Chapter 34

 

Former Volvo Dealership, Sheik Zayed Road, Al Quoz, Dubai:

29^th February; 2pm.

 

The Shadow had relocated his workshop to the old Volvo car showroom, fearing that his workshop in Business Bay may have been compromised. He need not have worried. The empty building remained undisturbed. Kwong Chong Lee had survived this long in his business because he was unduly cautious, and that was not a bad trait in a bomb maker.

He primed the last of the lunchbox bombs and placed them in a metal strong box which had once been used to store mechanics’ tools in the old service bay of the building.

Abandoned in 2010, the Volvo dealership had given way to a Chrysler Dodge showroom at the front, but the new dealership already had a service facility of its own next door, and so the Volvo service bay in the rear had been stripped bare and left empty until the space was rented by the letting agent on a week by week basis, cash in hand, to Golden Falcon Chinese Restaurants, as an unofficial storage area. The esteemed owner of the Golden Falcon chain of restaurants would have been surprised to learn he had a storage facility in Al Quoz, and of course, he did not have any such facility. The space was rented by a middle man for the Shadow.

Kwong Chong Lee’s phone beeped, notifying him of a text message. He pressed the open button and the text informed him that US$250,000.00 had been credited to his account. It was three days late, but there was more to come, much more, when Dubai became a ghost town.

***

Trevor George Baker knew better than to Skype with the leadership whilst he looked the way he did. His face was still clean shaven, his hair a gelled dirty blonde, and there was some colour in his face. With his baseball cap, sunglasses and casual attire he looked like any other tourist. As he sat in his hideaway, with ear buds leading to his mobile phone plugged firmly in his ears, he listened, bristling with anger but quiet.

 

“Brother, if you had used a martyr instead of a paid assassin the results in Jebel Ali would have been magnificent. The barbarians of the West would have shaken their inept fists and bared their blunted teeth to no avail, and we would have claimed responsibility. But the death of one minor diplomat was an embarrassing waste of resources. You used almost a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of explosives to kill just one man.”

“That was always intended to be diversionary. Yes, it would have been better to have a high death toll, but phase two was always to be our objective,” Khaweini countered.

“If the implementation of phase two is successful, then we will pay the bomb maker his blood money, but if it fails there will be nowhere for him, or you, to hide. Is that clear?” the disembodied voice warned.

“No, brother, I would have to say it is not clear. I am a soldier of the Jihad. If I fail I will continue to sting the bloated West until they die from a thousand stings, if need be. I have worked endlessly for the cause; abandonment is neither warranted nor acceptable for one who has served so diligently.”

There was silence for a moment, and then another voice came on the line.

“You speak well and with passion. Our brother is simply distressed because our funds have been stolen from us by the Africans still enslaved to their masters. Do this thing, Mullah, and glory will be yours.”

***

Jamie was glad to be released from the hospital. Although still sore in places, she was well on the way to good health. She sat on the balcony at TGI Fridays at the Dubai Mall with Max and Todd, eating Beef Brisket pasta and savouring every mouthful.

“How is it that wherever you go in the world, the hospital food is terrible?” she asked as she looped spaghetti around her fork like a professional.

Max and Todd looked on as they consumed their own food with a little more dignity. The sun was shining and the temperature was in the high twenties, around eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The Burj Khalifa was gleaming in the sun, and the fountains in the lagoon sprang to life in a rehearsal of the evening’s nightly light and music show.

No-one mentioned the memorial service for Ron Styles, although they were all dressed formally, having come straight from the Conference centre where the memorial service had been held. Jamie had cried and even the two men had lumps in their throats when, half way into the service, the Prime Minister of Dubai and Vice President of the United Arab Emirates entered and awaited his turn to speak on the podium.

The Sheikh had spoken in English with passion and feeling, demanding that like-minded people of all religions, all cultures and all countries work together to defeat those people with evil in their hearts and murder in their minds.

They stayed awhile afterwards, and met other consular officials, members of Styles’ church congregation and his wife and children. Jamie and Marissa Styles cried together when Jamie told the distraught woman that her husband had saved Jamie’s life.

Now, in silent companionship, the trio ate, absorbed the sun’s warmth and watched carefree people swimming around in the sparkling blue pools of the Address Hotel opposite.

Max’s phone rang. He looked at the screen. The call was coming from Vastrick security. He put the phone to his ear.

“Ah, bonjour, Max. This is Dominic. Perhaps we should meet this evening. I think we have a lead.”