by Andrew Watts
Chase nodded. “Okay.”
Jackson took out a phone from his pocket and handed it to Chase. “Use this. It’s encrypted, and it only has one number on it. Mine. I’ll text you with information as I get it. Please do the same. If you have sensitive updates, tell me that we need to meet and I’ll arrange for you to be picked up.”
“Alright. How do I get in touch with the source in the Dubai financial district?”
“Waleed knows. He’ll help you with that. The other thing I need you to do is to meet up with Ahmad Gorji’s assistant. Try to develop either him or Gorji himself as an Agency asset. Find out why he wanted to meet with you. Then report back to me.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all for now. Like I said, I’ll try to send you an agent to back you up in a few days.”
“No problem.”
“Alright. Grab your bag. We’ll fly to Dubai right now. There will be a car for you when we get there.” Elliot stood. “This is your first time working with the Emiratis, right?”
“In this capacity, yes.”
“Well, prepare yourself. They are what you and I would refer to as high rollers.”
*****
The US Air Force turboprop flew from Al Dhafra Air Base to Minhad Air Base in less than twenty minutes. Chase wondered why they couldn’t have taken the ninety-minute car ride, but he wasn’t complaining. Minhad, like Al Dhafra, was officially UAE property. Unofficially, there was a heavy international military presence at both locations.
A well-polished black Lexus sedan waited for him on the runway as he and Elliot departed the aircraft. Nicer than the reception he typically got. In Iraq he had been picked up by a ’93 Toyota with no air conditioning. Elliot said goodbye and walked toward an unmarked white van. The side door slid open, and he disappeared inside.
Chase looked at the Lexus. He was going to like working for the Emirates.
The driver looked Arabic, although Chase doubted that he was Emirati. They imported their help here in Dubai. The man spoke in thickly accented English. “Good evening, Mr. Manning. Please, I take your baggage.”
Chase handed the man his black duffle bag. The driver looked around as if he was expecting more. Seeing none, he cast Chase an odd look and held the rear door open for him. Moments later, they were racing along Dubai’s main highway.
The driver didn’t speak during the entire thirty minutes it took them to get to their destination. It would have been a boring drive except for the view. At first, Chase could see nothing but the enormous reddish-brown sand dunes of the desert. Then the dark outline of the Dubai skyscrapers appeared through the haze of the sky. The magnificent cityscape went on as far as the eye could see, crowned by the tallest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa.
The setting sun’s reflection lit up the Burj Khalifa like a torch. The giant structure towered over the rest of the city’s skyscrapers. And these were buildings that would have otherwise been considered enormous. It was not the first time Chase had been to Dubai. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help but marvel at the Burj Khalifa each time he saw it.
As they drove inside the city limits, Chase’s view switched to the modern monorail-style train system, luxury cars, and bright city lights. They passed enormous four-level shopping malls and plush high-end restaurants. Many of the hotels had palm trees covering their rooftop pools and bars.
When the car stopped at an intersection, Chase watched the cross-section of people walking the streets. It was a mix of European tourists, international businessmen, lower-class workers (mostly from India), and the local elite. Groups of Arab women adorned in black flowing robes walked into street-front shops. Most of the Arab men were dressed in bright white robes, with a variety of head garb. Everyone was sweating in the desert heat.
It was almost dark by the time Chase arrived at the hotel. As they pulled around the long driveway, he saw a glimpse of the beach behind the hotel. A thin rim of the setting orange sun peeked above the ocean. Chase saw a group of bikini-clad women sipping cocktails at the poolside bar. Definitely not Iraq.
His Lexus came to a stop and Chase stepped out into the hot, moist air. Neat rows of imported palm trees towered overhead. He thanked the driver and threw his bag over his shoulder. He then walked toward the hotel entrance, past a row of luxury cars parked on the red-and-white brick driveway.
