“Back then you couldn’t cross a street because of the traffic. You had to take a cab from your hotel to the one directly across from you. The construction smog and the dust blown in from the desert created a permanent haze. The concepts of planning and land use or zoning are foreign to the Emirati. The entitlement process is essentially whatever the sheikh says it is on any given day. Everything is overpriced and the weather sucks.”
“Yeah,” Almeida said, “but a man can get a drink in the hotel bars here. Try that in Saudi Arabia or some of these other Arab shitholes.”
“That’s our resident redneck,” Thomas said with a playful grin.
“And that’s not all. Have you seen some of the half-naked, high-stepping Eurotrash pussy they got around here?” Almeida said.
“Got to give the Emiratis credit,” Thomas said. “For an Islamic culture, they tolerate a lot of Western vices.”
Stensen snorted. “Where there are vices, there’s money, usually a lot of it. These locals know what they’re doing.”
“Let’s go over the operation one more time,” Whelan said, sitting in one of the chairs at the dining table. Its seat pad was torn in a few places and heavily stained. The table and all six of the chairs surrounding it were badly scratched and marred. Three thousand a month, he thought, shaking his head.
The others slid into the remaining chairs and Whelan rolled out a map of the area. It was disguised to look like a map that Kirkland, as manager of several large properties, would use.
“One last time,” Whelan said, and placed his finger on the map. “We’re here.” He moved his finger in a southwesterly direction along Jumeirah Road, then west to the Burj Al Arab, a self-styled “seven star” hotel shaped like the sail of a ship. It was the most luxurious hotel in a town overflowing with them. Average room prices were in excess of thirteen hundred dollars per night. “The target is staying here.”
“He’s not shy about spending money, is he?” Kirkland said. “Whose is it?”
“The Saudis,” Whelan said.
“From the looks of his digs, the dude’s a wannabe player,” Thomas said.
“He’s more than wannabe,” Whelan said. “For all his rhetoric about imposing sharia law on the rest of the world, he likes his booze and Euro babes when he’s on R and R—discreetly, of course.”
“And how do you know that?” Thomas said.
Whelan just looked at him with a trace of a smile.
“Oh, yeah, Levell, of course. What was I thinking.”
“Hell, I think I like this guy,” Almeida said. “Sounds like my kinda guy.”
“He has your appetites,” Kirkland said.
“All right,” Whelan said, “tea time’s over. Let’s stay focused. We know where Shah’s staying, and we’ve ruled out hitting him there. It would be nearly impossible with the security forces, metal detectors, and physical searches at every entrance. Even coming in at night using SCUBA is too risky because of the private drones and infrared surveillance.”
“Helps explain why the hotel is so damn expensive. Lot of OPEX,” Kirkland said.
Larsen made a spinning motion with his right hand. “Let’s keep it moving.”
“Fortunately, Shah does his partying off campus.” Whelan moved his finger southwesterly along Al Sufouh Road to the Dubai Marina District. “A Saudi prince who’s helping fund Shah’s efforts keeps a yacht here.” His finger paused. “HUMINT indicates this is where he’ll be partying tonight. This is where we’ll hit him.”
“How reliable is the HUMINT?” Kirkland said.
“Cliff said it came from the head of Saudi intelligence.”
“The same Saudi prince who owns the boat Shah’s going to be on?”
“No,” Whelan said. He looked around the room at each of the other men. “This is what we've trained for. We get in and get out quickly, and deal with any contingencies on the fly. Questions?”
The other men remained silent.
“Levell, through an untraceable Mueller brothers entity, was able to arrange the lease of another yacht that moors next to the one Shah will be on. That yacht will pick Sven and me up at the Park Hyatt in Dubai Creek at twenty-two hundred hours. Twenty minutes later, we’ll pick Nick up at the Hilton Dubai Creek Hotel about three and a half klicks downstream. Then, about two klicks further on, we dock at the Sheraton and Quent comes aboard.” Whelan had traced the course along the map with his finger. He sat back and looked at the other men.
“And Kirkland and me, we just hang out in the clubs and party,” Almeida said with a wide grin.
