‘Where do we stand, Peter?’ he asked.
‘The kids have left for school. He’s still in the house with his wife.’
‘Bodyguards?’
‘No. It’s all low-key.’
‘Do we have any idea what time he leaves?’
‘No, but his car is here so I’m assuming he drives himself in. My suggestion would be that Michael and I go in now and secure the house. But that means the wife will be there.’
‘I’d be happier if the wife wasn’t there, obviously.’
‘She doesn’t have a job. But she’s the wife of a wealthy man, so she probably shops a lot and lunches with friends.’
‘Okay, send Michael to pick me up when you’re ready.’
Yokely sat in the lobby reading a copy of Gulf News until Bardot arrived outside the hotel in a white BMW SUV. Bardot was wearing his Oakley sunglasses and Yokely could see his own reflection in the dark lenses.
‘How did it go?’ Yokely asked as Bardot drove away from the hotel.
‘Smooth as silk,’ said Bardot. ‘The wife left about an hour ago. They have two cars, a Mercedes and a Porsche. She took the Porsche. She was all dolled up so we figure she’s off to see friends. Or a lover. Either way she’ll be a while.’
The drive to the Palm Jumeirah took less than ten minutes. The artificial archipelago might well have looked like a spreading palm tree from space – or even a high-flying plane – but at ground level all Yokely could see was sweeping roads and villas that seemed to have been pushed together to maximise the use of land. The entire area was a building site and most of the construction workers labouring under the fierce Middle Eastern sun seemed to be Indian or Bangladeshi. The layout of the area meant that every home had water access, but there were only a few yachts or boats to be seen and most of the villas that had been finished didn’t appear to be occupied.
An eight-lane motorway formed the trunk of the Palm, with mile-long roads left and right forming the fronds. Almost all the traffic on the roads was construction-related. There were only a few palm trees in evidence but as they drove by one Yokely realised it was fake, a well-disguised cell-phone tower.
‘When will this be finished?’ Yokely asked.
‘A year or two,’ said Bardot. ‘There’s a building boom across the Emirates at the moment. They say that a quarter of the world’s cranes are currently in Dubai. It’s a work in progress. But once the building work is done they’ll start on the landscaping. It’s becoming very popular. They were selling villas off-plan for a million bucks and now they’re changing hands for four million and more.’
‘And no terrorism?’
Bardot chuckled. ‘Yeah, funny that. The place is full of Westerners, you’ve got five-star hotels selling booze by the bucketful, and you’ve got bars full of hookers. You’d have thought al-Qaeda might have taken offence.’
‘Pay-offs?’
‘On a massive scale, I’d say, but no one will admit to it, obviously. Plus they allow the al-Qaeda people to operate here without any hassle and their money is allowed to go through the banks with no restrictions. I can’t see how long it’ll continue, though. They hate Western values and Western habits and the Emirates are home to them in spades.’ He nodded at a gleaming white house ahead of them. ‘This is Al Amin’s.’
It was two storeys with a flat roof and a turret that looked like a clock tower, with a double garage on the left. The garden was bare and the villas on either side were still being constructed, though there were no building workers in evidence. There was a black SUV parked in front of the garage and Bardot pulled up next to it. They climbed out of the BMW and the heat hit Yokely immediately. He shaded his eyes against the sun with his hand as they walked to the front door. Bardot knocked and Leclerc opened it.
They stepped into a hallway. The air con was full on and it was blisteringly cold. They walked across a white marble floor under a massive circular chandelier to another room, this one with a black slate floor. Two low-slung sofas had been pushed against the wall and Al Amin had been tied to a chair in the middle of the room. McNee was standing behind him, a Glock in an underarm holster.
Al Amin was wearing a thawb with blue and yellow vertical stripes. He was fat, almost obese, and sweating profusely despite the air conditioning. He was bald and had a fleshy neck and puffy bags under his eyes. Duct tape had been used to tie the man to the chair, binding his wrists and his ankles.
