A few hours later he was at the British Consul’s residence inside the grounds of the Embassy. Much of the Embassy was modern but the Consul’s house was redolent of an earlier era, from the time when Dubai was part of the Trucial States. Although the buildings were not something to excite the architectural connoisseur, the location was stunning. At this time of the year, Dubai had not reached the full heat of summer. The evening was warm and balmy. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the oleanders and carried the scent of orange blossom across the spacious lawns of the Embassy. Over the Creek, the burgeoning skyscrapers and tower blocks of old Deira blazed with light reflecting over the ruffled waters and mixed with the headlights of cars on either side of the water and the fairy lights entwined around the guardsman-like rows of palm trees lining the dual carriageways which ran along both sides of the Creek. Even at this distance, the National Bank of Dubai building dominated the landscape, dwarfing the Commercial Department and the InterContinental Hotel, buildings of an earlier phase in Dubai’s short, pell-mell development. Now, Bill knew, the next frenetic phase was rapidly taking shape along the Sheikh Zayed Highway, surpassing anything so far seen in the whole of the Middle East. Dubai’s mantra now was ‘world class’.

Signing in at the gatehouse, Bill wandered across the manicured lawns to the reception line. Although he had not met the Consul, James Williamson, Bill sensed that he was definitely an expected guest as James shot him a knowing and seemingly quizzical glance when he gave his name.

‘Good to meet you,’ said the Consul. A tall, precise, thin-boned man, he looked steadily at Bill as if to emphasise that he had been briefed and knew all about him. ‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ he said, his eyes moving on to the next person in the queue with practised ease.

Bill was about to find out what had led to the issue of the invitation for tonight’s event. Perhaps the Consul had a job for him? He could do with something comfortable working in the Embassy.

Dubai’s oil reserves were said to be seriously depleted, but the same could never be said about its supply of alcohol, always available with a munficence starkly at variance with the emirate’s Islamic underpinning. Clutching a substantial gin and tonic, Bill observed the other guests. The few representative locals were evident by their dress; several of these, Bill discovered, were attached to the Embassy and there was also a group associated with a senior sheikh, who was obviously there to represent the Emirate. Bill imagined that the Diwan, the Ruler’s Office, published a Duty Sheikh roster for all such events.

At that moment, as if right on cue, James Williamson appeared at Bill’s elbow. He was accompanied by a younger man, perhaps in his late thirties, Bill estimated, whose piercing brown eyes, set in a broad face topped by a generous head of wavy black hair, were studying Bill acutely.

‘Bill, I want you to meet a colleague of mine, Andy Stringer. I think you’ll find that you know someone in common,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘Ah, I see my wife needs some support dealing with Sheikh Rafa. I’ll have to leave you but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble looking after yourselves.’ Whereupon, calling over a nearby waiter to fill their glasses, he left them together.