There was no trace of a smile on Whelan’s face. “You’re not directly involved because your broken leg hasn’t healed sufficiently. Plus, you’re a fuck-up. Marc’s got the unenviable task of babysitting you. And both of you are backup in case things get out of hand.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “Some years back the Mossad whacked a Hamas leader in a hotel here. As good as the Israelis are”—he remembered Kirkland was Jewish and glanced at him—“they nearly got caught. Dubai is a target country, an enemy state from which there are no easy escape routes—and no friendly embassy to run to. Being caught means torture and either a protracted jail term or death. Remember, among other things, Dubai has ties to Iran. An Arab jail is the last place I want to be. Or on the wrong side of a beheading.”
Whelan shook his head. “This operation differs from the semi-botched Mossad job in 2010. For one thing, they used badly forged passports and supporting documents. Ours were created by the best techies on the planet hacking into various public and private databanks to create complete fictitious individuals indistinguishable from real ones, along with credit card records. For another, we’re not CIA, DIA, or other any other spy agency operatives who might be known entities compromised by facial recognition, fingerprints, or other data languishing on a hostile hard drive. After the mission, the same techies will completely erase all identities and credit card records from all sources. Because we’re unknowns, there is no fear of facial recognition technology.”
“Yeah,” Almeida said, “but we’re wearing disguises anyway. Why?”
“The hair styles, facial hair, sunglasses, ball caps, and other items allow us to change our identities immediately after the hit. So even if the authorities are looking for the ‘old us,’ we’ll have morphed into different identities post-op.”
Almeida nodded. “It’s always half of one and six dozen of the other.”
The other five men all looked at each other and smiled. Almeida’s malapropisms were legendary.
“I don’t know,” Stensen said. “Mossad agents were nearly apprehended for offing a Hamas leader here some years ago.”
Whelan said, “The Mossad was careless in its communication techniques. All calls between their operatives were patched through a phone in Austria. Once one of their operatives was compromised, his cell phone records were examined. That led to all of the other operatives. The Agency’s and NSA’s top tech people are with SAS. They make sure we stay ahead of the curve. In addition, way too many people knew about the Israeli operation. They brought twenty-seven operatives to Dubai.”
Kirkland shifted in his seat. “Are we sure Cliff is the only one, other than the six of us, who has all the pieces?”
“That’s what he told me. Cliff assured me that our cell phones are encrypted with algorithms that all the world’s supercomputers together couldn’t crack if they had an eternity to do so. And we’re using chained proxy servers located in countries all over the world. Some of those servers are mobile and are relocated continuously.”
“I still don’t like it,” Thomas said. “We don’t have proper comm gear for Marc and Rafe to monitor us. The exfil contingency plans suck. Most of all, we’re understaffed with only Marc and a peg-legged fuckup to back us up.”
“Okay,” Larsen said. “Forget the Israeli screw-up. I get that our situation is different from theirs. Now, we’ve been over this plan more times than I can count. We’ve scoped out the dock and Shah’s boat and our pick
up points and the route we’ll take to get to Shah’s boat. We’ve rehearsed the strike endlessly in simulated circumstances. And we’ve discussed the contingency exfil plans and the possibility of things going FUBAR. I’m getting hungry. Let’s eat and get the killing over with.”
Whelan grinned. Larsen’s appetite was continuous. He had a lot of bulk to feed. Whelan still laughed when he thought about all the trendy diets Larsen and his late wife had tried. One memory in particular always brought a wide grin. The Larsens had discovered a diet/nutrition product called Oxford Bar. It was supposed to be low in calories, but equal to the nutritional requirements of a single meal. One day, Larsen had pulled a half dozen Oxford Bars from a jacket pocket and said, “If one bar helps you lose weight, six ought to work even better.” He ate all of them.
“I’m with Sven,” Thomas said. “Let’s call it a wrap.”
“Seconded,” Stensen said.
“Okay. You know to leave here separately and at different times. Lay low until nightfall, then casually make your way to the pickup points. No indications of recognition. We’re all total strangers at this point.”