‘You are in charge?’ he asked Yokely.
Yokely nodded. ‘I am.’
‘If this is a kidnapping, just tell me how much you want and I will get the money brought to you from the bank.’
‘That’s very generous of you, but this isn’t about money.’
‘What then?’
‘Information.’
‘And for that you needed to tie me to a chair? Why did you not just ask me, like a man?’
‘Because the information I want is the sort you will not want to give me. This way you know that I am serious, and that there will be repercussions if you do not tell me what I want to know.’
Al Amin stared at Yokely for several seconds. Then he nodded. ‘You are American?’
‘Yes.’
‘CIA? NSA? FBI? DEA?’
‘You don’t need to know who sent us,’ said Yokely. ‘That’s not important. What is important is that you answer my questions and that you answer them quickly, because if your wife or children return while we are here …’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say it would be better if they didn’t.’
‘You are threatening my wife and children?’
‘I am threatening you, Abdul Aziz. Your family would be collateral damage.’ He looked around, and walked over to one of the sofas. He sat down. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘What?’
Yokely took his pack of cigars out. ‘Can I smoke?’
Al Amin frowned. ‘Yes. Of course. How could I stop you?’
‘It’s only polite to ask,’ said Yokely. He took out a small cigar, slipped it between his lips and lit it with his Zippo. He inhaled and blew smoke before speaking. ‘Al Amin means truthful, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘So try to live up to your name.’
‘Or what? You will kill me?’
‘You know an arms dealer by the name of Jamahl Benikhlef?’
‘Yes, I know him,’ said Al Amin grimly. ‘And I know that you killed him. Yesterday you killed Jamahl. You blew up his boat, didn’t you?’ He snarled at Yokely. ‘I knew a boat would not go up in flames like that.’
‘Benikhlef bought some Stinger missiles that were used to shoot down a passenger jet in New York. He bought them from a dealer in Amsterdam to sell on to a British jihadist.’
Al Amin shook his head. ‘No, no, that is not true,’ he said. He continued to deny everything while Yokely smoked his cigar. Eventually Al Amin fell silent.
Yokely looked at him and smiled coldly. ‘If you lie to me again, Abdul, I will kill your wife and I will kill your children and I will kill your brothers and I will kill their children.’
‘What sort of man are you?’ spat Al Amin.
‘An angry man,’ said Yokely. ‘A vengeful man. The missile you helped source was used to shoot down a plane with more than three hundred innocent civilians on board.’
‘There are no innocents. Not in the war against the Crusaders who kill our people around the world.’
‘I understand that view,’ said Yokely. ‘But you realise that I can apply the same logic to your wife and your children and your brothers and their children. There are no innocents, they share your blame.’
‘You would kill children?’
‘I have done in the past, Abdul, and I have no doubt I will do so again. The man you introduced to Jamahl. Who was he?’
Al Amin glared malevolently at Yokely, then the fight went out of him. ‘Hakeem Khaled,’ he said.
‘From?’
‘He is a Palestinian but he has a British passport.’ Al Amin smiled. ‘He hates the British as much as he hates the
Americans, but they gave him asylum and a passport.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Fifty years old, maybe. He has a long beard that is going grey. He’s a big man, a strong man.’
‘And how do you know him?’
‘I have known him for many years.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Al Amin closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I have funded him in the past. When he needed it, I would arrange it.’
‘You funded his terrorist activities?’
‘You say terrorist, I say freedom fighter. He fought back against the Israeli oppressors, how could a good Muslim not assist him?’
‘What sort of terrorist activities?’
‘He sent suicide bombers into Tel Aviv. Many, many times. Until the Israelis discovered who he was. They tried to kill him so he fled to France, and then to London.’
‘And you knew he was planning to shoot down a plane?’
‘He didn’t tell me what he wanted the missiles for.’
Yokely sighed. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.’
‘The missiles were shipped to the United States, that must have been a clue.’
