Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (26 page)

‘Good evening, I’m here for Mr Karim.’

‘Are you Mr Adam?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘Come in, sirrrr. Mr Karim is waiting for you
in the garden.’

As I followed her through the house, I felt
like I had just stepped into the Palace of Versailles. There were columns and
urns and tapestries everywhere, and the marble floors were polished to
perfection. The housemaid led me out to the vast grounds at the rear of the
mansion, where Karim was sitting in a gazebo watching the biggest television
set I had ever seen. I assumed he hadn’t noticed me, so I quietly took a seat
and waited.

‘...There is growing concern that the US
housing market is overheating and a major correction is expected by analysts...’
announced the news anchor.

‘You know what the West’s problem is?’ Karim asked
suddenly. It seems he had noticed me after all. ‘They borrow too much freaking
cash. They don’t work hard any more, they don’t make things. Instead they just
consume and they get into debt. And you know what, now it’s catching up with
the bastards.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ I answered.

‘How are you, pal? Thanks for coming over.’

‘No problem, Karim. Are you ready to leave?’

‘Not yet. Give me half an hour, I’ll be back shortly.’ 

Karim eventually emerged dressed in a white
suit, dark shades and white slip-on shoes without socks. His hair had been blow-dried
and he smelled like an Old Spice commercial, an Arabic John Travolta.
I had never seen an Emirati wear anything other than the traditional
dishdasha
, so the transformation came as a shock.

‘So where we goin’, buddy?’ he asked as our
driver pulled out of the gates.

‘Well, I thought we could perhaps grab a bite.
I booked a table at a great steak restaurant in the Royal Mirage hotel.’

Karim looked unimpressed. ‘Steak? C’mon man, it’s
Friday night. I don’t wanna spend the night eating steak. I want to party!’

I wasn’t sure what a man of Karim’s age and
position meant by ‘party’, but I was certain I was about to find out.

‘Sure. Whatever you want to do,’ I replied reluctantly.
I was actually rather hungry. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘There’s only one place on a Friday night in
Dubai, my friend.’ He leaned forward and shouted at the driver. ‘Hey, driver,
turn around. We’re going to Plastik.’

Located on a discreet stretch of beach around
twenty minutes outside Dubai, Plastik was an ultra-chic beach club for the society
elite. Modelled on the famous Nikki Beach in Miami, it was a self-proclaimed
playground for the ‘filthy rich and aesthetically perfect’. If Dubai was a city
obsessed with its image, then Plastik was its epicentre – a temple for gold
diggers and sugar daddies to worship at the shrine of vanity. The club was accessible
by car, helicopter and yacht and its exclusive clientele was an eclectic mix of
supermodels, rich kids and Russian and Arab playboys, with pockets full of cash
and sex on their minds.

It was just before sunset and things were
already in full swing. As we pulled up at the entrance, we passed a parade of
Lamborghinis, Ferraris and Aston Martins. We strolled up the red carpet and
into the club. Super-tanned Barbie-doll wannabes and muscular guys with
signature six packs danced around the pools and on the beach as the DJ spun
funky house tracks on his decks. There was a giant hot tub in the centre of the
club, where girls in tiny bikinis sipped champagne, while guys posed at the
neon-lit bar, competing for their attention.

‘Now this is what I’m talking about, man,’ said
Karim, unable to contain his excitement. He danced up to the bar and began to
eye up a cute, leggy blonde. He didn’t waste any time and moved in for the
kill.

‘Hey, darling, you look like you’re having a
good time.’ She responded with a seductive smile, although I was sure she was
more interested in his solid gold Rolex. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Alexa,’ she replied in an Eastern European
accent.

‘Wow, Alexa, I would bet you are a model. I am
correct?’

‘Yes, you are correct. You want to buy me a
drink?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Sure, what are you drinking?’

‘I will have a zero cocktail.’

‘A zero cocktail?’

‘Yes.’

Karim looked baffled. ‘What is a zero cocktail?’

‘Zero calories.’

‘I see. So that’s how you keep that incredible
body looking the way it is. Hey, barman, two zero cocktails right here. Buddy,
you want a zero cocktail too?’

‘Sure,’ I replied.

‘Barman, make that three zero cocktails. We are
all looking after our weight!’

