Bill hired a car and drove around to familiarise himself. He drove down Al Wasl Road, parallel to the Corniche Road. Suddenly he was overtaken by a fast-moving small red car driven by a large florid man, flagging him down. They both pulled into the lay-by beside Al Wasl Park just before the Choitrams roundabout. The other driver got out and came across. From behind his twitching moustache, without introducing himself, he said brusquely, ‘Come around to my office tomorrow morning. It’s in the Commercial Department near the Corniche. Come about 09:30 and ask for me at reception.’ He jumped back into his car, challenging it to get instantaneously to the rapid speed he required, and was quickly lost to sight. Bill was left to wonder at Red’s ability to identify him with only the few details given to him by Audy.

By 09:15 the Commercial Department car park was full to overflowing. The reception hall with its numerous booths, each with its queue of petitioners, resembled a hive of drowsy bees moving as if in a formulaic ritual, each holding the required sheaf of papers, all duly stamped, with their requests for company licences, directors’ registrations, payment of fees and a multitude of other bureaucratic transactions, each one a money-making opportunity for Dubai Limited. These ‘fixers’ or, more pompously, Protocol Officers, spent their lives moving from one government department to another.

The majority of supplicants wore the traditional robe-like dishdasha or thwab. Most were white but there were some purple, brown and black ones as well. There were Arabs of all hues, from the pale Circassians of the north to the coal-black Somali. A large proportion came from the subcontinent: Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Sri Lankans and many who were clearly Filipinos. Apart from one other person, Bill was the only Westerner in the room.

The white-clad men’s heads were covered by the white gutraj with its black band, the ogal. Bill was struck by the fact that this group appeared to be in uniform: crisp white headdress, freshly laundered white dishdasha, cut so that it did not touch the floor lest it become impure and unfit for prayer, and sandals. Designer sunglasses were much in evidence, accompanied by strikingly black designer stubble, short, neatly-trimmed beards and moustaches. Observing their air of aloofness and general attitude of superiority and disdain, it was clear to Bill that these were the locals.

Bill announced himself at the reception desk manned by a couple of young and pleasant Pakistani lads who were punctilious in directing him to Red’s office on the third floor. At a further reception here, this time manned by a polite but serious, sallow-skinned young local, he waited for a few moments while a call was made. Bill had time to take in the surroundings. He was in a marbled anteroom, decorated in strict and very tasteful Islamic fashion. Soon a female in a black Abuya and burka, with heavy black-rimmed sunglasses, approached and announced herself as Ruth, Red’s secretary. To Bill this seemed to be a surprising name for someone who was clearly Arabic, but on reflection, he appreciated that the Abrahamic origins of Islam would make the name completely normal. Bill judged that she was young and probably very attractive but it was difficult to be sure given her half-covered face. Her femininity and sweet nature were clearly evident, despite the barriers of cloth and glass. Her presence was in striking contrast to the more public areas of the Commercial Department through which he had come. There had been no women in evidence there.

Ruth, it turned out, handled all Red’s papers and documents for the casework in which he was engaged, as the Department’s Legal Counsellor.

‘Best you familiarise yourself with all the background as a start,’ said Red. ‘Riad’s going to meet us at the golf club tonight – you do play golf, don’t you? I’ve just taken it up but it’s a ponce’s game if you ask me. I’m a rugger player myself. Anyway, we’ll play nine holes; tee off at 7 pm.’

He saw the quizzical look which Bill gave him. ‘Yes, 7 pm – it’s floodlit, it’s inside the racetrack – the Nad Al Sheba Club, you know, where they hold the Dubai World Cup race? And it’s fully illuminated!’

The Councillor was a chunky, thickset individual, with a cauliflower nose. As soon as he spoke, it was clear that Red Bergman was a North American. His hometown was Reno, Nevada. He was an aggressive, pugnacious individual who took no prisoners.

‘Let’s go and have some lunch.’ He said. ‘I’ve asked Clive Worthington from Frederick & Stevens to join us. That’s the law firm that advises the Government. They’ve just taken over the auditing of RAKA.’

The contrast between the two solicitors was stark: Clive, the urbane, somewhat unworldly looking, ex-public school Englishman and Red the North American redneck, a front row forward, who operated with all the delicacy of a miners’ shop steward. Red held the floor.

‘Sheikh Abdul has brought in Mahmoud Al Abdulla to clean out the Augean stables of RAKA. Made his name sorting out the Al Ghazi Bank fiasco in Singapore. And he’ll certainly do that! He’s very ambitious and ruthless to boot – like’s to think of himself as the avenging sword of the Rulers. He’s been made the Vice-Chairman of RAKA in order to take control. The Chairman’s job is largely a sinecure; the real power lies with the Vice Chairman who reports directly to Sheikh Abdul! ‘

‘Sheikh Abdul? Where does he fit in to all this?’ Bill queried.

