Hot Blood (24 page)

‘Yeah, it’s a boom town at the moment,’ said Muller. ‘They reckon that a third of the world’s cranes are here. A couple of years ago the ruling sheikh allowed foreigners to buy places and the money has poured in. They plan to double the population over the next decade, and want to make themselves the financial and technological hub of Asia.’ He grinned. ‘The shopping’s good, too. Plus there’s booze and hookers. We send our guys here on R and R mainly because they flatly refuse to go anywhere else in the region.’

‘But Dubai is Muslim, right?’ said Shepherd.

‘Sure, but they’re pretty tolerant of other religions, and of Western ways generally. You can drink here though alcohol licences are always tied to hotels. This is as liberal as it gets in the Middle East. Westerners are queuing up to buy property, but there’s a lot of Arab investment money coming in, too.’

‘It’s got to be a risk, though, hasn’t it?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Infidels living in a Muslim country? I thought that was what the
jihad
was about.’

‘I wouldn’t buy here,’ agreed Muller. ‘Allowing foreigners to buy land was a whim, and they could just as easily change their minds.’

‘I was thinking terrorism,’ said Shepherd. He indicated a line of crane-festooned tower blocks to their left. ‘I can’t see the likes of Iran and Syria wanting hordes of Europeans and Americans setting up here. The shopping malls and hotels would be perfect for suicide-bombers.’

Muller twisted around in his seat. ‘Exactly my thoughts,’ he said. ‘Although there are rumours that serious money is being paid to keep the place terrorist-free.’

‘They’d do that?’

‘Why not? Dubai’s all about business. Besides, the Brits had an unspoken arrangement with the fundamentalists for years, you know that. They were allowed to pass through London, even to live there, so long as they didn’t shit on their own doorstep. It used to drive our State Department up the wall. It was only after the bombings on the Tube that your lot clamped down. What they’re doing here is no different. No one wants to rock the boat because they’re too busy making money.’

They drove down the al-Shindagha tunnel, which cut under a creek that divided the north of the city from the south, then emerged into the night. To their right was the blackness of the Persian Gulf, dotted with the navigation lights of passing ships. They drove past Port Rashid, then the Dubai dry docks, following the beach road south. Although the city had first-world roads and cars, driving standards were definitely third world, with little attention paid to keeping in lane, and most drivers pounded on their horns to proclaim their right of way.

‘We’re coming up to Jumeirah,’ said Muller. ‘It’s not quite Millionaire’s Row but it’s where the wealthy expats live.’ He unfolded a map and held it up against the dashboard.

Ahead, they could see a huge steel and glass structure shaped like the sail of a ship, on an island three hundred metres or so offshore. A gently curving causeway linked it to the mainland. It was the tallest building for miles, and easily the most impressive. As Shepherd watched, the lights illuminating it gradually changed from green to blue. ‘Wow,’ he said.

‘Yeah, it’s one hell of a thing, isn’t it?’ said Muller. ‘It’s the Burj Al Arab, designed to look like the sail of a dhow. It’s a thousand feet high, the tallest hotel in the world, pretty much the most expensive, and allegedly has seven stars, although that’s really just PR bullshit. But cheap it isn’t. Pretty much everything is gold-plated, they ferry guests from the airport in white Rolls-Royces, and you get your own personal butler.’

‘We’re not staying there, are we?’ asked Shepherd. ‘My credit cards are almost maxed out.’

Muller laughed. ‘I figured we were on a budget,’ he said. ‘We’re in the Hyatt, back near the airport.’

Halim turned away from the beach, past the wall of the city zoo, and headed east along a road lined with huge villas. ‘We’re coming up to it,’ said Muller, running his finger along the map. Halim indicated left, and turned into a side-road. He slowed the Land Cruiser to walking pace. Muller pointed to their right. ‘The white villa with the blue roof,’ he said.

The house was two storeys high, with large balconies on the upper floor. It was surrounded by a white wall, about ten feet high, and through an ornate barred gate they saw a black Mercedes and a green Jaguar XJS parked in front of a fountain.

‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.

‘Two or three million dollars’ worth,’ said Muller. He motioned for Halim to drive faster. ‘Fariq’s in business with a couple of local wheeler-dealers. One of them’s a minor member of the royal family, which opens a lot of doors out here. Locals have to be in partnership with every foreign business that opens up, but having a royal on board makes things a lot easier.’

