Secret Skin

by Frank Coles

  The coffee table where I sat was littered with spent cups and disheveled newspapers. A stained headline on one of the free papers caught my attention: LONDON IS CAPITAL OF SEX SLAVE TRADE.

  I need never have left home.

  At one of the public internet terminals I signed into Skype, the web based telephone service they wouldn’t let you use in Dubai. The government monopoly on overseas calls meant stealth taxes came via your phone bill.

  I trawled the web for the numbers of editors I used to work with and rang around. The first two weren’t answering. I reluctantly called the third.

  ‘Yes,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘Charlotte, it’s David.’ I let that hang long enough for her to recognize my voice.

  ‘David,’ she said genuinely shocked. ‘Long time, stranger. You still having fun with camels?’

  ‘I’m at Gatwick Airport,’ I said.

  ‘Well get over here and let’s talk.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can. I think I might have to leave again.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake…what have you done this time?’

  ‘I’ve got a story, a government involved in prostitution and human trafficking with ties to money laundering and a property scam that will affect UK investors. Investors who also happen to be your readers.’

  ‘Do you have proof?’

  ‘Yes telephone and face to face interviews in mp3 format backed up online. Also some video of the pick up before a murder. I’ll email you transcriptions of the best quotes once my feet are back on the ground.’

  ‘Okay David, but why can’t you come to see me? We can bash this out together.’

  ‘Because as soon as this story gets out the people involved are going to crucify me with information they’ve manufactured to make me look like a pedophile.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ David. Is this going to come back and bite me in the arse?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m not sticking around to find out. I’ve been beaten to a pulp, I look a sight…our family name is about be dragged through the dirt again…maybe.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘You should never have gone out there in the first place.’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘You didn’t David; you were just running away from things like you always do.’

  I couldn’t find the right words to tell her otherwise.

  ‘Damn it. Write it up send it over, if it’s good and it’s a slow news day we’ll run it somewhere up front. If not who knows somewhere in the middle…800-1000 words, you know the format. Okay?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks sis.’

  ‘You should give the olds a call.’

  ‘I thought you were all business. Why would I want to talk to them?’

  ‘They say they worry about you.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  We said nothing. Brother and sister running through the images of our past. Thinking the same thoughts. Coming to the same conclusions. It was too late. We both knew it and sighed at the same time. She changed the subject.

  ‘Is it worth ruining your life again over another story?’

  ‘I hope so. It’s what I do.’

  ***

  When Charlotte put the phone down I prepared a package of links to copies of the recordings on a free one-size-fits-all server. Then I opened up another window and registered a new email account with fictional personal details.

  It would only be used for one message and it had to be anonymous. I searched for the right email address on the Dubai government website.

  From: anon123@umail.com

  To: ahtd@dubaipolice.ae

  Subject: Akbar’s killer

  FAO: Captain Khadim

  Click here for film showing the killer of M. Akbar and his abduction.

  In 48 hours this footage will be made public.

  I pressed send and logged out. If Khadim hadn’t already found a way to take care of Orsa this would give him what he needed. Unless something went wrong in the next 48 hours Sunset Heights was finished and so was the big Russian. Like a Dubai sheikh in the fast lane he’d never see this coming.

  Once Orsa was gone Newman should be able to relax. Khadim would still call me names in his magazine, but journalism was my business, what did he know about it anyway?

  In two days I was going to send the whole package to every news agency I could think of. Faisal, Orsa, Akbar, Lawrence and Khadim the whole sleazy pack of them.

  ***

  I walked into the first travel agent I could find in Departures and emptied my pockets.

  ‘There’s about five hundred quid there. I want the next flight out of here that I can afford. Where will that get me?’

  Her name badge said: Mandy, Travel Consultant. She examined me with a skeptical eye.

  ‘I had a bad accident,’ I explained. ‘Now I need a holiday. What do you have?’

  She hesitated then began typing quickly on her keyboard.

  ‘Let’s say four hours from now sir,’ she said with a soft Essex lilt that was surprisingly pleasant on the ears. ‘We’ve got Bangkok for 369, Jo’burg for 260, Nice for 150, LA for 299, St Petersburg for 400, as well as Rome, Paris, Prague and Alicante all for less than £100.’ She looked up at me with gaping baby blues, ‘Does any of that interest you sir?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I smiled, ‘All of them. Anything else?’

  ‘Well sir, for 320 including taxes, how about Dubai?

  ***

  I sat in departures with the only piece of luggage I had with me, a rolled up copy of Arabian Outlook. I unrolled it and started to read it through. Then I closed it again and examined the cover.

  The cover photo was of a man sat against the front bumper of a Dodge Viper, his legs pointed forward, arms at right angles to the headlights. It was a beautiful medium-format picture of a foreshortened figure crucified on a sports car. The headline read: DODGE THE TRAFFIC: How The Viper Saved My Life by Martin Newman.

  The man’s face looked familiar because it was my own. A picture taken while I was unconscious on Sheikh Zayed Road.