“He’s the Chairman – I’ll fill you in on the details as we go along. So far, Red continued, work had entailed reviewing a number of major contracts that had been entered into by RAKA with various parties for the supply of raw materials and the sale of the finished product. It was clear that there were many irregularities – and equally clear that Red was pretty sure that these irregularities were deliberate and indicated fraud on a massive scale.

Red told them that some years ago, the previous Vice Chairman, Talal Fahimi, had challenged the Chief Executive, an expat Brit, to explain the irregularities, which had been brought to his attention. But the CEO had had the arrogance to dismiss the issue out of hand, knowing that the hand that fed him protected him. The CEO – Luke Stanley’s his name - told him to fuck off! He’s an arrogant sod and he knew he could get away with this because Mohammed Al Turk was behind him.’ Red went on, Mohammed Al Turk, reputedly the fourth richest man in the world.’ Red paused, considering just how much of his suspicions to reveal at this stage. “He’s known as Mr. Ten Per Cent in Dubai! he’s from the older generation. He was the right-hand man of the previous Ruler of Dubai, the much revered and very astute, Sheikh Raheem. It was Sheikh Raheem who seized the opportunities provided by the disengagement of Britain from the region of Britain in the 1960s. He and was able to developed Dubai into what it is to-day.’

Red paused to order lunch; and beer. Then continued his potted history, enjoying the limelight enormously, his moustache, it seemed, permanently with foam as his beer disappeared at a prodigious rate.

‘As a consequence of oil and gold smuggling; indeed, of smuggling any and everything; and a combination of British support and Sheikh Raheem’s single-minded ruthlessness and charm, Dubai quickly overtook Sharjah as the most modern outward-looking emirate. In comparison, the other emirates, the small Northern Emirates of Ajman and Ras Al Khaimah and particularly Abu Dhabi, with its overwhelming oil wealth, were moribund. Al Turk was the chief functionary of Sheikh Raheem and as a consequence was able to amass a fabulous fortune. He’s now the owner of several household name brands – like Kool Kola and the Granchester Hotel in London.’ Red explained that, since the death of Sheikh Raheem, his sons had increasingly resented the power of Al Turk. ‘Now they feel strong enough to take steps to cut him out.’

‘It’s rumoured,’ Red continued, ‘that all the Ruler really wants to do is to spend time in England during the racing season and in Pakistan during the hunting season, with his favourite wife. He only comes to Dubai in Ramadan for form’s sake. His current wife’s an ex-Gulf Air hostess. So was the last one; and no doubt so will the next one!’ said Red with a wink.

‘The real power behind the throne is the Ruler’s cousin, Sheikh Abdul bin Nashiri. He’s Minister of Commerce for Dubai.’ As if by magic, another beer appeared as Red finished his third, or was it his fourth? ‘The Nashiri tribe were formerly the rulers of Deira – that it was then a separate emirate on the southern side of the Creek - but Sheikh Raheem seized power from them in the 1950’s and joined it to Dubai. They haven’t forgiven him for this. They still consider themselves to be the proper rulers of Deira. The grandfather did a deal not to challenge the Ruler provided he was given a senior role in government and lots of lucrative agencies, drugs, cars, cigarettes particularly. There’s a sort of modus vivendi but its only skin deep and there’s still a lot of resentment beneath the surface. He continued, ‘Anyway, it was Talal…’

‘Who’s Talal?’ said Bill.

‘Talal Fahimi was the Vice Chairman. He looked after RAKA for Sheikh Mansour. But he was as idle and ineffective as Mansour was disinterested. But not so Al Abdulla. It was Riad Abu Rahman - you’ll meet him later - who uncovered the discrepancies when he was with the Parkinson & Peebles audit team. Bloody hell, that doesn’t do it justice – it’s a black hole! When Mahmoud Al Abdulla got to know of this, he got Sheikh Abdul’s approval to move Riad in as Chief Financial Officer. Mahmoud’s the one who’s master-minding the investigation. I’ve been stuck in the Commercial Department in order to support him and take care of the litigation. We’ve already done some pretty good hits on people associated with other scandals in Dubai; and God knows, there’s plenty of them all right. Financial fraud, I’m talking about. But there’s plenty of even more juicy scandals around here too, as you’ll quickly find out.’

“But back to Sheikh Abdul.” Red went on to explain that Sheikh Abdul had been a playboy and rebel in his youth; he was always to be seen in the company of fast women and even faster cars – or was it the other way round? He was also a fearless horseman and renowned for his skill – particularly relishing long distance riding, at which he still excelled. ‘In many ways, he’s the de facto ruler; and Dubai is his personal fiefdom. But he has plenty of enemies; particularly the Ruler’s brothers who don’t want to lose their inheritance.’

