Candleburn (8 page)

17

Asp and Zain walked calmly along behind the bearded Russian listening to him try and soothe the naggings of his mistress.

“You
are being cheapskate bastard,” she said. “I don’t want trip to shitty Sharm El Sheikh. You take your wife to Seychelles. I want Bali.”

“I
know you do,” Fedor replied, “but I can’t take the time off work right now. We can go in a month. Things are busy.”

“You
tell Al Calandria that they work you too hard,” she said, fawning as they strolled together towards the palm-edged waters of the marina.

Asp
missed the next piece of the conversation. The forest of towers surrounding the many artificial inlets created a network of wind tunnels, specifically designed to generate both cool breezes and keep the relaxing sound of the water lapping gently against the boats and piers ever present in the air.

Asp
picked up the pace.

“Excuse
me,” he called out.

Fedor
Milanovich turned with a start.

“Mr
Milanovich?”

“I
think you have me confused with someone else,” the Russian replied.

“No,”
Asp said. “I did think so when I saw you walking arm in arm with Carlotta here, rather than your wife, but it’s definitely you Fedor.”

“You
know this fool?” Fedor asked his mistress.

Horror
on Carlotta’s face.

Quick
denials.

“No,
she doesn’t Fedor,” Asp said. “But we know her and we know you.”

“You
won’t be knowing anyone for much longer if you don’t fuck off,” Fedor said, releasing his hand from his mistress.

“You
mean like you dealt with two of my colleagues?” Asp said.

Recognition.

“You’re the chucklehead who runs Chrome,” Fedor smiled. “You need to keep your dwindling workforce out of my business.”

“Thank
you for the confirmation,” Asp said. “You heard that, didn’t you Zain?”

“Sure
did,” Zain replied.

Fedor
balled a fist and bounced forward.

“Hitting
a passerby in public in Dubai?” Asp said. “Guess the Russian mob must be getting more and more stupid as time goes by.”

“It’s
the good living,” Zain agreed. “Fat of all those expensive steaks clogs the brain.”

“Absolutely,”
Asp agreed. “Especially since that stupidity has made it so easy to get photos of him with his floozy. I’m sure Mrs Milanovich will enjoy the pictures.”

“Particularly
the ones of what they get up to behind closed doors,” Zain agreed.

Fedor’s
eyes narrowed.

“What
do you want?”

It
was a good question. Asp had no idea how to proceed. He hadn’t expected such an easy question so soon. And, truth be told, he had absolutely no idea what he wanted other than to know exactly why his men were turning up dead in seedy motel rooms.

“You
know what I want,” he replied, hoping the generic reply would gain information.

“Carlotta,”
Fedor said, “piss off.”

The
girl protested. Fedor gave her a stare that would kill an ox. With a clickity clack of heels across the walkway, she stormed off in the direction of the shopping mall. Nate had no doubt Fedor would later discover that this afternoon had cost him dearly.

“You
come to me and threaten me in front of my woman,” Fedor said. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Asp
gazed blankly at Zain.

“Do
you know who he is?” he asked.

“Apart
from the head of the Russian mob in Dubai?” Zain replied. “Not a clue.”

“That’s
right, yes,” Asp spat. “The Russian mob. Fedor, tell me what I want to know.”

Fedor
stared at them both.

A
female runner out for her afternoon exercise wheezed past, headphones in ears, her Lycra skin-tight suit swishing as she moved.

“You
have nothing,” Fedor said slowly. “You’ve got no idea what’s going on.”

“That’s a shame,” Asp said. “I guess we’ll just have to go and discuss this with old man Al Calandria, then.”

Fedor
twitched. He recovered quickly though, his stance getting more aggressive.

“Good
thought,” Zain agreed.

“Of
course,” Asp said. “We’ll be sure to mention that you pointed us in his direction.”

“You
listen to me,” Fedor said, “If I ever see the two of you again, it will be as I sink your bloody bodies into the bottom of the ocean. That goes for both of you – Mr Nate Aspinal and you Mr Mehr Zain.”