‘I didn’t see any CCTV,’ said Shepherd.

‘There isn’t any,’ said Muller, settling back in his seat as Halim accelerated down the road. ‘Security’s minimal. There’s almost no crime in Dubai. It’s pretty much a police state. They keep tabs on the entire population, local and expatriate. The locals don’t need to steal and the expats are here to work. There aren’t many muggers or robbers, and those there are get caught pretty quickly. So, no armed guards, no CCTV, just a basic alarm system, and I doubt he even switches it on most of the time.’

Halim drove back towards the airport, and fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Bellboys in long grey jackets rushed over to carry in their bags. Muller insisted on taking the two metal cases himself.

Halim handled registration, then went outside to wait with the SUV while the three men headed for the lifts. The Major and Muller were on the ninth floor, and Shepherd was on the twelfth. ‘I’ve got a suite so let’s do the briefing there,’ said Muller. ‘Say, fifteen minutes?’

‘Fifteen it is,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll ring round and tell the guys.’

Muller and the Major got out of the lift and Shepherd went on up. His room was a decent size with a view over the sea. A coaster-sized metal disc with an arrow pointing to Mecca was stuck to the window sill. It was the only indication that the room was in an Islamic country.

Shepherd had a quick shower and shave, then headed down to Muller’s suite.

Armstrong, O’Brien and Shortt were already there, sitting at a dining-table and watching Muller stick a large satellite photograph on to the wall. A red arrow pointed at a walled villa. ‘This is Fariq’s house,’ said Muller. ‘Eight bedrooms, swimming-pool, servants’ quarters, garaging for four cars.’ He rattled off the details like an estate agent.

‘The servants live in?’ said Shepherd.

‘A man in his sixties drives Fariq around during the day and acts as a watchman when he’s out of town,’ said Muller. ‘The man’s wife does the housework and cooks if needed. According to my guys, the old man has a hearing aid that he takes out when he’s in bed, and the wife’s an early riser so she’s usually asleep by ten.’ Muller ran his finger along a wing that jutted out of the left-hand side of the house. ‘They have three rooms here, above the garage. Their bedroom overlooks the main road so they can’t see the rear garden.’

‘But their wing has access to the main house?’ said Shepherd.

‘A small staircase leads down from their sitting room into a hallway. From there, there’s a door into the garage, then another that leads into the kitchen of the main house.’

Muller took half a dozen photographs from a manila file and stuck them on to the wall in a vertical line beside the first. The top one showed Fariq bin Said al-Hadi. Below that they saw a woman in her mid-thirties, taken with a telephoto lens. Muller tapped it. ‘This is the wife, Fatima. She’s almost always at home.’ The three other photographs were of two teenage boys and a younger girl. ‘These are his children. The two boys are at boarding-school in the UK. The girl is at home. She’s seven.’

‘No guns?’ asked Shepherd.

‘No permits have been requested, so any guns in there would be illegal. But Fariq is just a businessman, no reason to have a gun.’

‘Lucky for us, right enough,’ said O’Brien.

‘What about our weaponry?’ said the Major.

‘I know you Brit special forces prefer the Browning Hi-power but they’re few and far between in Asia,’ said Muller, as he walked to one of the metal cases. He swung it on to the table and clicked open the combination locks to reveal four Glock automatics and a dozen magazines. ‘Are you okay with these?’

‘Glocks are fine,’ said the Major. He pulled one out and checked the mechanism, then looked down the sights. ‘Besides, the idea isn’t to shoot anybody.’

O’Brien took out another and handed it to Shortt, then gave one to Shepherd.

‘So I don’t get one?’ asked Armstrong.

Muller grinned and opened the second case. Inside was a Taser. ‘I figured something non-lethal might be of more use,’ he said. He handed it to Armstrong. ‘Effective up to twenty feet but ideally you make contact at ten. I’m sure you know the drill. Two prongs shoot out and the perp gets enough current to drop like a stone.’

Armstrong weighed the Taser in his hand. ‘I’ve used one before,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ve been hit with one.’

‘Get away,’ said Shepherd.

‘Did a non-lethal weaponry course a year or so back,’ said Armstrong. ‘Part of the deal was that we all had to experience the products on offer.’

‘Did it hurt?’ asked Shortt.

