager had barely gathered his wits when a second unannounced visitor appeared at his bank, this one wearing a US Naval uniform. The manager recognised him as the ranking serving officer in Djibouti. The Admiral passed him a communiqué sent under diplomatic cover. The letter and attachments provided the base evidence required under the international banking charter and the interbank money laundering regulations for suspension of a bank account. The manager explained that the account had already been sequestered by the Government. The Admiral seemed content. “Just covering all bases, Mr Vanois”, the Admiral said as he shook the banker’s hand.
Thirty minutes later the banker was in the middle of a conference call with his head office, suggesting that the account holders must have seriously annoyed someone in authority, when his assistant came into his office uninvited. He ushered her away with an annoyed wave of his hand, but she held her ground.
“Please hold, Mr Vanois. I have a situation.” The banker placed the conference call on hold. “What is it?” he barked.
“I have Interpol on the line for you,” the assistant announced. “They say it is urgent.” The banker dropped his head into his hands.
***
For a man who had spent many years in the Middle East, Trevor George Baker, or Mullah Khaweini, was very pale skinned. He looked as white as a sheet as he spoke to his contact at the bank.
Francois Renart had a French name. Indeed, he had spent his entire life in France before travelling to Djibouti to take up this job, but he believed with all of his heart he was Algerian. A covert Western Muslim, he looked just like the banker that he was, but for all of his wealth and home comforts he could not overcome his disdain of the West. His father had been killed by the French before he was born. His mother had been deported back to Algeria when he was just four years old because she was a troublemaker and an illegal immigrant. Francois had been adopted by a French couple after he was forcibly taken from his mother on her departure from France. They were good and kindly and he loved them deeply, but the cause of the Algerian people and their constant supporters, Al Qaeda, was never far from his thoughts.
Francois Renart had made it possible for Khaweini to operate six bank accounts, under different offshore company names, simply because of his loyalty to Jihad. He had covered his path well, and anyone auditing the accounts would find that they had been set up by the previous, and long dead, bank manager, using convincing but fake documentation. As he picked up the phone his heart was heavy and his mind was racing. Khaweini would blame him.
Taking the call in his office with the door firmly closed, Renart whispered into the phone. “Mullah, there is nothing I can do. The accounts were frozen before I could act. Someone has pressurised the Government and obliged them to act swiftly. In any case, we have received two further injunctive notices from the US and from Interpol. You will never see these funds again. You must use the local account. That has not been listed.”
“Listed? You mean they had listed the accounts? How could they know?” Khaweini raged.
“Sir, they came to us with a complete list of accounts and balances. They attached evidence that the companies involved were involved in criminal activity and cited the international money laundering agreements. Mr Vanois acted immediately.”
Khaweini thought for a second and then sighed a name; Jamil. The banker heard the name and responded. “It is the only explanation. The boy had memorised the account numbers to avoid writing them down. Jamil always knew to the dollar exactly how much of the total deposit was to go into each account. But you should be able to continue with the local account money. I have transferred over half a million dollars into that account over the years, covering my tracks, just as you asked. Surely, it is not the seven millions we have lost today but it is enough to continue our Jihad.”
Khaweini put down the phone without responding. The leadership would blame him. He would be punished. The Shadow would pursue him for his fee, and Khaweini’s secret Dubai account, meant to provide him an easy retirement, would have to be spent in the cause.
It took the Mullah a while to work things through, but he had a plan. He would use the quarter of a million dollars in his bank account to pay the Shadow and have the bomb maker move to Phase two, then, when Dubai was on its knees, the leadership would welcome him back. They would pay the Shadow and all thoughts of the lost money would be forgotten.
Phase two had to proceed as quickly as possible.
Chapter 33
John H Glenn Wardroom, USS Enterprise, Jebel Ali, Dubai:
26th February; 5pm.
The meeting below decks on the Big E, as USS Enterprise was affectionately known, was drawing to a close. The vessel was the eighth to carry the revered name. The wardroom was large and well furnished, although the fine walnut furnishings and wal
l panels looked dated. The walls of the wardroom were bedecked with photographs and articles about the vessel’s venerable history.