Bentley. Maserati. Lamborghini. Ferrari. Porsche. Chase was drooling on the inside. He liked cars. He owned a Ford Mustang. It was a few years old, but it was what he could afford. The Mustang was nice. It was like dating a pretty girl. But these cars were supermodels. Out of his league.
His polo shirt and khakis began to feel inadequate. But it was all he had.
He looked up at the name inscribed on the hotel. The Four Seasons Dubai. Chase entered the large glass revolving doors and felt a soothing cool air cover his face and arms. A sweet floral scent filled the air, and an artificial waterfall cascaded down ahead of him. Across the way, a man wearing a tuxedo played Rachmaninoff on a Steinway grand piano.
The lobby was filled with wealthy-looking patrons. Chase’s eyes followed a group of Western women in stiletto heels, black dresses, and expensive jewelry. They were escorting several Emirati men in the traditional white robes and headscarves, wrapped with black headbands. Part of him wondered if they were pros. Supposedly the prostitution industry was in full swing here.
An Indian woman wearing a hotel name tag appeared in front of him. She spoke with a British accent. “Mr. Chase Manning?” She had a brilliant white smile.
“Yes?”
“Right this way, sir. Mr. Waleed Hajjar has asked me to take any luggage that you might have and show you to the Hendricks Bar as soon as you arrive. If you would please follow me.”
Chase handed her his duffle bag, which she in turn placed on a roller. She slid it behind the front desk. He then followed her down a hallway covered by a high arched ceiling with gold trim. The Hendricks Bar was inside the hotel, at the end of the hallway.
Dubai law had a wonderful loophole that allowed alcohol to be served at hotels. It was banned almost everywhere else. All of the bars, and most of the best restaurants, were co-located within their finest resorts.
They arrived at a fifteen-foot-high wooden doorway. A dark interior lay beyond it. The pudgy doorman in a grey suit retracted a purple felt rope from gold stanchions. They walked in, and Chase thought that the word bar didn’t quite do this place justice.
He was used to working-class watering holes. Places with names like The Greasy Spoon. The Rusty Nail. This was not one of those places. This was something else entirely.
The Hendricks Bar had high ceilings and rich mahogany walls. There were no beer taps. The world’s most expensive liquors lined the single shelf. Magenta cushions adorned each of the bar stools, and a five-foot vertical wall of light surrounded the bar like an enormous lampshade, illuminating the room with a soft yellow glow. Miniature candlelit chandeliers seemed to float down from the high ceiling. The walls were lined with expensive-looking canvases.
The servers were all skinny Asian women who wore tight purple dresses. Their attire matched the décor of the room. Each of them was very pretty. Chase was reminded of an article he’d read that had said the Emirates Airline was one of the few in the world that, due to an apparent lack of legal or political constraints, hired its flight attendants primarily based on looks. Political correctness be damned, Chase had to hand it to the UAE—they sure knew how to make things aesthetically pleasing.
The hotel hostess that had brought Chase to the bar took him toward the rear corner of the room, then politely nodded and left.
Chase found himself staring at a tall Arabic man in a dark suit. The man stood next to the corner table, half-hidden by a set of decorative curtains. They eyed each other as Chase approached. He had a hard look about him. He must be security, Chase realized as he saw another man sitting at the curtained table behind him. The security man moved to block Chase from getting any closer.<
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Then the man sitting at the corner table said something in Arabic, and the security man took a few steps back towards the wall. The man at the table rose. He wore a white button-down shirt with a dark blue suit jacket. No tie. The top button was undone and there were sweat stains under his arms.
“You are Chase Manning?”
Chase nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Yes. Mr. Waleed Hajjar?”
“Please, call me Waleed. You have good pronunciation. Have you taken Arabic?” His grip was firm, and he shook for about two seconds too long before letting go.
Chase said, “A little.”
“But you do have an accent. Did an Iraqi teach you Arabic?”
Chase smiled. “Yes. I spent some time in Iraq. And my teacher in the US was from Baghdad.”
