Candleburn (10 page)

21

Nate Aspinal timed his approach to the glass-fronted building so that it coincided with a young Filipino man, who was trawling through his pockets looking for his pass.

At
eight storeys high, the offices of Kaskhar Industrial Enterprises were dwarfed by the larger surrounding monuments to Dubai’s prestige. In the Emirates, anything shorter than a third of a kilometre barely formed part of the skyline: even the spinnaker-shaped Burj al-Arab hotel clocked in at 323 metres, almost the same height as the Eiffel Tower.

Nonetheless,
the office, with its yellow-on-purple power logo “K:I:E”, represented a subtler testament to ego and ambition. The more Asp looked at it, low-slung and sleek like a crouching lion, the more he realised that it almost purposefully bucked the trend between the taller buildings.

“Here
I am,” Asp thought. “Where you can only afford to build to the sky, I can take the most expensive land in the country and own the earth.”

The
foppish youth swiped the doors open and Nate entered quickly behind him, storming purposefully past the security desk as though he had every right in the world to be there.

The
reception area was a curious meeting of granite and glass, mixed with the faintly Germanic styling of a Bavarian castle. Each level was double-height, another obvious power game, designed to make the visitor feel small in the colonnaded space.

“A
shrine to ego,” Asp thought.

Kaskhar
was a medieval baron, forging his place among the landed gentry.

Asp
strolled into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. It was by no-means certain that Kaskhar and Al Calandria were there, but given his observations of the man, it seemed a safe bet the Chief Executive’s office was on the top floor.

The
Filipino came in after him. He saw the sixth floor illuminated, nodded politely and faced the sliding doors.

“Off
to see the big boss?” he said quietly as the elevator began to move.

“I’ve
got an appointment,” Asp lied.

“He’s
a fascinating man,” the youth replied. “Sent an email around the office last week. Tomorrow’s his tenth wedding anniversary. He’s given everyone the day off in celebration.”

“That
so?” Nate said.

As
the Filipino reached his floor and began to leave, he turned and bowed his head deferentially. His jet black, ear-length hair flopped forward obscuring his eyes.

“Best
boss I ever had,” he said and scuffled away.

The
lift continued on its way.

Nate
wondered if his own employees were so polite when he wasn’t around.

He
grinned.

It
seemed unlikely.

***

Blake considered his options.

He
quickly scanned around his garage. Plastic dustbin with a flexible, rubberised lid. A small piece of pine shelving from a half finished Ikea bookcase. A cracked cat litter tray, from before they’d let box-cat out of the house. Some garden secateurs.

“Not
much of use here.”

He
could sneak around the back, through the communal parks, making his way to the rear garden. If he whistled for Jeffrey, there was a good chance the little stoat would come running. That said, he was a cat – while he often came when whistled for, if he had anything marginally more important to do, from sleeping to staying hidden from the strangers now rooting through his home – he could just as easily ignore any calls.

“So...
retreat?” Blake asked himself.

Blake
thought briefly of all the troubles he’d experienced since arriving in this town. If Dubai had taught him anything it was that appeasement just led his foes to take it as a sign of weakness.

No.

Fuck these people.

A
line had to be drawn.

And,
stupid as it seemed, it was here.

These
bastards weren’t keeping his cat.

22

The elevator pinged, metal doors sliding open to reveal a cavernous room.

“Wow,”
Nate found himself saying, unable to suppress the words before they left his lips.

It
was a museum.

Plinth
after plinth was arranged with suits of armour supporting knights in battle. Romanesque columns stretched up to a vaulted stone ceiling, providing a labyrinth in which some frozen trial of champions was in mid flow.

Asp
had never seen anything like it – not even in an English fortress or stately home. It was a magnificent collection, polished and perfected. Along one side, an Anglo Saxon shildburh, an interlocking shield wall, was prominently on show.

“Outstanding,”
he whispered.

“Can
I help you?” a voice called firmly from further down the display.

Nate
looked up.

“Asp?
What are you doing here?” the voice asked.

“Jakob?”
Asp replied, “I might almost ask you the same thing.”

Dr
Jakob Sangley – a consultant oncologist at one of the Emirates most exclusive private hospitals. He was a regular player at the monthly touring expat poker nights that oscillated between the houses of Nate’s friends. Jakob had one child at the same school as Ginny. His other had already graduated to boarding school in Durham.

“Dubai’s
a small place,” Jakob said. “You’re always tripping over people you know. Are you sure you’re in the right place? I thought Rasoul had cleared his calendar for the day?”

“Doctor
patient confidentiality, I understand,” Asp replied, nodding politely. “No, I’m here for Al Calandria. I presume they’re in the office. I’ll head on over.”

Jakob
flashed a look confusion.

“You’re
sure you’re supposed to be here?”

“How
the hell would I have got past all the security if I wasn’t?” Asp replied.

“Yeah,”
Jakob said, moving swiftly past Asp for the lifts. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. They’re in the usual spot in the corner. I’ll see you next Friday?”

“Sure,”
Asp replied, watching the doctor head for the exit. “See you Paul’s house next weekend!”

Asp
exhaled long and hard.

At
least he had a confirmation that Al Calandria was here in Kaskhar’s building. Now he had do decide how to handle the situation. Sure, he knew he’d get thrown out by security, or perhaps even picked up by the police – but how exactly did he stir the pot to bring something useful to the surface?

He
moved calmly between the pedestals, heading toward Kaskhar’s office. Getting closer he could see the Iranian leaning over his desk, weight on his knuckles like a gorilla, dressed in a Savile Row suit, talking sternly to a man in a dishdasha.

Hopefully,
the second person was Al Calandria.

