Chapter 7

 

Milton had 24 hours from the time he was given the green light to the time that he actually climbed on board his Emirates flight from Heathrow bound for Dubai.

He had the bit between his teeth now and was confident of a fruitful trip. His wife had not seen it that way, of course.

Maggie was still completely oblivious to what case Milton was actually working on. So when he was packing his case and turned to tell her he would be gone for some time, it sparked a barrage of abuse from her. She was hysterical and it underlined the fact that their marriage was now under severe strain.

Milton stressed that this would be the very last mission, but he had told her that before. This time he honestly meant it, but how could he get it across to someone who was quite simply sick of his absence from the family house?

He had kissed her on the forehead before rushing out to his airport pick-up, which was provided by Waite, but deep down Milton also knew that the Dubai connection gave him a great excuse to get away from everything - and that included the mundane family life that he had honestly begun to despise.

“You know, Waite, the last thing you should do is get married,” he said, jumping into the front seat. “I think they should make it illegal for any man under the age of 50 to marry. Believe me, it would save people one hell of a lot of trouble!”

His two-hour wait in the departure lounge allowed him to read up on Dubai, which to his surprise was not in Saudi Arabia but the United Arab Emirates. This was a relief to Milton, who really was going in blind. He was also delighted to read that in September the temperature would be touching the 100-degree mark and that Dubai was one of the fastest-growing tourism destinations in the world.

He read that there were beaches, nightlife, booze and a five-star cosmopolitan lifestyle. In addition, he was informed by a young man sitting next to him who was also travelling to Dubai that over 4,000 young expatriate women working for Emirates Airline lived there.

Suddenly this wasn’t looking like such a tough assignment after all.

But the sobering thoughts of his current scenario and the mission at hand saw the bronze beaches of the holiday brochures and the thought of nights on the town with blonde-haired trolley dollies pale into insignificance.

Here he was. One man with the weight of a country’s expectations on his shoulders. He realised how Tim Henman must feel each year at Wimbledon.

He was unable to sleep on the flight over. Instead he continued to wise up on his destination and watched a couple of movies that he would never have had the chance to see at the cinema. He could not even remember the last time he had actually been to the cinema; probably during those early exciting years of marriage.

The seven-hour flight crossed Europe and the Levant before the on-board map showed that he was flying over the Arabian Gulf and was within an hour of touchdown. He started to feel nervous. He really did not know what to expect.

Administration had sorted out some hotel accommodation for a couple of nights, but he really would need to slip into the expatriate lifestyle as soon as possible if he were to have any chance of infiltrating the operations of Jacks and his merry men.

He had convinced himself that Jacks was responsible. Of course he had never been caught. Flying in from the Middle East, he would have slipped in and out under the hooligan radar without anyone raising an eyebrow.

Milton had only ever instructed host countries to check manifests of flights arriving from England. Border checks were carried out to ensure that known hooligans weren’t flying into neighbouring countries and then hopping over the border. Never had he thought it necessary to check flights coming in from places like the Middle East. But it was starting to make sense.

What didn’t make sense, however, was why they were doing it and why members of his group had never been caught at any previous matches. This was going to be a tough nut to crack, but time was running out and Milton knew he was taking the biggest gamble of his career.

The weather had been warm for September in London, but nothing could have prepared Milton for the heat that swamped him when he arrived in Dubai. It was as if he had walked into the firing line of a blowtorch. Despite it being 1.00 a.m., it was hot, very hot. Bloody hot!

He battled through the huge crowds of Asians and Africans hanging around the arrivals lounge and saw the welcoming sign of his name written on a placard held by a smartly dressed Indian man.

“Hi, I am Mr Milton,” he said, shaking hands and dabbing his leaking brow with a small handkerchief.

“Welcome to Dubai, Mr Milton, where all your dreams come true.”

If only life were that simple, Milton thought. But he was happy to have arrived and didn’t want to dampen the spirits of his jolly new companion.

“My name is Gopal and I will be driving you to your hotel, which is about 15 minutes from here. Let me take your bags, sir.”

The slightly built young man, who was only around five feet tall, reached for Milton’s larger-than-average suitcase and could barely lift it from the floor. Milton grabbed it back from him and swapped it for his easier-to-handle shoulder bag.

“Why thank you, sir,” said a relieved Gopal.

The pair pushed past the masses that seemed to be milling around the pavements as if waiting for the arrival of a film star.

“Oh, they are stupid some of these people,” Gopal stated with a slow wobble of his head.

“They have family coming to stay and they just come and hang around the airport for the whole day. Most of them are Pakistanis you know.”

Milton could detect the Indian/Pakistan rivalry instantly in Gopal, who added, “They are bloody useless at cricket too!”

Milton climbed into the back of a minibus, which was exclusively his.