“Ah. I have a good ear, I think. Now, please have a seat.”
Both men sat at the table. One of the pretty waitresses came over and used a long-stemmed match to light the wooden table’s lone candle. Waleed said something to her in Arabic that Chase couldn’t understand, and she walked away.
For a moment, neither man said anything.
Waleed began. “Mr. Jackson told you why you are here?”
Chase looked to his side before speaking, trying to see if anyone was in earshot.
Waleed said, “You are worried about privacy? Don’t be. No one will hear this conversation. I come here often for business meetings. My security team is watching the other patrons of the bar closely. We know the names of everyone in here. And the host knows not to seat anyone near my table.”
He pulled the curtain over the table entrance and they had the illusion of being in a large tent.
Chase said, “I’m told that my company has had unexpected outflows of information, and that recent events require action on our part.”
“The Iranian that came to your consulate…he asked for you.”
“That is what I am told.”
“Do you know why?” He raised an eyebrow.
Chase shook his head. “I do not.”
Waleed rubbed his chin and said, “Interesting.”
The waitress came back with a wheeled cart. She removed a large bowl of hummus and a plate of steaming-hot pita bread from the cart and placed it on the table. Then she laid a plate of falafel next to the hummus. Next she placed two old-fashioned glasses on the table and poured a double scotch into each.
Waleed asked, “I assume you drink alcohol?”
“I suppose one wouldn’t hurt.”
Chase thought that while regulations might not specifically call for it, it would probably be insulting not to have a drink with Waleed. Plus, he hadn’t had a drink in several months. He wondered about the whole Muslim-no-alcohol thing, but decided not to ask. Just like every religion in the world, people had different levels of practice.
The waitress left the bottle of scotch on the table. Macallan. The bottle had sharp angles. It looked very modern and expensive. Like everything else in this city.
Chase grabbed a piece of the pita bread and dug in. He hadn’t eaten in hours.
“Tell me, Mr. Manning, what do you know about the history of Dubai?” Waleed sat back in his chair, taking another sip from his glass.
“It is a relatively young city. It grew very rapidly over the past two decades. And it is one of the more…progressive…cities in the region.”
Waleed smiled. “Yes, we are the liberals of the Middle East. But that is sort of like being the fastest turtle. An impressive thing…but only among other turtles. Compared to America, Dubai is quite strict. I know. I’ve been to America. I liked it very much.” He raised his thick eyebrows as he spoke. His face was very expressive. “But you are right, we are also a young city.”
Chase nodded politely. “I have also read that the population and real estate growth here has been incredibly impressive.”
Waleed seemed to consider what he would say. He said, “Let me ask you something. Do you know why Dubai grew so quickly? Do you know what the catalyst for growth was?”
“I assume it was oil money.”
“You would be wrong. It is a common misconception. Many Westerners think this. However, the true reasons for Dubai’s growth are these two things—our airport, and the aftermath of the September eleventh attacks on the United States.”
Chase cocked his head. “I have not heard that before.”
“Most people haven’t. Most Westerners think that, like many of the other kingdoms in this part of the world, we are rich from our oil. Not quite. We discovered oil here in the 1960s. But compared to some of our neighbors, it wasn’t a huge find. In the early seventies, Sheikh Rashid tasked the then-young Sheikh Mohammed with building an airport. He brought in experts from the West—an old British Airways executive would help found what you now know as Emirates Airline. Have you flown it before?”
Chase shook his head. Most of his flights had been on Air Force transports or Army helicopters. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“It is a truly world-class airline. In the 1980s, both the airport and the airline opened the door to tourists. By the 1990s, we had built tax-free zones for shopping and dozens of extravagant hotels. It was the only place like it in this part of the world. And with the airport, it was now accessible to a great many people. Businesses began to see that in a region of war and terrorism, there was a shining beacon of peace and prosperity.”
Chase waited for him to finish his story.