‘What do you think?’ replied Armstrong. ‘It hurt like hell. You just go into spasm and feel like you’re dying, but you’re not, and half an hour later you’re fine. But John’s right – you drop like a stone and you don’t even think about getting up until it’s switched off.’ He grinned and pointed the weapon at Shortt. ‘Wanna give it a go, Jimbo?’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Shortt.

‘Yeah, but until you’ve tried it for yourself . . .’

‘When you two ladies have finished, I’d like John to get on with his briefing,’ said the Major.

Armstrong put the Taser back into its case, and O’Brien, as usual, picked up a sandwich.

Muller pointed at a photograph of the rear of the house. ‘The wall here is only overlooked by one other house. Halim took a look yesterday evening and he tells me it’s empty. We go over the wall here,’ he tapped the picture, ‘and we’re straight into a clump of date palms that runs almost up to a conservatory next to the pool. We should be able to get access through the conservatory and the chances are that the door into the house will be open.’

‘That’s a gamble, isn’t it?’ said Shortt.

‘Like I said, Dubai is almost crime-free. Most people leave their doors unlocked. But we can cut the phone lines first and I’ve got a mobile-phone jammer, so we can always break in if need be.’ He opened an architect’s drawing of the villa.

The Major grinned. ‘How did you get that?’ he asked.

‘Fariq’s villa is a standard design – there’s a hundred of them in the city.’ He stuck it on to the wall. It showed the ground and upper floors of the house, and a front, rear and side view. He pointed to the rear of the left-hand side of the house. ‘This is the master bedroom,’ he said. ‘Fariq will almost certainly be there.’

‘With his wife?’

‘I assume so,’ said Muller. ‘Arab married couples generally sleep together, but if she’s in a different room it’ll probably be this one at the back.’

‘Both overlook the rear garden and the conservatory,’ said Shepherd.

‘But the palms will provide cover,’ said Muller, ‘and there are heavy curtains at the windows.’

The Major studied the drawing. ‘So, Spider and I will go in through the conservatory. Martin, you and Jimbo skirt round the house to the front door in case anything goes wrong. Billy, you open the front door while Spider and I check the ground floor and move to the stairs. Once we’ve secured the ground floor, Spider and I will go up first, Jimbo and Martin following. Billy, you move to the kitchen just in case Mr and Mrs Driver sleepwalk.’

‘And where exactly will I be while this is going on?’ asked Muller.

‘With respect, John, you’d get in the way. We’ve all worked together before.’

‘Well, fuck you very much,’ said Muller, folding his arms and glaring.

‘Like I said, with respect,’ said the Major. ‘You’ll be more use with the vehicles. We don’t want too many of us in the house. I need you outside, to check that everything is as it should be. If there’s a siren, you’ll know if it’s a cop car or a fire engine. If you see a patrol go by, you’ll know if it’s routine or not. Anyway you’ve got a business here. If anything goes wrong, you’ve got far more to lose than we have.’

‘Geordie’s my man,’ said Muller.

‘He’s our man, too,’ said the Major.

The Sniper’s weapon was a 7.62mm Dragunov SVD Sniper Rifle. It had a distinctive wooden stock with two cut-out sections and a chunky ten-round magazine jutting from the bottom. It had originally been used by a Russian sniper in Afghanistan, but he had been killed by the Taliban and the weapon was used to shoot dead more than a dozen Russian soldiers before it made its way to Iraq and ended up in the hands of Qannaas, the Sniper.

The Dragunov had been built for one purpose: to kill at a distance. It came equipped with a bayonet but from the day in 1965 when the rifle was first produced, by Evgeniy Fedorovich Dragunov, no one had ever been injured, let alone killed, with it. It was a sniper’s weapon, pure and simple. The Sniper had a copy of the manual for it, which he had paid a teacher to translate from Russian into Arabic. The manual claimed that the rifle was accurate up to one thousand metres but the Sniper knew that was Russian hyperbole. It was only accurate to about six hundred metres and the Sniper preferred to engage his targets at less than half that distance.

He laid the rifle on the table and stroked the polished wooden stock. It was shorter than that of most American sniping rifles because it had been designed for use by Soviet soldiers who often fought in cold climates and wore bulky clothing. The gun had been well designed but, like most things made during the Communist era, the workmanship and materials were less than perfect and the weapon required constant maintenance and cleaning.