At fifty one years old, she was almost as old as her Captain. The first nuclear powered surface vessel to set sail, the Enterprise carried eight Westinghouse reactors. Around the perimeter of the room were pictures of her first assignment just off the Florida coast during the Bay of Pigs fiasco, her attendance at the landing of Friendship Seven, the first American manned orbital space flight by John Glenn Jr. and a large poster sized photo of the crew with Garth Brooks and Jewel, taken after a live concert was held on deck whilst she was docked in Norfolk, Virginia.
The Captain had hosted the meeting, wanting to know how his last tour, ironically a friendship tour before decommissioning, had been marred by a terrorist atrocity. Sheikh Mahmoud had been open and honest, and had encouraged Max and Todd to be equally candid.
“It sounds to me like you boys are regular James Bonds. You’ve seen more action in a few weeks that this venerable old gal has seen in a lifetime.”
The cultured Southern accent was pleasing to the ear, although the assembled group had no doubt it could be sharp and frightening in the right situation. Captain Jackson continued.
“We will be back here in June for the official send-off. Let’s hope y’all have these folks in custody by then.”
“They may not be in custody when you return, Captain, but they won’t be a threat to your vessel, unless you’re afraid of hauntings.” The Captain smiled at Todd’s bravado, and the Sheikh shook his head in mild disapproval.
“In summary, Captain, Max, Todd,” the Sheikh began. “The international community has reacted quickly to our request that the bank accounts, being fed by Mullah Khaweini’s assistant’s visits to Djibouti, be frozen. By noon today the Government of Djibouti had sequestered the accounts, and the Bank of Burundi will hold the funds until either the account owners seek to have the sequestration lifted - although to do that they must expose themselves to public glare - or until an agreement to liquidate the funds is taken by the affected parties. Presently we believe that the only affected parties are here in Dubai, and so we will seek liquidation in our favour. This will allow us to build a compensation fund for those individuals who have been cheated out of their money.
We will send into the Mosque and Madrassa our Chief Imam, who will demand that Mullah Khaweini is handed over to the religious police and then the civil police. The sexual abuse of a student is a heinous crime and it will be dealt with harshly.
We will be at a heightened awareness of risk throughout the Emirate until the bomber is found and imprisoned. Any questions?”
“It isn’t much of a question, Sheikh Mahmoud, but we aren’t seriously expecting Mullah Khaweini to be sitting waiting for the Imam to turn up and have him arrested, are we? If we are, we are likely to be disappointed. He must know that the bombing failed and that Jamil is in protective custody. If I was him, I’d be on the run,” Max said. Sheikh Mahmoud turned to speak to Max directly.
“It is true that he is probably in hiding by now, but if the secular authorities had gone into a Mosque or Madrassa unannounced we would have created a maelstrom of religious anger that could have resulted in protests and violence unseen in this city’s history.”
Todd sighed audibly, and then spoke quietly.
“Sheikh, if we don’t stop this madman the city could be attacked, or even destroyed. We appreciate the need for diplomacy and respect for Islam, but you host many more people who are not active in Islam than who are. For the prosperity of Dubai you need to be able to persuade them that they’re safe from zealots.”
The Sheikh frowned, and the meeting drew to a close on an unhappy note.
“You pushed the old man hard there, Todd,” Max remarked as they walked back to the car. Todd shrugged.
“Max, I’ve watched it happen in the military, Civvy Street and in business. No-one wants to upset the bad guys. They choose to believe they can appeal to their better nature. Do you seriously believe that Khaweini is acting alone in that Madrassa? No, you don’t, and neither does the State Imam. He’s a clever bloke. Yet protocol will demand that he speaks indirectly to the leaders of the Madrassa, hoping that they’ll change their ways. Even if they did, it would be too late, mate. Something’s brewing, I can feel it in my bones.”
Chapter 34
Former Volvo Dealership, Sheik Zayed Road, Al Quoz, Dubai:
29th February; 2pm.
The Shadow had relocated his workshop to the old Volvo car showroom, fearing that his workshop in Business Bay may have been compromised. He need not have worried. The empty building remained undisturbed. Kwong Chong Lee had survived this long in his business because he was unduly cautious, and that was not a bad trait in a bomb maker.