His arrival in Dubai was a closely guarded secret between his unit and his superiors. The Dubai authorities were totally oblivious to his being there, although Waite had handed over the contact details of the elusive Captain Ali just in case.

“At least he can show you where the best mosques are, sir, should you need to pray,” Waite had joked.

Milton intended to carry out the preliminary groundwork and then call in reinforcements if required. He decided that his role should simply be to gather intelligence. The actual operation to smash the mob should be carried out at one of the two remaining matches in France or Germany. He had given himself a week to find and befriend Jacks and to go from there.

“That is the Creek Golf Club, sir.” Gopal pointed to an incredible piece of architecture situated on the banks of what looked like a wide river. “The clubhouse is in the shape of a sail you see.”

Milton smiled as he saw Gopal continue to wobble his head as he spoke. His action reminded him of the old BBC comedy show It Ain’t Half Hot Mum where the British jungle troops were joined by a hard-working Indian.

Catching him smiling in the rear-view mirror, the polite Indian enquired, “What is so funny?” Again he wobbled his head.

“That is!” he replied.

“What is?” he asked with another wobble.

“The fact that you wobble your head every time you speak. Why do you do it?”

“Oh, sir, it is Indian tradition. Whenever we speak we wobble our heads, just like in England you move your hands when you talk, no?”

“I suppose so,” admitted Milton, moving his hands in acceptance.

“You blondies call us Jinglies here in Dubai.”

“Jinglies?”

“Yes, Jinglies. You see you blondies think we wobble our heads like a bell ringing.” Gopal then broke out into song: “Jinglie bells, jinglie bells, jinglie all the way … you know the song. See? Jinglies?”

Milton nodded with a chuckle. He felt comfortable with his new companion.

“Gopal, how about you take me on a quick guided tour of the city? I’m not feeling tired at all and I will make it worth your while. I will tell your boss that I got lost at the airport or something.”

“Very well, Mr Milton, I will show you Dubai by night.”

On first impression, Dubai looked spectacular.

His journey from the airport took him over Maktoum Bridge, which straddled the two oldest parts of the city, Bur Dubai and Deira. The piece of water it traversed was called the Creek, an inlet on which the city was developed.

Despite it now being almost 2.00 a.m., the city seemed alive, the roads buzzing with cars and taxis and the Creek lined with small wooden boats stacked full of just about everything imaginable.

Gopal explained that the boats were called dhows and were used by Iranians, Omanis and various other nationalities from the region for transportation. He said that everything from kitchen sinks to weapons and drugs were transported, not to mention illegal immigrants.

“If you get into trouble with the police, this is your lifeline out of here on one of those!” Gopal had pointed out.

After driving through Bur Dubai, Gopal looked to be heading towards a stretch of highway lying at the foot of a huge number of high-rise buildings, which comprised of some incredible architecture.

“These are the tampax towers,” laughed Gopal.

“Please explain?” asked an increasingly inquisitive Milton.

“You see, these buildings are where many of the Emirates Airline hostesses live. You just haven’t lived in Dubai until you have woken up in one of these buildings!”

He went on to point out the blue building, pink building and white building. Surely Gopal did not speak from experience? Milton thought.

It was an incredible stretch of road, with maybe 30 skyscrapers and the highlight being two enormous buildings at its entrance.

“Those are the Emirates Towers, second only to Kuala Lumpur as the tallest towers in the world. It is a five-star hotel and an office block. Very nice, no?”

Milton looked up at the towers with mouth ajar. Indeed it was impressive and he had the feeling that money was no object when it came to construction in Dubai.

Gopal continued to drive down the four-lane highway, weaving in and out of traffic as if there were no rules of the road. At one stage he had to pull sharply out of the fast lane as a light yellow Ferrari flashed by in a blur with two young Arabs in national dress in the front.

“They are crazy kids and you just get the hell out of their way,” shouted Gopal from the front.

“Whatever you do in Dubai, Mr Milton, just remember not to upset a local Arab because you will be in deep trouble. Just keep your distance from them and you will love it here. They are okay in general but they can have you thrown into prison with a simple phone call to a brother, cousin, or uncle in the local police force.”

“Thank you, Gopal,” Milton said and realised he had just absorbed some priceless information.

The tour continued into an area known as Jumeirah. Gopal explained that this was where a lot of the Arabs and richer expatriates lived. It was a huge, sprawling urban area with some of the grandest houses Milton had ever set eyes on. There were statues of eagles and horses on gates, Porsches and just about every sports car and four-wheel utility parked out front, not to mention CCTV and elaborate lighting.

“They say that the Russian mafia run their operations from Jumeirah,” said Gopal, who then unsubstantiated his claim. “Although that could be me talking just rubbish.”

After driving for what seemed like forever through the maze of grand housing complexes and villas, the tour arrived at Dubai’s jewel in the crown.

