Chapter 25

 

4th Floor, Surgical Ward, The American Hospital, Oud Metha, Dubai:

24^th February; 8pm.

 

Jamie was sitting up now, with two attentive males at either side of her bed. Todd and Max each held one of her hands, and she had to ask one of them to let go every time she wanted a sip of water. She really wanted a Big Mac, but she was on an enforced fast in case she needed more surgery.

In the last twenty-four hours she had been sedated, x-rayed, operated on and prodded with needles more times than she cared to remember. She had lost a floating rib in the surgery. It had to be removed because it had been detached when a bullet passed through her. She had also had some work done in patching up her right kidney, which had also seen a bullet graze it.

For the time being, and to her embarrassment, her bodily fluids were being drained into a bag hanging on the side of her bed. At least she didn’t have to get up to go to the toilet, which was a good thing, as even the most minor of movements was painful at the moment.

“You’ll like the new digs,” Todd said as he stared out of the window to the red neon sign of the Movenpick Hotel opposite. “We’ve been told to look after it. Apparently the villa was gifted to an Emirati couple by Sheikh Mohammed when they got married. Not bad, eh? It’s on 14C Street in Al Safa 1, not too far from where we were staying before. There’s plenty of room for the cars, and it’s got five bedrooms, with a huge landing. Max and me, we were thinking of getting a pool table.”

Jamie knew that Todd was speaking for the sake of it, and she understood that her colleagues, now her best friends, would be slow to show their affection, but just having both of them here, holding her hands protectively, told her all she needed to know.

“It appears we’ve been reduced to chasing shadows, or one shadow, to be more precise,” Max offered, cutting off Todd’s mundane chatter. Jamie looked puzzled, so Max explained.

 

“Vastrick have been monitoring the email account we picked off the courier’s laptop, and we struck gold. Someone, calling themselves The Shadow, said that the package was ready for delivery.”

“Do you think this Shadow is the person we lost in the Mall?” Jamie asked. Both men nodded. “The package he or she is going to deliver doesn’t sound like a good thing, does it?”

“It doesn’t,” the two men agreed in unison.

Jamie was perspiring despite the air conditioning; she guessed it was the effect of the drugs. Max stood and gently mopped her brow with a flannel kept in a tray of ice water by the bed. Jamie was touched by the tenderness he showed as he dabbed her face. Max explained why he was being so attentive.

“I lost someone I cared about last year, Jamie, and there was a point last night when I thought we might lose you, too,” he told her, the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice. Jamie smiled.

“I’m from Queens, New York, Max. If you haven’t been shot at least twice by the time you reach thirty, you’re considered a wuss!”

The two men stood and kissed the American policewoman on her cheek, leaving her to rest. They passed a guard, who stood alert and to attention outside her door. He nodded to them as they left, as if to confirm that she was safe in his hands.

***

Max and Todd were driving the Black Porsche 911 Turbo. Max was at the wheel, and was not holding back on the revs. They took Sheikh Rashid Road onto Sheikh Zayed Road, and headed towards Al Safa. Max was in the outside lane as they passed Al Safa Park, a large recreational area where they had all jogged at one time or another during their stay. It was always hot no matter what time of the day or night they chose to jog, but it was better than continually working out on a treadmill.

As they passed the multi coloured building housing the English College on their right, Max moved across the carriageway and onto a slip road. Changing down a gear, but barely slowing, Max slipped the Porsche around a small roundabout and straight on. The way Max was driving was reminiscent of a racing driver, which piqued Todd’s curiosity. But for the moment he was concentrating on what was happening behind them. Both men were watching the rear-view mirrors to ensure they were not being tailed. At this speed it would be quite obvious if anyone was trying to keep them in sight.

Max slung the Porsche around a ninety degree turn onto 18^th Street, without so much as a squeal of tyres. The Porsche reacted as if it were on tracks. At the end of the road, after two body-jarring speed bumps, Max took a left, followed by a quick right onto 14C Street.

Just beyond a timber portico, built to offer some shade to their neighbours’ cars, Max pulled into the driveway just as the remote controlled gates were opening. The gates began to close as soon as they reached their zenith, and the Porsche and the garage were concealed from sight behind the seven foot high heavy wooden gates.

Across the road, and directly opposite the villa, lay the Splendour Villas, an exclusive and well-guarded gated community for wealthy Arabs and ex-pats. Usually guarded by a local security firm, the guard house was occupied twenty four hours a day by an undercover armed policeman dressed in the brown fatigues of Al Masri Security. His task was to keep an eye on Villa Afzal, where Max and Todd were posted.