He primed the last of the lunchbox bombs and placed them in a metal strong box which had once been used to store mechanics’ tools in the old service bay of the building.
Abandoned in 2010, the Volvo dealership had given way to a Chrysler Dodge showroom at the front, but the new dealership already had a service facility of its own next door, and so the Volvo service bay in the rear had been stripped bare and left empty until the space was rented by the letting agent on a week by week basis, cash in hand, to Golden Falcon Chinese Restaurants, as an unofficial storage area. The esteemed owner of the Golden Falcon chain of restaurants would have been surprised to learn he had a storage facility in Al Quoz, and of course, he did not have any such facility. The space was rented by a middle man for the Shadow.
Kwong Chong Lee’s phone beeped, notifying him of a text message. He pressed the open button and the text informed him that US$250,000.00 had been credited to his account. It was three days late, but there was more to come, much more, when Dubai became a ghost town.
***
Trevor George Baker knew better than to Skype with the leadership whilst he looked the way he did. His face was still clean shaven, his hair a gelled dirty blonde, and there was some colour in his face. With his baseball cap, sunglasses and casual attire he looked like any other tourist. As he sat in his hideaway, with ear buds leading to his mobile phone plugged firmly in his ears, he listened, bristling with anger but quiet.
“Brother, if you had used a martyr instead of a paid assassin the results in Jebel Ali would have been magnificent. The barbarians of the West would have shaken their inept fists and bared their blunted teeth to no avail, and we would have claimed responsibility. But the death of one minor diplomat was an embarrassing waste of resources. You used almost a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of explosives to kill just one man.”
“That was always intended to be diversionary. Yes, it would have been better to have a high death toll, but phase two was always to be our objective,” Khaweini countered.
“If the implementation of phase two is successful, then we will pay the bomb maker his blood money, but if it fails there will be nowhere for him, or you, to hide. Is that clear?” the disembodied voice warned.
“No, brother, I would have to say it is not clear. I am a soldier of the Jihad. If I fail I will continue to sting the bloated West until they die from a thousand stings, if need be. I have worked endlessly for the cause; abandonment is neither warranted nor acceptable for one who has served so diligently.”
There was silence for a moment, and then another voice came on the line.
“You speak well and with passion. Our brother is simply distressed because our funds have been stolen from us by the Africans still enslaved to their masters. Do this thing, Mullah, and glory will be yours.”
***
Jamie was glad to be released from the hospital. Although still sore in places, she was well on the way to good health. She sat on the balcony at TGI Fridays at the Dubai Mall with Max and Todd, eating Beef Brisket pasta and savouring every mouthful.
“How is it that wherever you go in the world, the hospital food is terrible?” she asked as she looped spaghetti around her fork like a professional.<
br />
Max and Todd looked on as they consumed their own food with a little more dignity. The sun was shining and the temperature was in the high twenties, around eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The Burj Khalifa was gleaming in the sun, and the fountains in the lagoon sprang to life in a rehearsal of the evening’s nightly light and music show.
No-one mentioned the memorial service for Ron Styles, although they were all dressed formally, having come straight from the Conference centre where the memorial service had been held. Jamie had cried and even the two men had lumps in their throats when, half way into the service, the Prime Minister of Dubai and Vice President of the United Arab Emirates entered and awaited his turn to speak on the podium.
The Sheikh had spoken in English with passion and feeling, demanding that like-minded people of all religions, all cultures and all countries work together to defeat those people with evil in their hearts and murder in their minds.
They stayed awhile afterwards, and met other consular officials, members of Styles’ church congregation and his wife and children. Jamie and Marissa Styles cried together when Jamie told the distraught woman that her husband had saved Jamie’s life.
Now, in silent companionship, the trio ate, absorbed the sun’s warmth and watched carefree people swimming around in the sparkling blue pools of the Address Hotel opposite.
Max’s phone rang. He looked at the screen. The call was coming from Vastrick security. He put the phone to his ear.
“Ah, bonjour, Max. This is Dominic. Perhaps we should meet this evening. I think we have a lead.”
Chapter 35
The Palazzo, The Boulevard, Doncaster, Melbourne, Australia:
29th February; 10pm. (2pm Dubai Time)
Shadow of the Burj Page 20