Chapter 35—Dubai
It was a typically warm, muggy May evening. The winds, variable from the northwest at about ten knots per hour,brought heat from the Arabian Peninsula and picked up moisture from the Persian Gulf, creating an air temperature of 95 degrees and a dew point of 75 degrees. The result was a heat index, or “feels like” temperature of 107 degrees. Whelan could feel the perspiration running down his back in rivulets. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. He looked across the small table at Larsen and saw the sweat running down his temples and beginning to drip from his nose. It splashed perilously close to the small teacup in front of him.
Both men were dressed casually, as if they were businessmen visiting Dubai and relaxing after the activities of the workday. They furthered that impression by engaging in a discussion about soccer, but referred to it as “football”. Their table was the closest one to dockside at the Park Hyatt on Dubai Creek. Both had ordered tea. Whelan had a nearly empty glass in his right hand, hoping the rapidly melting ice would have a cooling effect on his skin. Larsen had opted for the hot variety. He’d taken a couple of sips then stopped, as he realized that it only made the heat worse.
At precisely twenty-two hundred hours—ten p.m.—an Azimut 55 Flybridge motor yacht nudged into an available berth. Whelan and Larsen rose and, continuing their discussion, strolled casually to the ship and boarded.
An hour later, after making brief stops at other hotels along the creek to rendezvous with Stensen and Thomas, the vessel emerged from the jettied mouth of Dubai Creek and turned southwest.
Stensen had picked up an attractive young Serbian woman at the Hilton Dubai Creek Hotel as part of his cover. Mindful of the disastrous Mossad operation, the men assumed that an assemblage of rough, Western-looking men might attract interest from the authorities. But anyone observing Stensen would assume he was taking a date on a sightseeing cruise. The woman, two hundred euros wealthier, disembarked when the ship docked at the Sheraton to pick up Thomas, the last of the men to board. He was dressed in a boubou, the flowing, wide-sleeved robe worn by men in Senegal and other parts of West Africa. It was appropriate for his cover as a vacationing lawyer from Dakar.
Sixteen nautical miles took the ship from the mouth of the creek to its berth at the marina. The captain cruised at a speed designed to time their arrival for midnight. When they arrived in the marina, the captain and his crewman moored the ship in a space immediately in front of the yacht where Shah was partying, then quickly left.
Whelan and his colleagues had stayed below deck after boarding. They waited in the darkened ship for another hour, listening to the party noises coming from Shah’s boat. Whelan glanced at his watch a final time and said, “Thirteen hundred hours. Time to join the party.”
They had changed into tight-fitting, long-sleeved black tee shirts and black tights. Black camouflage face paint covered any exposed skin. Each man had a SOG M37N SEAL Pup Powder-Coated Combo Blade strapped to a leg in a nylon sheath. Each also carried a suppressed Glock 17 Gen4 9x19mm pistol. The weapons had been equipped with stainless steel firing pins and thoroughly wiped down with Rem oil to counter the effects of the salt water. They carried the weapons along with extra seventeen-round magazines in waterproof pouches slung around their shoulders.
With Whelan in the lead, they crept onto the deck and quickly slithered to the far gunnel. No bodyguards or sentries were visible on the docks or Shah’s yacht. That seemed odd to Whelan; still, the sounds of music, occasional snatches of conversations in Arabic involving male and female voices, and the clinking of cocktail glasses were indications of a party. He began to get an uneasy feeling.
One by one they slipped over the side of the yacht and into the dark water. As Whelan slid into the tepid, viscous liquid, he thought, So this is what swimming in a bucket of spit feels like.
Free diving, the men swam beneath the vessel they’d just left and surfaced under the dock. From there, they carefully picked their way among the pilings and crossbeams until they were beyond the stern of Shah’s boat. No one was on deck. Once again they dove, swimming beneath the hull of Shah’s vessel and surfacing near its dive platform. There, they pulled their Glocks from the waterproof pouches. Whelan glanced quickly at each of the other men. One at a time, they nodded. Swiftly, silently, Whelan hoisted himself out of the water and slipped over the transom onto the rear deck. He kept the Glock pointed toward the expansive, but empty, main salon, while his eyes constantly swept the ship, the dock, and the surrounding waters. The others followed quickly behind him.