Soon after the drinks arrived, Alexa took Karim
by the hand and led him to a sun lounger so they could be alone; I decided to
keep my distance and stay by the bar. As they sat flirting and chatting, Karim
began caressing her thigh, which she didn’t seem to mind. They were clearly getting
on swimmingly.

The moon was in full view now and the
atmosphere had changed from a chilled-out beach lounge to a full-on rave. The
music became louder and the crowd was getting more intoxicated. Many of the
revellers were crowded around a group of Russian businessmen at a table in the
centre of the club. The men, all dressed in white trousers, loafers and
designer shirts, handed out glasses of champagne to the girls who danced
seductively around them in tiny string bikinis.

Karim suddenly jumped up. ‘Let’s get the party
started!’ he shouted, rushing towards the empty table next to the Russians with
Alexa on his arm. ‘Waiter, bring us a jeroboam of champagne!’

The giant bottle required two huge barmen to
bring it to the table, and immediately beautiful girls crowded around us, like
moths to a flame. Suddenly, our table had become the focal point of the club,
and Karim was revelling in the attention. Some of the girls from the Russians’
table defected to ours, and they didn’t seem too pleased with this shift in the
balance of power.

As they looked on with disdain, Karim stood on
the table and began to dance while the growing crowd around us released a giant
roar. The tribal house music felt like a cult-like chant and Karim looked down
like a deity, revered by the adoring worshippers below. He lifted the jeroboam
over his head and began to shake it vigorously as the crowd screamed their
approval. With a twist of his fist, the giant cork flew high into the night sky,
followed by a gush of champagne that drenched everyone within a five-metre
radius. Some of the spray caught the Russian men and they got up in anger. One
of them grabbed an unopened bottle of champagne and shook it violently, before
spraying it in Karim’s direction in revenge. His aim was lousy, instead drenching
three bikini girls who screamed in disapproval.

‘You bastard!’ shouted one of the girls in a
shrill voice. She picked up one of the other bottles and took her revenge by
soaking him back, until his shirt was dripping wet and clinging to his torso.

And so began an all-out war. Everybody below
Karim tried to get their hands on any bottle they could find to spray the
Russians, who found themselves defenceless against the onslaught. In a matter
of moments the club was eclipsed by a champagne blizzard, as thousands of dirhams
worth of alcohol was deployed as ammunition in the Battle of Plastik. They
fought on the beaches and on the sun loungers and in the hot tub, and as the
waiters struggled to keep up with supplies, many were caught in the crossfire.
I even joined in myself, spraying an entire bottle at a Moroccan girl who
seemed to enjoy the soaking and retaliated by pouring half a bottle over my
head. It was pandemonium; a shamefully enjoyable display of excess, crossing
all known boundaries of decency and decorum. But one thing was for sure – it
was the most fun I had had in a long time.

Eventually the bar ran out of supplies and things
slowly calmed down. Most of the crowd headed to the beach to wash themselves
off and continue the party, but Karim had other plans.

‘Let’s get out of here, buddy.’

‘Where now?’ I asked.

‘I’m feeling a little frisky and I know just
the place.’

‘But what about Alexa?’ I asked.

‘Her? No way. She won’t come home with me until
I buy her a freakin’ Prada handbag and a Ferrari. I’ve met a million girls like
her. I need some real action tonight. Let’s go.’

As he stumbled out towards the car park, I was
stopped in my tracks by a tap on the shoulder. I turned around to see a small
Filipino water staring at me.

‘Sir, the check?’ he said, handing me a black
wallet. I opened it and nearly collapsed. They were charging us for thirty
bottles and a jeroboam of champagne, which came to a staggering twenty thousand
dirhams, over three thousand pounds! Karim was already in the car park, so I
reluctantly pulled out my corporate card and settled the damage. I had not
exceeded Rav’s spending limit, I had obliterated it. And the night was not over
yet.

We got into the Mercedes reeking of booze and headed
back towards the Sheikh Zayed Road.

‘So where are we going now?’ I asked Karim
nervously.

‘The Cyclone!’

