ROYAL FALCON DRONES WAREHOUSE, ABU DHABI, UAE—14:55 / 2:55 P.M. GST
The first exit of the roundabout led to the Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum Naval College, named after the second prime minister of the UAE who led the country for 32 years until his death in 1990. The one responsible for the change in the economic philosophy of the nation, he was reported to have once said, “My grandfather rode a camel, my father rode a camel, I drive a Mercedes, my son drives a Land Rover, his son will drive a Land Rover, but his son will ride a camel.” This foresight in recognizing that an oil economy cannot last forever led Sheikh Rashid to focus on business, trade, and tourism. When anyone looked at what the UAE was today, they couldn’t help but find the Sheikh’s fingerprints.
But what did Muzahim al-Aiyubi care about that now? “Keep going straight,” he said as he took his place in the passenger seat. “At the next roundabout, we’ll go right toward the water.” He’d just finished changing from his soldier camouflage to a white kandura, the traditional long robe worn by Emirati men. On his head was a ghutrah, a white headscarf held in place by a black band called an agal. The two men in the back of the truck had also replaced their uniforms with kanduras. The driver, who would remain in the truck with the precious cargo, remained as is.
Three minutes later, the panel truck pulled up outside an old warehouse. The fresh coat of paint couldn’t hide the toll the humidity of the nearby Gulf waters had taken on the sheet metal. Across the street stood the walls of the Al-Sadr maximum security prison, notorious for its harsh conditions and torture of prisoners. An image of being behind those walls chained to a chair in a dank cement room while the Emirati police violently interrogated him flashed in al-Aiyubi’s mind. That was not going to happen to him. It was either success or death. He would not allow himself to be caught.
The three men exited the van and walked to a door set with three deadbolts. Hanging on the wall by the entrance was a sign on which was painted a silhouette of a UAV and the Arabic words Royal Falcon Drones. Trying the knob, al-Aiyubi found it locked. He pushed a button set on the frame and heard a buzzer go off inside.
The men waited, and al-Aiyubi was about to push it again when he heard the locks disengaging. The door opened, and a tall, weatherworn man with a salt-and-pepper beard and wearing the traditional white greeted them. “As-salaam ‘alaykum.”
“Wa’alaykum as-salaam,” replied al-Aiyubi.
“How may I help you, friends?”
Al-Aiyubi brought his hand from behind his back. In it was a 9mm Glock 17 with a suppressor threaded onto its barrel. He pulled the trigger one time, and the back of the man’s head exploded outward in a red mist. As the body crumpled to the floor, al-Aiyubi and his men listened to hear if the snap of the shot had drawn anyone’s attention. Contrary to Hollywood’s usual portrayal, silencers don’t silence gunshots; they muffle them. Rather than the typical blast, there’s a distinctive snap or pop. However, unless someone is accustomed to the sound, they won’t take it for a gunshot. So far, that seemed to be the case in the warehouse.
Abbas had said to expect three to seven people. With guns down at their sides, the three men stepped over the body and entered the building. To the left, a man holding a clipboard exited an office. He was dropped by one of al-Aiyubi’s men with a shot to the chest, then one to the head. The other member of the team entered an office to the right. Al-Aiyubi heard a suppressed double-tap come from that direction.
That’s three. Who else is here?
Enough shots had been fired that the element of surprise was likely gone. Anyone left in the warehouse would have recognized that something strange was going on. Al-Aiyubi’s persona shifted from curious businessman to stalking soldier, his walk stealthy and his gun no longer remaining at his side but up at the ready. He stopped and waited at the transition from the offices to the main warehouse. Inside were hundreds of black cases. Workstations were set all around, each with small drones in various states of repair.
He sensed the movement behind him even before he heard the soft voice. “Offices are cleared.”
With the index finger of his left hand, he indicated that he wanted his men to proceed around the perimeter of the warehouse—one down one side, one down the other. He’d go up the middle. They walked slowly forward, legs moving and eyes scanning but their upper bodies never shifting position.
Two suppressed shots sounded to the right, and he heard a table clatter to its side. Up ahead, he heard a scraping, like a shoe on the cement floor. Step by step he moved forward until he came to a series of six tall shelving units. He put his back against the end of one set, then turned and stepped into the first aisle, gun raised.
Empty.
He readied himself at the second unit, then spun.
Empty.
The third aisle was empty also.
He was about to leave the fourth aisle when he saw movement. The toe of a sneaker stuck out from behind a box. Al-Aiyubi inched forward, gun at the ready. When he reached the box, he kicked it off the low shelf. A voice cried out. There, tucked on the wooden base, was a boy in his early teens. He was shaking, and tears ran down his face.
The reality of what he was doing came home to al-Aiyubi, and he lowered his gun. He thought of his own little brother back home, the youngest of five children. This young man was just starting his life. He’d done nothing wrong, nothing deserving this kind of death. Yet the mission had to be accomplished. Any witness was a risk.
“The warehouse is cleared.”
Al-Aiyubi looked to his right and saw his men standing at the end of the aisle. Turning back to the cowering teen, he raised his gun and fired two shots in quick succession.