Todd and Max took the five steps up to the heavy wooden double doors at the side of the house. Max swiped his card in the entry console and punched in a four-digit code. Both men heard a click as the deadbolt disengaged. Todd extracted a Yale style key and unlocked the second of the locks. As they entered, a sensor picked up movement and began a silent forty-second countdown to the alarm being sounded. Todd stepped up to the water cooler, reached behind and on a hidden numeric pad typed in the same four figure code. There was a beep as the system disarmed.

“I can see me getting fed up with this security system pretty quickly,” Todd said aloud. “It’s a bit over the top.”

The villa boasted windows which were glazed with security glass, which would withstand most bullets, and the ornate carved wooden front doors which faced the road were actually made of steel and were welded shut.

“Mahmoud told me that they inherited this place from a Russian who died in an unfortunate boating accident on a trip to Oman. They think he was eliminated by an opposing gang,” Max explained.

“Well, it was a good decision not to try to take him out in here. You could be here all week trying to get in.” Todd paused as he flicked on the lights. “By the way, mate, that was some fancy driving. Who are you, a budding Jenson Button?”

“Hardly,” Max laughed, “but I took a course at Hereford on defensive driving before an assignment in Afghanistan. I was embedded for six weeks in Helmand Province.”

Todd nodded in understanding. He knew very well who trained at Hereford, even though it was consistently denied by the authorities. A number of Australian Special Forces had trained there, and had come home looking bedraggled and twenty pounds lighter than their original fighting weight.

The lounge housed the front doors and was at least thirty feet by twenty feet, with ceilings around twelve feet high in the centre and ten feet high at the perimeter, where the air conditioning and lighting was concealed. The temperature was an acceptable twenty-two degrees.

“Wi-Fi on,” Todd shouted, and the Samsung flat screen Smart 3DTV came to life. The LCD panel was sixty inches, corner to corner, and was specified as being true high definition. The panel was enclosed by a thin silver coloured frame, and was only half an inch thick.

The menu which came up on screen offered a number of options: Internet, Mail, TV, Games, Skype and Folders. The two main telecoms providers in the UAE did their best to discourage Skype usage, presumably to avoid a loss of revenue from their services, but the Sheikh had insisted that it be installed for video conferencing.

“Folders,” commanded Todd. A screen opened with twelve folders greyed out as a dialogue box opened demanding a password. “3-7-5-3,” Todd said clearly, and asterisks appeared in the box each time he spoke a number. The screen cleared and all twelve folders appeared in full colour. Only five of them were named. Todd opened the first of the named folders with the command “Intel”.

He and Max looked at what they had to work with. It wasn’t much. Someone, possibly Khaweini, had a truckload of C4 explosives and was planning perhaps one or, more likely, a series of attacks in Dubai. One of the attacks might involve a School bus.

“We need a lead, badly,” Max intoned.

“And I think I know just where to find one,” Todd answered.

***

 

Ron Styles, deputy to the Consul General and the US diplomat charged with protecting its citizens in Dubai, limped into Jamie’s room, leaning heavily on a cane.

Jamie watched the avuncular looking man with the wide smile and soft eyes of a friend, enter her room. The man was close to six feet tall and of heavy build. His suit hung on him rather than fitted to him. He was losing his hair to male pattern baldness, and his skin was pale for a man who had lived in the region for some years.

“You look worse than I feel,” Jamie joked.

“It’s nothing, really,” he answered with a shrug. “Recurring back problems. I only need the cane occasionally, but it does earn me some sympathy.” Ron smiled and winked.

After a few formalities, Jamie told the diplomat what she was allowed to tell him, which wasn’t much, and he listened intently. Finally it was his turn to talk.

“You’ve been recalled to Homeland. A deputy director there was a little unhappy that you’d been placed in harm’s way. He believed you were being seconded from the Anti Piracy unit for purely investigative purposes.”

“Are we talking about Brett Clayton here?” Jamie asked. Ron nodded. “Yeah, I thought as much. You can tell him that I’m not coming home until I find out who wanted me dead, and why. Tell him I’ll be back in the US early in March.”

“I’m not sure this was an invitation, Jamie. I think he’s prepared to have you relocated under duress, if necessary.”

Jamie considered her reply. “OK. Tell him I’ll travel back as soon as my injuries have healed.”

“But that could take weeks!” Ron Styles suggested, smiling conspiratorially.

“You said it. Thanks for coming, Ron, and please leave your card. I have a habit of getting into trouble.”