Red continued, “It’s Sheikh Abdul who calls the shots behind the scenes. He’s decided that Mahdi Mohammed Al Turk will be cut off at the knees by public exposure of his fraudulent activities at RAKA. Not what these guys normally do – there’re so paranoid that they usually sweep any bad news under the carpet.

‘Its accepted practice in the Arab world,’ explained Red, ‘for those who are awarding contracts unofficially to exact a commission from the successful bidder or supplicant – you know, perhaps a ten per cent kickback. It’s an open secret that Al Turk’s enriched himself in this way. It’s condoned and the ruler’s trusted confidantes are allowed to help themselves to their boss’s wealth – up to a point! But only up to a point - when they cross the line, woe betide them! That’s when they get screwed.’

‘What happens in this sort of situation then?’ queried Bill.

‘What happens? …. They’re fucked….! I’ll give you a recent example. Last year Sheikh Abdul went to the annual get-together of the powerful at Davos. You know, the World Commercial Forum. He had the Head of the Dubai Customs go with him to give a joint presentation on customs harmonisation – Dubai’s pretty switched on to this sort of thing, e-Government and so on. The day after they arrived back, the poor sod was thrown in jail and charged with corruption. He got a mammoth prison sentence – 35 years! And … less than four months later, the Sheikh pardoned him! But his reputation is in shatters and he is in virtual house arrest. And so the point was made – and others were warned.’

‘But that’s outrageous!’ exclaimed Bill, indignantly.

‘Look chum, I know you Limeys like to think that you are whiter than white; and that the whole world should behave like your typical English gentleman. But that’s bloody naïve. It just doesn’t work like that here. Are you trying to tell me that there’s no corruption in the western world? Get a life! I’ve seen your old boy network at work – what’s the difference?’ Red concluded pugnaciously.

Red then told them that that the Chief Executive of RAKA, an expatriate Scotsman called Luke Stanley, had been corrupted by Al Turk.

‘I reckon what happened,’ said Red, ‘is that Al Turk took Stanley up to the highest point in Dubai – at that time that would have been the 29th floor of the World Trade Centre - and said: ‘I own 15% of all you see – and, if you play your cards right, 5% is yours!’ And Stanley managed to overcome any scruples he might have had – knowing the bastard, I don’t imagine he put up much of a fight - and so the deal was done.’

‘The scam was run through a group of companies registered in the British Virgin Islands….’

‘A well-known tax haven; and a place where a company could be set up with no questions asked?’ Bill commented.

‘Got it in one. The main entity was Gulf Proprietary Development, which is still operating in Dubai.

‘What I want to know’, Red stabbed a finger menacingly in Bill’s direction, ‘is can you sort out this fucking mess? Can you find out where the money’s gone? And, more importantly, can you get it back? I can handle the legal side and I know exactly what sort of evidence we need to put these people away where they belong? You get the evidence and I’ll prosecute.’

Bill knew just the man to get him the sort of evidence he would need; someone who could get inside the most private bits of the most private of private banks – and do it in the most secretive of countries when it came to safe-guarding the financial affairs of its clients. The money was going to be well hidden but it had to be somewhere and there had to be an audit trail. And it would probably end in Switzerland.

‘Give me the facts and I’ll get you the evidence.’ Said Bill confidently.

Red thought briefly and then said decisively, ‘OK let’s do it. Give me a couple of seconds.” He left the room fingering his mobile as he did so. He was back within several minutes. “Right, here you go – we know that Stanley has a number of accounts with SBS in Zug in Switzerland. And he goes there probably from time-to-time. What I want to know is: how many accounts and what’s in them?’

‘Sweitzer Bank Switzerland?’ queried Bill.

‘Exactly.’ Said Red as he scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper and passed it to Bill.

As soon as he had left Red and Clive, Bill immediately contacted Graham Booker to pass on the information given to him about Stanley. Graham was the classic Mr Fixit, able to do anything asked of him at the drop of a hat. His unrivalled repertoire of well-placed contacts was able to uncover the most carefully hidden of hidden assets. He called back that evening.

‘What do you know?’ he said, with the dispassionate air of a man who has seen it all before. ‘That second account you gave me, the one in SBS in Zug, guess how much’s in it.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Bill had said, intrigued.

‘US $18 million!’

‘Christ Almighty, that’s a serious amount – what do we do now?’

He had left Saudi only three days ago. Now, here he was in Dubai with Graham’s full report, sitting in Red’s office.

‘Bloody hell, that’s a fuck of a lot for someone who’s only an expatriate manager!’ said Red. ‘I know he may be the chief executive but, even on a good screw and with a decent bonus from RAKA, there’s no way he should have amassed that amount.’

‘Got it. Look there’s some more stuff as well. I’ve put it in the report but I thought you’d like to know this at once.’

‘You bet your sweet ass I do,’ said Red. ‘This should cause a few raised eyebrows in the corridors of power! Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you once I’ve spoken to Mahmoud.’