“Unfortunately, it took the atrocities of September eleventh to spur major capital inflows to Dubai. For after September of 2001, your nation passed the Patriot Act. I was in America at the time. Not a good place to be an Arab during those days. But you see, in the 1990s, the oil-rich nations of the Gulf States would take their money and invest it in American ventures. After the Patriot Act, however, that became less appealing. Too much of a hassle for Middle Eastern investors. No one wanted to go through all of the paperwork and deal with the risk that the US government might decide to freeze his assets. So…what were the wealthy families of the Middle East to do with their money? Where could they invest?”
“They invested in Dubai.”
Waleed nodded. “They invested in Dubai. That peaceful land of shopping and tourism that I was just telling you about. But tourism could only take one’s money so far. And that’s all Dubai was at the time. Up until the year 2000, it was just a tourist destination. A very appealing one, sure. But with the amount of money that was beginning to pour in, we could do so much more than just tourism. Diversification was important to the Emirates. So was planning for the future.”
Waleed sipped his drink. He said, “Someday, the oil would either dry up or become obsolete. While Dubai didn’t make its money that way, many of our investors did. So how would we sustain ourselves when that happened? How would we ensure prosperity for our kingdom?”
Chase could see how proud Waleed was of this story. It was his family’s story, Chase realized. Elliot Jackson had told Chase that Waleed was related to the Dubai royal family. He continued to speak for a while about their great rise from the hot and barren sands of the Arabian Gulf.
Chase was impressed. He had seen the pictures of what this city had looked like only a few decades ago. Then it had been just a few buildings along a desert coast. But today’s Dubai was a masterpiece of modern architecture, and a rapidly growing center for several industries.
Waleed continued, “That was his stroke of genius. Sheikh Mohammed knew what ruled investors’ hearts: fear and greed. So he gave the world what it needed. Reassurance. Confidence. He carved out sections of land within Dubai and made them legal zones for certain types of businesses. They would be protected by Western-style laws. Entertainment companies. Technology companies. Real Estate. And—what is most relevant to this conversation—financial companies. We brought in McKinsey. Do you know McKinsey? The consulting firm?”
“Yes. It’s a very good company. I have a friend that works there. He’s one of the smartest people I kn
ow.”
“They helped us design the structure for Dubai International Financial Centre—not the buildings, but the actual financial and legal entity. Soon, all of the big banks came. This Financial Centre became the engine that pumped in more and more capital investment. In the 2000s, all one could see in this city was the miles and miles of skyscrapers with cranes on top of them. The real estate market was in a feeding frenzy. The Iraq war was increasing the price of oil. And all the while, the capital inflows were pouring into Dubai. It was a furious race to create the new capital of the Middle East. A peaceful, tolerant, and luxurious city. It was, and still is today, a symbol of hope for the region.”
Chase gave a polite smile as he washed down some falafel with a sip of scotch.
“Tell me, you have been to many places in the Middle East. Do you feel safe in all of them?”
He’d been shot at in four different Middle Eastern countries. “Sure. As long as I’m armed.”
Waleed smirked. “Well, let me ask you, do you feel safe in Dubai?”
Chase thought about it. “I do. It reminds me of a Western city. Clean and modern. Although this is more luxurious than almost any city in the West.”
“It is more luxurious than any city in the West. I’ve been to most of them.”
“You’re probably right.”
Waleed said, “I love this city. And I want to protect it. I raised my family here. My two sons know nothing other than the peace and prosperity of modern Dubai.”
Chase could feel that there was a tension in Waleed’s tone.
“The brilliance of Dubai’s design is the vision that our leaders showed. They knew that oil money could only take us so far. Someday, this world’s hunger for oil will dry up. Or the wells themselves will. When that happens, many cities, and even entire nations around this region, will suffer greatly. They are not prepared for that change.”
“But Dubai is?”
“Absolutely. Less than five percent of our economy is from oil income. The rest is from industries that are growing and bringing in the best and the brightest from all over the world. We have become self-sustaining.”