  ‘That scheming bastard,’ I said out loud and laughed.

  It was an ego-inflating picture that made me think unwelcome thoughts of angels and martyrs. We’d had them for thousands of years and still we repeated the same old mistakes, constantly living in other people’s pasts. It was time to move on.

  When they called my flight I left the magazine behind.

  ***

  From: Martin Newman

  To: Bryson

  Subject: Look what you did

  Bryson,

  See the teaser off the wires below. Khadim’s off my back, Arabian Outlook’s my own again. Don’t know what happened to your girlfriend but that tent sounds painfully familiar.

  Enjoying yourself?

  M

  ------ International News Group ------

  Newsbeat: WORLD

  DUBAI DECLARES WAR

  More than 300 arrests were made in a series of raids on 25 Dubai brothels early this morning. The crackdown represents the first stage of Dubai’s official ‘war’ on prostitution and human trafficking. This follows the recent arrest of a Dubai police captain and his cousin for their part in controlling vice activities in the city and their involvement in trafficking several hundred women and children.

  The scandal deepened when it emerged that the murdered uncle of the cousins, Mohammed Akbar, was one of two key figures suspected of money laundering through trouble hit property development Sunset Heights. His dismembered hands and decapitated head were found in an ice box on the side of highway 11 last week. The rest of his body has yet to be recovered. Police are treating his death as a gangland killing.

  A corpse later discovered in a remote Bedu tent is believed to be that of his business partner Vladimir Orsa, but investigators have so far been unable to make any positive identification. The rogue banker James Lawrence is still at large and police say they are following up a lead that may yet reveal his whereabouts.


  Read full article | Buy article

  The internet café where I read Martin’s email could have been anywhere in the world. One of those busy utilitarian rooms lined with computer screens where you knew that no one local was tapping at the keyboards.

  Dubai’s police were simply closing down the competition. Their war on whatever sounded just like all the other wars that governments declare in response to public outcry – a press release and a catchy headline were always quicker and cheaper than actually changing anything.

  My sister had been the first to run the story and it had snowballed from there. I wondered if she understood yet that I wasn’t running away from anything.

  I was chasing.

  It’s just a matter of perspective.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Frank Coles is a globetrotting writer based in the UK. He's edited two books, written three (as himself), been a contributing magazine editor, brand maker and copywriter and spent a decade in the TV and film business. His work has taken him all over Europe, the Middle East, SE Asia, North America and the Arctic Circle.

  He has his own NatGeoAdventure web channel, YouTube presence and blog. You can find all these and more at: www.frankcoles.com

  He finds writing author biogs in the third person a bit odd. He'd love it if you checked out his other books at http://books.frankcoles.com or the sample that follows.

  He's me, and I'd just like to say thanks for reading.

  BONUS CONTENT

  DARK MARKET (ASSASSINS RULE)

  A thriller by Frank Coles

  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING:

  "In the style of Lee Child." "Well worth a read."

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  "Right from the prologue it's like having the literary equivalent of a stun grenade thrown at your feet."

  Donal Elsted.

  "I stepped off the Tube this morning and walked to work fancying myself as some sort of covert operative. Note to self: I'm not a black ops special forces operative."

  Diccon Green.

  Prologue

  'And now my darlings,' the estate agent turned and spread his arms wide, 'the pièce de résistance.' The easy prey followed him into the room.

  Too many bankers and their dull grey suits today, the estate agent thought, not enough billionaire color. He'd strung these two along with his bitchy queen routine for far too long already. Although he didn't have to act too hard he had to admit.

  He watched the couple blink at the blinding summer light blasting in from the two-storey lounge windows behind him. Enough. He wanted their money. He wanted it now.

  'Come with me you lovely people,' he strutted between them, placed his hands on their backs, and moved them deeper into the sumptuous space. 'Could this glorious penthouse actually be yours? The views, oh, the views, are all money,' he said. 'Canary Wharf and Greenwich in one direction, and, in the other? A skyline to die for, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye, the bridges.'

  He pressed a button on a small white box, the shadows moved.

  'And there's the remote controlled skylights in every room, of course.'

  The ceiling wide array of mechanized blinds slid smoothly back to reveal a glass roof and ever more sky. They stood transfixed.

  'You've surpassed yourself,' the woman said. 'How soon-'

  The estate agent waved a finger, 'Oh no, my dear, it's not that easy. This is the palace for the kings of the castle. Residents approval only. But as I am the estate agent to the stars, for you, it shouldn't be a problem. You really won't believe who the neighbors are.'

  'Oh, Michael,' she said and gripped her partner's arm. 'It's what we've always wanted, isn't it darling?'

  The estate agent beamed at them. Skirt on the hook, it was time for the fat-cat in the oh-so-predictable striped shirt and pink tie. He turned his mascaraed eyes towards Michael, 'Come on, stud-muffin,' he gestured his head at the apartment, 'you know you want it.'