With
that, he backed away cautiously and began to pace after his mistress.

“Was
that even helpful?” Zain whispered.

“Very,”
Asp said.

“In
what way?”

“First
– we know it was the Russians or someone connected to them that killed our men,” Asp said. “So they’re up to their necks in this Ash-Shumu’a nonsense. Second – we need to talk to Al Calandria. That woman used his name and it makes sense that they need an Emirati to keep them on the right side of the establishment.”

“And
you think that just because Fedor’s mistress used the Al Calandria name, that that’s their connection?” Zain said. “That’s weak, Asp.”

“I
had some dealings with these guys six months ago on another case,” Asp said. “I never could pin down exactly who the Russians’ sponsor was – but Al Calandria’s name kept cropping up.”

“Seriously?”
Zain replied. “I know the Calandrias are one of the least prosperous of the major Emirati families but still, I’ve met Wadi Bin Asha Al Calandria. He’s a vehement UAE patriot and an honourable man. You’d think he’d keep well clear of criminal ties.”

Asp
shrugged.

He
had to agree with Zain. One of the reasons he hadn’t pursued the rumours the last time he’d come across them was the most obvious: money. If Al Calandria was connected to the Russian mob, the raw cash that the association should generate would be enough to propel him from being one of Dubai’s relatively-poorer wealthy families to being in its mid-tier.

“Well,”
he said, “Right now, we’ve got nothing. At the very least, let’s shake the tree and see what falls out.”

“And
hope it’s not another dead body,” Zain replied. “So how are we going to find out where he is?”

“Dubai’s
only two million people big. Someone will know someone who has his schedule for the day,” Asp said. “What do you think I employ a whole office full of people for?”

“Well,”
Zain said, “I was beginning to worry it was to keep this town’s flop houses with a fresh supply of corpses for their bathtubs.”

Nate
gave him a withering look.

“Too
soon?”

“Way,
way too soon.”

18

Blake was driving his Audi A4 along Dubai’s main connecting road.

Too
much stress.

The
Alice situation was clouding his judgement. He couldn’t think straight. He knew some part of his brain was working on the puzzle box, its contents and what it all meant – it was just how things were.

He
spotted patterns others didn’t see.

Always
had done, always would.

But,
right at that moment, his brain felt dull, almost as though half of it was still asleep. He pulled at the tie around his neck. It was already loose and his top button was undone. So why did he feel like he was suffocating?

“Come
on,” he muttered. “What’s the pattern? You know it’s here. You can feel it.”

His
mind’s ability to spot things that were out of place – a breath taken in the wrong part of a sentence, a phone ringing too many times before being answered – this was why when he made the transition into a new line of work, he’d chosen reporting.

He
knew his skills would allow him to deliver.

“Clear
your mind,” he thought. “Empty it of all the noise.”

He
refocused on the road.

In
many ways, Dubai’s street system bore a striking resemblance to any major American metropolis. Three large motorways ran parallel to one another and the coast, each bigger than the last as they moved inland.

This
street, the Shiekh Zayed Road, snaked in one form or another all the way from the border with Oman’s Musandam exclave in the north, through almost every Emirate in the UAE, to the Western border with Saudi.

When
they’d built the highway, five lanes going each way linking one small desert city after another, the world looked on with bemusement: the rulers of the Emirates had to be insane.

What
did these tiny cities need such a massive superhighway for?

Such
was the success of the Sheikhs’ vision as they crafted a new economy, one less reliant on oil, that scarcely fifteen years later the road was almost always choked with traffic.

It
simply wasn’t big enough.

Hence,
they built the two other, even wider by-passes further from the coast. By the time you reached the outermost and newest, the E611 was twenty lanes wide.