Al Amin shook his head. ‘I didn’t know where they were going or what he planned to do with them.’
Yokely nodded slowly. ‘So you’re just another middleman, are you. A facilitator. Nothing that happened is your fault?’
‘Hakeem wanted to purchase the missiles. I helped him. I knew I was helping the cause, and that is my duty as a good Muslim. But you cannot blame me for what happened.’
‘And again, you didn’t know what he was planning to do?’
‘I swear by the Koran and all that is Holy.’
Yokely stared at Al Amin for several seconds. ‘You see, I know you’re lying. Not only did you know that he was planning to shoot down a plane, you set out to profit from it. You sold airline stocks short so that when the shares fell you would make millions.’
Al Amin’s mouth opened in shock and he began to stammer but Yokely cut him short with a wave of the gun. ‘You lied to me,’ said Yokely. ‘You know what that means.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘Please, I implore you in the name of Allah, spare my family. It is not right that they should suffer because of my actions.’
‘You lied to me,’ said Yokely.
‘I’m sorry!’ he wailed. ‘Shoot me, kill me, take my life, but please do not harm my family. I beg you.’
‘What about the families who died on that plane? All those women and children? Did you care about them?’
Al Amin bowed his head and closed his eyes as he sobbed.
‘Look at me, Abdul.’ When the man didn’t react, Yokely repeated his command, louder this time.
Al Amin raised his head and opened his tear-filled eyes. ‘Please, I beg you …’ he whimpered.
‘Hush,’ said Yokely. ‘Be a man. Understand? It is time for you to be a man and not cry like a little girl.’
Al Amin nodded.
‘If you lie to me again we will wait here until your children return from school and I will kill them in front of you. And I will do the same with your wife.’
‘Please, no …’
‘Do you understand? Do you understand what will happen if you lie to me again?’
Al Amin nodded again.
‘Do you have a phone number for Khaled?’
‘He won’t use phones. He says the authorities listen in.’
‘So how do you contact him?’
‘By email. But we never send the emails; he says that the NSA and GCHQ read all emails.’
‘So you share an account and leave messages in the draft folder?’
Al Amin nodded.
‘I need you to tell me the email address and the password.’
Al Amin told him the Gmail account name and the password to get access to it.
‘Does Khaled come to Dubai often?’
‘Not often.’
‘When he travels, he uses his British passport?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about the UK. Where does he live?’
‘London. But I don’t have an address.’
‘Where could I find him?’
‘He is often at Finsbury Park Mosque. The famous one.’
Yokely nodded. The US intelligence services often described the London mosque as an al-Qaeda guesthouse in London, a hotbed of Islamic radicalism. It was where Abu Hamza – the hook-handed preacher of hate – had spewed his anti-West hatred before the Brits had put him in a high-security prison for inciting violence and racial hatred.
‘Is he an imam?’
‘No, but he does teach there.’
‘Jihadism?’
‘He helps those young men who want to embrace jihad, yes. It is his calling.’
‘That and killing innocent civilians. That’s his calling.’ Yokely felt his heart race and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
Al Amin saw the tension on Yokely’s face. ‘You will spare my family?’ he asked.
Yokely considered the question for several seconds and he felt the anger within him slowly subside. ‘Yes.’
‘You swear?’
Yokely nodded slowly. ‘I swear. Unless I discover that you have lied to me, in which case I will come back and kill them all.’
‘I have not lied to you,’ said Al Amin.
‘Then we’re good,’ said Yokely. He nodded at Leclerc. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.
Al Amin began to struggle but the bonds held tight. Leclerc took a ball gag from his pocket, popped the ball into Al Amin’s mouth and fastened the strap behind his neck. Al Amin tried to talk but the ball made it impossible. Leclerc went over to his backpack and took out a plastic case. He popped it open and took out a large hypodermic filled with a clear liquid. Al Amin’s struggling intensified, and his head thrashed from side to side as Leclerc walked over to him.