  Michael rocked on his heels, looked at her for a moment too long. The estate agent saw nothing nice in the man's eyes.

  'I want it? Sure Jo, it'll go with our town house, the country house, the yacht, the cars, the vineyard in France-' He shook his head.

  'Michael,' she said, a warning edge to her voice. 'That's the business, this, this is our place together. Our palace together.'

  'Yes, of course...my love.' He turned his back on her, puffed his chest, and addressed the estate agent. 'It's a cock-swinging joint alright. How much is it going to hurt?'

  Without warning she span Michael round and swung an open hand at his face.

  She pulled her blow at the very last moment, squeezed his jaw hard and glared into his eyes.

  The estate agent realized his mouth was open, closed it, and tried not to grin.

  The bitch slaps. And not playfully either. What must their life be like in private? The estate agent's smile disappeared at the sight of Michael's now defeated puppy dog eyes, searching for her approval.

  How disgusting.

  Time to close the deal.

  'Ah, my little passionistas!' he said. 'You really must see the rest of the apartment. Your manhood, Michael, will be so engorged by the time we're finished, there won't be any room to swing it. Pain is, as always, optional.'

  Deference over, the estate agent slid his arm though hers and escorted her away from the shirt.

  No rings on her paw, he noticed.

  Even if Michael had the money wouldn't she be the one to give him his commission? Wasn't that how it worked with heteros? Not that he knew first-hand, thank god. But what a commission it would be. The height of the boom, speculators flipping properties left and right, prices running away from all but the richest or most in debt. He'd sell this to them today and six months on he'd be reselling it to the next rung-hugging executive wannabes. Just like he was now.

  'Concierge service, valet, twenty-four hour security, private cinema, indoor and outdoor pool, you'll have it all.'

  He glanced back as they climbed the mezzanine stairs. Michael trailed behind and bit his lip. Adding up the big numbers in his commission the estate agent hoped.

  Then Michael's phone rang, an old-school-telephone ring tone.

  The woman squirmed on the estate agent's arm, craned her neck back, and shot her lover a warning look.

  Michael shrugged, not his fault. He glared at the caller ID.

  'Michael?' she said.

  The estate agent pulled her closer and they looked down on Michael together. Impatience exuding from their every pore. Michael glared at the ID again, then back at her, no hiding the anger this time.

  'It's the investigator,' he said.

  'Well?' she said, a parent talking to a child, 'Answer it.'

  Michael clicked the green button, 'What do you want?'

  She stroked the estate agent's hand, his skin crawled.

  'So, tell me,' she said, 'the neighbors?'

  'Of course Miss Devlin. But will he be alright?'

  She leaned in, making a co-conspirator of him.

  'Who cares?'

  The estate agent laughed, looked down at Michael pacing the floor - an explosive shade of red crept over the man's pasty white face.

  'He won't go on the carpet, will he?'

  'Oh, I shouldn't worry,' she said, 'he's very well house trained.'

  'In that case my dear, let me show you everything.'

  They heard Michael shout: 'Do you even know what you're doing?' and ignored him, until a cold rush of air swept through the apartment and up the stairs.

  The estate agent whipped round.

  'Please, be careful,' he said.

  Already too late, the wind tunnel of the Thames grabbed the balcony door from Michael's hands and flung it back. Michael stormed on to the balcony, his angry yells disappeared in the open air.

  The expensive glass door beat a threatening rhythm against the lounge wall.

  'I'd better close it,' the estate agent said.

  They cantered down the stairs arm i
n arm and heard Michael's shouts turn hoarse outside, saw him stamp back and forth, clenching and unclenching his spare hand.

  At the doorway the estate agent rolled his eyes so she could see, men hey?

  'Do you have any idea? Do you?' they heard Michael say to the investigator. Then the man's face dropped. 'Where are you getting this information?'

  Michael barged a way through showroom patio furniture, muttering into the phone. He headed for the corner of the building and clambered up onto the balcony wall. The only thing left between him and oblivion the thin metal rail along the balcony's edge.

  'Michael?' the woman said. The estate agent felt her arm drop.

  'Well, you know what?' Michael said, 'I'm actually really glad you called-'

  She ran through the thrashing door.

  'And you,' Michael looked back at her. 'Don't we have everything we need already? What more can you want? What more can I possibly give you?

  'Michael.' She pointed her finger to the deck. 'Come here, now.'

  He held the phone in front of his face, and, for the first time since entering the apartment, he smiled.

  'Are you listening?' he yelled into the mouthpiece.

  'Michael. Michael, no!'

  Michael stepped over the rail, hesitated, then toppled over the side, a smile still on his face.

  The investigator at the other end listened helplessly to Michael's, 'oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god-'

  It only stopped when the hard kiss of impact cut the call.

  THREE YEARS LATER,

  Middle East, Former Red Zone.

  Chapter One

  'Step out of the car,' Savage leaned from the front to the back seat, 'and I'll shoot you myself.'