Blake
pulled his car in to the hard shoulder of the road, lowering two wheels onto the sand that ran alongside. As his mind tumbled over the UAE’s road network, a thought was brewing in his subconscious. It was half formed and ethereal like the swirl of smoke from the tip of one of his cigarettes.

He
grabbed his packet of menthols and opened the car door. A truck whipped by, the sudden vacuum almost sucking him under its wheels. His hair ruffled as air rushed to refill the void.

Blake
didn’t notice.

He
gingerly stepped around the vehicle to the comparative safety of the sand bank. He withdrew a single stick from the packet and lit it, cupping his hand over the end to protect it from the strong wind formed by the traffic.

Roads.

The UAE was full of them. Something about thinking of the motorways that lined the country had set him thinking of a comment back at Qasid’s house. If the butts hidden in the puzzle box had been American, it would be fair to assume they came from a US military base.

Blake
breathed deeply, inhaling acrid blackness into his lungs.

His
brain bubbled like a cauldron. An idea brewed. Somewhere, somehow, some inner working of his mind had already solved the jigsaw in front of him. But his head felt heavy and clouded.

Damn
Alice.

“Come
on,” he said, rubbing his skull. “Refocus yourself. Where were you? Military. Americans... Al Ain?”

Here
in the UAE, if it was US and military, it probably meant the Air Force base at Al Ain – a facility that was one of the worst kept secrets in the region. Although no-one would ever admit it existed the entire world knew it was there.

Every
six months a press release would come from a company that won a jet engine servicing order or catering contract that was signed by one branch of the US military or another.

Around
once a fortnight, when Blake had insomnia, he’d go out into his garden at 3 or 4 in the morning and craftily sneak a night time smoke. He’d watch the giant, black equilateral triangles, silhouetted against the cloudless skies, three lights on their undersides as they buzzed in from across the desert to Dubai’s south. The only thing out that way for a thousand miles was Al Ain and the alleged military air strip that no-one would admit was there.

“Cigarettes
and military. Planes. Flying,” Blake half whispered. “What’s the connection?”

He
took another deep gasp of nicotine. A sudden rush of blood to the head, he felt dizzy and leaned forward on the Audi. The metal was scorching, sending signals of pain through his skin.

Searing.
Burning.

The
planes would dance and turn overhead, humming low over the houses; the beacons underneath them brighter than the beams of lighthouses, their engines quieter than listening to a car drive-by a street away.

He
gulped at the cigarette, almost willing the smoke he imbibed to fuel him with answers.

Blake
relished watching those planes. He could understand why rednecks on the back bayous of Alabama or Mississippi mistook the newest stealth aircraft for UFOs. They twisted in tight circles – not like normal aircraft. Those, you could see in the sky all day and night going back and forth, landing at any of the country’s mega-hub airports.

No,
the stealth bombers Blake watched from his garden banked too tightly. Almost like helicopters.

A
light clicked somewhere in Blake’s mind. He was closer to his thought. Helicopters. Military. Not the US – the cigarettes were British. But there were no British bases in the UAE. The nearest thing was a United Nations operation out of Ras Al Khaimah in the north – the one he’d planned to do a story on – but they were using Nigerian and Canadian troops at the moment.

Blake
stopped.

“Okay
– forget the UN,” he said, sucking the last few puffs from the dying embers of his cigarette. “I’m looking for British military in this region – that’s mainly Iraq and Afghanistan. Well – that’s okay because all of the goods in and out of Afghanistan pass through the UN base in RAK... Afghanistan has no sea borders, all goods are flown in through the UAE. If the puzzle box is from Afghanistan – that solves why it’s ended up here.”

“So
now, I need the link towards flying – maybe helicopters or stealth planes.”

He
held high the butt of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, scrutinizing it for answers.

“And
I want DNA. Someone who I am willing to steal cigarette butts from to get their DNA...”

His
voice trailed off.

“Shit
,” he muttered.

He
knew he had the answer but his brain had been burned out like the smouldering butt in front of him. Blake lit another of his own and wearily climbed back into the car.