Leclerc knelt down. Al Amin’s ankles were taped to the chair so it was relatively easy to push the needle into a vein between Al Amin’s big toe and the toe next to it. He pressed the plunger slowly and injected all 50cc of potassium chloride solution into the man’s foot. Al Amin’s eyes were wide and fearful and the veins in his temples were throbbing.
Leclerc stood up and put the hypodermic back in the case. Yokely walked over and stood next to Leclerc. States in the USA that killed their murderers with lethal injection invariably used a combination of substances but it was usually a high dose of potassium chloride that did the job. Too much potassium in the blood causes hyperkalemia, which leads to heart arrhythmia and then a full-on heart attack or cardiac arrest. It was possible to detect higher than normal potassium levels in the body of the deceased shortly after death but you had to go looking for it. Al Amin was overweight and out of condition and a prime candidate for heart failure so Yokely doubted anyone would see anything sinister about the death.
Al Amin stopped struggling. His chest was heaving and there was panic in his eyes. His eyes began to flutter and his legs strained at the tape holding them to the chair, and then his eyes went blank and he went still.
Yokely patted Leclerc on the shoulder. ‘Good job, Peter,’ he said.
Leclerc removed the gag and used a knife to slice through the duct tape. ‘What you said about the kids. Was that the truth?’
Yokely smiled thinly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I could.’
‘I think you could, Peter, under the right circumstances.’
‘Maybe so.’ He sighed. ‘So you’re not going to answer my question?’
‘Do you want me to?’
Leclerc tilted his head on one side. ‘I guess not.’
Yokely slid his gun into its holster. ‘I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect my country,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’
He took out his cell phone and called David Dalton but the call went straight
through to voicemail. Yokely realised it was the early hours in the UK and Dalton was probably asleep. He left a message. ‘I need you to check out a name with your Brit contacts,’ he said. ‘Hakeem Khaled. Palestinian with a British passport. Lives in London, attends the Finsbury Park Mosque.’ He ended the call, put the phone away and went over to help Leclerc.
Once they had arranged Al Amin’s body so that it looked as if he had died from natural causes, they headed back to the hotel. Yokely ordered a coffee and a steak sandwich and while he was waiting for it to arrive he sat down at his desk and opened the laptop he’d taken from Hamid bin Faisal’s house. He logged on to the email account that Al Amin had given him. There was one email in the draft folder, Saladin talking to Al Amin. It was in English. There was a long quote from the Koran:
And slay them wherever ye catch them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out; for tumult and oppression are worse than slaughter; but fight them not at the Sacred Mosque, unless they first fight you there; but if they fight you, slay them. Such is the reward of those who suppress faith.
Yokely knew that the next verse – which Saladin had omitted – portrayed Islam in a more peaceful light: But if they cease, Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.
The message afterwards was short and to the point. ‘The goods have arrived, Allahu Akbar. You will get your reward in heaven, my friend.’
Yokely was sure there would have been more correspondence between Khaled and Al Amin but the most secure method was to delete them after they had been read. He phoned Sam Hepburn, gave him the email details and asked him to see what he could come up with.
As he was finishing the call, Yokely’s sandwich and coffee arrived. He ate the sandwich as he watched CNN. There were still no details on what had happened to the plane. Various experts spoke about engine failure and pilot error and freak weather and bird strikes. A security expert raised the possibility of a bomb having been on board the plane and explained how luggage – in the hold and in the cabin – was checked. A former FBI agent spoke at length about the shoe bomber, a Brit called Richard Reid who had attempted to detonate explosives packed into his shoes on a flight from Paris to Miami a few days before Christmas 2001. Reid had failed and was serving three life sentences plus a hundred and ten years at ADX Florence, a supermax security prison in Colorado. Security checks had been tightened since then but the expert warned that Islamic terrorists were constantly looking at new ways of downing passenger jets. No one mentioned the possibility of a missile strike, but Yokely knew that it would only be a matter of time before the truth came out.
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