The absence of partygoers troubled Whelan. It wasn’t lost on the others either. They each looked at Whelan. Stensen shrugged. Where was everybody? Whelan nodded and Thomas crept forward along the deck on the port side of the cabin. Larsen paralleled him on the starboard side. They met on the bow, where a hatch led to the VIP cabin below. Stensen scrambled soundlessly up the ladder to the flying bridge. It was empty. He rejoined Whelan and they edged silently through the main salon and helm station—masterpieces of teak and Italian marble. The passageway wound around loveseats in white full-grain leather. The two men crouched at the top of the steps that led to the sleeping quarters below. Whelan waited until his watch indicated exactly 1:10 a.m. He knew Larsen and Thomas, whose watches were coordinated with his, would begin descending through the forward hatch to the guest quarters below.
Something definitely was wrong. They had encountered no protective detail for Shah. It didn’t make sense that security would be stationed below deck. Intruders would be aboard before they could engage them. His uneasy feeling was joined by a tingling in the hair follicles on the back of his neck.
With Stensen immediately behind him, he crept down the steps to the door to the master cabin. The music and voices were louder now, coming from just the other side of the door. With a powerful kick, it burst open. Whelan dove in, with Stensen providing cover.
The cabin was empty.
Larsen and Thomas joined them, having swept the other two cabins.
“There’s no one forward,” Thomas said. “Where’d the voices and music come from?”
In unison, the four of them looked at the portable sound system sitting on a nightstand beside the circular bed in the master cabin. The sounds they’d been hearing emanated from it.
“Shit!” Whelan said. “We’ve been set up. Get out of here. Now!”
The four men literally flew up the companionway. But before they could reach the stern and the relative safety of the water, floodlights flashed on all around them, filling the moonless night with the glare of midday. Members of the Dubai police force swarmed along the dock, other yachts, and a number of police boats that had motored silently into the basin.
Chapter 36—Dubai
Despite their situation, Whelan was impressed with the efficiency of the Dubai police operation. Dozens of them had been concealed in
yachts moored around Shah’s vessel. Others had been hiding in various marina facilities. And there were the half dozen police boats that had slipped quietly into the basin and surrounded them.
Cops swarmed onto the yacht. Most wore the uniform of the rank and file—olive green shirt with a red band running under the left arm and looped through the epaulette, dark green beret with a golden badge depicting the logo of the police force, olive green trousers and black boots. The few female cops wore headscarves, in keeping with the dictates of Islam. The SWAT members carried an impressive array of weapons, including H&K MP5 sub-machine guns, Glock 17 pistols, and Ithaca 37 shotguns.
After the four men had been strip-searched and placed in restraints, they were taken off the boat and marched to a waiting police van. A paunchy man of medium height with piercing eyes and a carefully tended mustache stood beside it. His three-star insignia identified him as a lieutenant general, the rank of the chief of police and head of general security. As the prisoners were shoved into his presence, the general smiled—two rows of perfect teeth. Just like a shark.
“So, the Mossad did not learn its lesson last time,” he said.
“There’s been a mistake. We’re not Mossad,” Whelan said, trying to think of a plausible reason why four armed men would be on board someone’s yacht in the middle of the night.
The smile vanished from the general’s face. He nodded at one of the policemen. The man slammed Whelan in the side of the face with the barrel of his Ithaca 37, the riot version with a pistol grip. Whelan felt the skin split on his cheekbone and, for an instant, the lights went out. His knees buckled and he staggered sideways for a half step. The other three men lurched forward to try to brace him up with their shackled bodies. Instantly, the barrels of a number of guns were ground into their skulls.
The general stepped closer, his slightly curved nose only inches from the Irishman’s face, now bleeding profusely. “Yes, of course you are not Mossad.” His tone was smooth, almost unctuous. “Your actions tonight were far too amateurish for the Mossad. The Jews are sophisticated, if nothing else.”
Endanger Species: Part 3: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller Page 6