Masquerading as a sports bar in Bur Dubai, the Cyclone
was famous for a more sinister reason, as the seediest pick-up joint in the
city. It was like the United Nations of hookers, a candy store for the sexually
starved to choose among to their delight. Cyclone functioned as a free market
for horny expats and promiscuous locals to proposition friendly women from
dozens of nationalities looking for a good time. It astonished me how a place
like that could escape the wrath of the Dubai authorities. There were rumours
that its proprietor was a certain Mustafa Edris, the untouchable king of the
Indian underworld, who enjoyed immunity status owing to his close connections to
the upper echelons of power. 

We paid our entrance fee and strolled into the
bar. It looked like a forgotten drinking hole for bikers off Route 66. There
was a small stage at the far end where an awful Filipino band fronted by a
chubby woman who was belting out ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. There were women of all
shapes, sizes and ethnicities, desperately competing for the attention of the sex-hungry
male punters. As we strolled towards the bar, two women tried to grab my hand
and my buttocks were pinched at least three times. In here, a virile young man
was like a lamb in a slaughterhouse. I was terrified.

‘Hey, sexy. You want to have some fun tonight?’
said a redhead in skinny jeans and a sequined blouse sitting at the bar. Her
cheesy opening line was an instant turn-off, and besides I’d never been too
fond of redheads.

‘No, thank you, but I appreciate the kind offer,’
I replied politely. 

She moved in closer. ‘Come on, baby. I don’t
bite.’ Her hand began to caress my leg and I pushed her away nervously. 

‘Sorry, please excuse me for a moment; I’m
looking for my friend.’

Karim had already been escorted into a quiet
corner by two identical-looking Russian blondes. I could see that a financial
negotiation had started and Karim was shaking his head as if he was driving a
hard bargain. After a while, a deal was reached and he put his arm around them
both while they made their way to the exit together.

‘Buddy, meet Tanya and Aria. They’re going to
put on a private show for me,’ he mumbled in a drunken stupor. 

‘How nice of them. Are we leaving now, Karim?’

‘Damn right we are!’

As we made our way out, I felt a hand grab mine
from behind. It was the redhead from the bar again.

‘Sexy boy, you are leaving without me?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Listen, I’m quite
flattered, but I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.’ She looked
annoyed and muttered something derogatory in Russian before heading back to her
bar stool.

Outside, Tanya and Aria were helping Karim into
the back of the Mercedes.

‘You comin’?’ he shouted at me.

‘No, I don’t think so, Karim. I think I’m going
to call it a night.’

‘Okay, suit yourself. But I suggest you go back
inside and get yourself a little something too. I spotted a redhead who really
liked you in there.’

‘Thanks, Karim, I might just do that. You gonna
be okay?’

‘Buddy, I’m in a car with two gorgeous blondes.
Why the hell would I not be okay?’

‘Gotcha,’ I smiled.

Karim lowered his voice and leaned out of the
car. ‘Listen, these girls like to get paid up front and I don’t have any cash
with me, do you mind?’

I sighed and pulled out my wallet. ‘Sure. How
much do you need?’

‘Three thousand should do it.’ I counted out the
notes and handed him the cash.

‘Thanks, bud. Have a good night. I know I will!’

‘Wait, Karim, before you go, can you tell me if
the deal is on course for next week?’

‘
Insha’Allah
.’

‘Sorry, is that a yes or a no?’

‘
Insha’Allah
. It means God willing.
Let’s speak soon, my friend.’

It was a frustratingly inadequate answer. But
then, getting a straight answer from an Arab was often like drawing blood from
a stone. After a painstaking ordeal of satisfying his every demand, I still
didn’t have a firm answer. Instead, the final decision rested in the hands of
God; a God who surely wouldn’t approve of champagne spraying and prostitutes. Karim’s
answer made me a little uneasy, but I kept my hopes up nonetheless.

***

It was two days before the contract signing date, and I
was nervous. It dawned on me that I had done very little background research of
my own on Karim and his firm. I trusted Cameron completely, but it wouldn’t
hurt to check him out myself, for my own piece of mind. So that evening, I sat
at my laptop for a little detective work. I started by doing some research on
the project. I looked up the website of the Rotating Tower. There it was, a
perfectly rendered artist’s image of the building in all its glory. I looked up
the plans and the background to the idea, and everything checked out.