“They say that this place cost over one billion dollars to build. Not bad for a hotel, no?”

It was the place that Milton had seen on numerous travel programmes and now there it was in all its glory, the Burj Al Arab.

“It translates as the Arabian Tower. It has 200 suites and they say the Sultan of Brunei hires a whole floor when he comes to visit.”

It was an incredible sight.

Gopal parked up at the entrance and Milton climbed out to take a closer look at this awesome feat of engineering, although as there were guards on the gate it could only be admired from a distance.

Built on a man-made island some 100 yards offshore, the Burj Al Arab stood at 400 metres high, making it the tallest hotel in the world. It was erected in the shape of a sail and a dramatic light show changed the hotel’s canopy from yellow to green to blue at regular intervals. Parked out front were a dozen silver Rolls Royces and flames gushed out of two pillars at the entrance.

“The Rolls Royces are for airport pick-ups. Unfortunately the Pheasant Hotel can only afford this shitty minibus.”

Gopal went on to explain that real gold was used in the hotel’s interior and only the best of everything went into its fixtures and fittings.

“They say it will never recoup the expenditure, but that was not the point of its construction. It has helped to put Dubai on the map, which in turn attracts people here. You see the ruling family here are very clever. They know they have to spend to attract. That is why in Britain you people are so stupid.”

The comment made Milton raise his eyebrows, but he resisted the temptation to say something argumentative and just listened.

“Take your Millennium Dome, for example,” Gopal continued, and Milton started to realise that he was dealing with a very bright young man.

“Biggest waste of money in our history,” replied Milton.

“You see, that is where you are wrong.”

Milton continued to listen with interest.

“Okay, so the Dome itself doesn’t make money. But do you think people come to Britain just to look at one thing and then leave? Of course not. The Dome helps to attract people into the country who then spend money on hotels, restaurants, transport, shops, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. If you then add together the money they spend as a total, you will see that the Dome in fact has helped to put billions of tourism pounds into the economy.”

Gopal did have a point, and as they pulled away from the splendid Burj Al Arab Milton asked, “So how come you know so much about these things?”

“Oh, sir, I have a degree in tourism marketing from the University of Calcutta,” he replied with huge pride.

“So why on earth are you here driving a bus to and from the airport,” asked Milton, who was saddened by what he heard next.

Gopal went on to explain that almost every penny of his parents’ savings had gone into his education and what little was left they had paid to an employment agent who promised riches in the Middle East for their eldest son.

Gopal had thought he was travelling to the land of milk and honey to become a marketing manager for a five-star hotel. It was only after arriving that he found out that in fact he was taking up the position of a driver at the three-star Pheasant Hotel.

Unable to tell his family for fear of breaking their hearts, he had continued the job for the past 15 months, sending all available money back to India for nine members of his family to live off.

“How much do you earn if you don’t mind my asking?”

The reply shocked Milton even more.

“Six hundred dirhams per month and I work 14 hours per day for six days!”

Simple calculation told Milton that this man was getting paid just over 100 pounds per month for almost 350 hours’ work.

“That is outrageous,” he said. You should report them to the authorities for that sort of treatment. It is slave labour.”

“Nothing I can do, Mr Milton sir.” Gopal’s wobbling head was prominent again. “No one would listen. There is no minimum wage and I’m afraid that there are thousands, if not millions, of people from my home country who would love to be in my position. I am just lucky to have a job. You know hotel managers don’t earn this wage back home and I also get bed and food so it is not too bad.”

Milton just couldn’t work it out. He had seen splendour beyond his wildest dreams in the past hour and yet the people who made the place tick were being treated no better than animals. Even the dogs in the Met Police got bed and food, he thought.

This astute young man, with a college education that would make him a relatively wealthy man in the West, was earning little more than the animals in his own police force.

It angered Milton, but the smiling face of his driver and his pleasant nature told him that he was a happy man and he had no reason to get involved. After all, he was there to do a job and get out as soon as possible.

“Here we are, Mr Milton sir, the Pheasant Hotel. I am sorry it is not quite the Burj Al Arab but it is clean and tidy nonetheless,” said Gopal.

Milton peeled a 50 dirham note - worth less than 10 pounds - from his wad and slipped it into Gopal’s top pocket. It was the equivalent of half a week’s wages for the young man, who accepted it with glee.

“Thanks a million, my friend,” Milton said with a slight wobble of his head. In response Gopal laughed and hugged Milton with great affection.

Milton knew he may need someone with Gopal’s local street sense and made sure he got his mobile phone number during the journey back.

Indeed the Pheasant Hotel was not quite the Burj Al Arab, but Milton was feeling tired now and was desperate to catch some sleep. He had a long day ahead of him tomorrow and was eager to wake up fresh. He checked in and got to his room quickly. He was so tired that he could not actually remember going to bed.