Asp
stopped behind a mannequin of a medieval crossbowman, complete in leather gauntlets and iron bracers, crouching low behind a bright pavise – a painted convex full-body shield intended to protect archers from an enemy’s returned fire. The renaissance artwork on the pavise was stunning – resplendent in bold colours and depicting a crusading knight on horseback in full charge against a fleeing foe.

Asp
looked askance at the statue.

Dubai
was a broad-minded place but certain subjects were just asking for trouble: depictions of the crusades was an obvious one.

The
crossbow in particular was a magnificent working replica, fully loaded with a feathered quarrel. Making it would have cost thousands.

“What
the hell is going on here?” he thought.

He
settled in low and began to listen to the conversation.

“The project will continue regardless,” Kaskhar said. “Yes, I’ll be in Brasilia with my wife but I’ll be back in a few weeks. The engineers on the second floor will be able to push ahead without my presence.”

“Rasoul,”
Al Calandria replied, “There is a narrow window here. We have the government subsidy confirmed but with the financial crisis, if we don’t draw down on the cash, who knows if it’ll be rescinded. We’ve got to break ground before the end of the month.”

“That’s
exactly the point,” the Iranian disagreed, tapping his hairy fist on the desk. “The government’s committed. They’re not going to back away from us now.”

“Please,”
Al Calandria said. “Solar is a fashion fad. This country – I am intensely proud of her – but I’m also a realist: she was built on oil. Better to get things going before the winds change.”

“I’m
telling you,” Rasoul replied, “These cells are improving all the time. Efficiency is increasing 10 to 15% a year. If we keep going with the design and can stall the government just six months on actually starting work on the physical installation, we’ll make millions in extra profit. In the year between now and the time the photovoltaics are sunk into the ground, we’ll be looking at a plant that’s 20% more efficient than if we start today.”

Asp
shifted his position so that he could get a better view of the conversation, while still remaining obscured by the pavise. He looked through the taught drawstring of the crossbow, trying to eavesdrop further.

Al
Calandria leaned back in his chair.

“Twenty
percent?” he repeated sceptically.

“Seriously,”
Rasoul said. “That doubles the profit margin. All for simply waiting a few months on starting work. You can blame me for the delay if you like. They know we’ve been putting in an installation to work on the roof here – tell them the plant we have is going to be upgraded again to the next generation and you’re waiting for data to see if the new circuits will make a difference.”

“While
they’re bamboozled thinking we’re talking cooled electronics,” Al Calandria replied slowly, “we’ll be moving towards subbing in the Korean supplier over the Germans...”

“Exactly!”
Rasoul said triumphantly.

Asp
had heard enough. Their plans to build a solar power plant in the desert were of no concern to him. He stood and strode into full view.

Kaskhar,
heavy set, with the thick, grey streaked hair of a badger, raised his head.

“Can
I help you?” he asked.

“My
apologies, Mr Kaskhar,” Asp replied as he walked forward. “I urgently need to talk with Mr Al Calandria – by the way, I’ve been admiring your gallery here. There’s some amazing work, spanning the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy through to the Italian city states. Truly wonderful.”

Kaskhar
adjusted his glasses to fit more squarely on his nose. Nate could see dandruff cumulating in the Iranian’s bushy eyebrows.

“Thank
you, mister...?”

“Nate
Aspinal,” Asp replied. “Now Mr Calandria, I’ve had several of my employees killed by the Russian mafia in this city in the last few weeks – do you know anything about that?”

Asp
intently watched Al Calandria’s reactions – shock at the appearance of this stranger, mixed with confusion and disgust crossed his noble Arabic features.

“Who
the hell are you?” Al Calandria replied. “Rasoul, do you know this man?”

“I’ve
never met him before in my life,” the Iranian said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Actually,
that’s not entirely true,” Nate pointed his finger at Kaskhar. “We’ve met a couple of times at charity events – most recently, the benefit gala for Iraq.”

“Yes,”
Kaskhar replied, remembrance dawning on his face. “You work for that detective agency Chrome. I was considering hiring you a few years back in a dispute with business partners in Jordan. How did you get in here without an appointment?”

“Call
security,” Al Calandria said. “Or better still, the police.”

“I
don’t think you want to involve the police,” Nate said, joining them at the desk. “Like I said: two dead from my office in as many weeks, all working on a project that keeps linking to the Al Calandria family. What is your connection to the Russians?”

A
spark of recall in Al Calandria’s eyes; the faintest glimmer of dots connected.

“Rasoul,
call the police,” he said.

“I
think we can let our internal security handle this,” Kaskhar replied, dialling his phone.

“You
just made some connection, didn’t you?” Nate pushed. “What was it?”

The
flowing robes of his national dress billowed as Al Calandria stood for the first time. He jabbed a long aristocratic finger in Nate’s direction.

“I
am a patriot, Mr Aspinal,” Al Calandria said. “I too have heard of your seedy corporation of American spies – and let me tell you, your sort are not wanted in this country. When I leave here I will have personal words with our head of immigration and the ministry of economic affairs, demanding that your company is struck off and your workers are expelled.”

“That’s
not a denial,” Asp replied.

Two
overlarge men barrelled between the exhibits, charging elephants, towards the office.

“I
have nothing to do with the Russian jackals that plague this city,” Al Calandria replied. “And I can assure you that any link between criminal organisations and my family is an attempt at dragging our name through the mud. The great sheikh’s vision for Dubai will not be destroyed by vermin and half-caste bastards.”

Strong
arms grabbed Asp in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground.

“Well,
Mr Aspinal, it’s been a pleasure,” Rasoul Kaskhar said, as a hail of body blows struck Nate in the ribs.

As
he was heaved away, Asp managed to gain the breath to reply.

“Indeed,
I look forward to our next charity ball. We can discuss the relative merits of the mangonel to the ballista in siege warfare.”