Candleburn (6 page)

12

Blake climbed into his Audi and drummed his hands on the steering wheel. He wanted to punch the living daylights out of something.

“Swallow
the anger,” he whispered to himself. “That path leads to a very dark place.”

He
switched on the car’s engine. He couldn’t go back in the office, not without losing his cool. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out the puzzle box.

He
turned it over in his palm. The side panels were clearly moveable. He clicked a few around to see what happened.

Nothing.

If anything the patterns of coloured wood on the outside appeared even less well arranged than before.

“Perhaps
you contain a clue to a story that’s actually worth covering?” he thought.

The
more he studied it, the more the box looked like an over-sized Rubik cube. He’d never been any good at rearranging the 1980’s craze. He thought through his contacts.

Qasid
Al Ghaf.

“Sod
it,” he said. “I may as well do something useful. Let’s see if a local expert can help me get into you.”

He
picked up his phone and shot his Emirati friend Qasid a text to say that he was dropping by. He then drove out of the car park and began towards the old financial district.

His
phone began ringing.

He
put it in the dashboard cradle and inserted his hands free kit into his ear. He hated the device. It made him feel like the communications officer from an old Star Trek show.

“Hello?”
he said as he overtook two Range Rovers full of teenage kids out cruising the streets.

“Hey
baby, it’s me!”

The
joyful tones of his wife. Blake’s heart lifted. Eleven years married and it still seemed like the best decision he’d ever made.

“Hello
my angel – how’s everything with you?”

“Fine,
fine,” Cathy replied, “but you answered the phone gruffly. You only ever do that when that bitch has been riding your case again. What’s Malice done now?”

Blake
eased onto the motorway and increased speed to match the traffic.

“Let’s
not even go there,” he replied. “Same old, same old. I’m not even sure why I let it get to me when I know exactly what she’s planning to do.”

“I’m
so sorry,” Cathy said. “Another shitty meeting, hey? What’s she given you as a story this week?”

Blake
needed to change the subject. Even though he still seethed inside and relished the chance to unload his frustration, he wanted to move his wife away from the stress of such subjects – it was important for her health.

“A
trade conference,” Blake growled. “No pictures or images there – kills any video piece or good photos for a paper story. But let’s talk of happier things. I received a mystery parcel today – a puzzle box. It wasn’t an off-beat present from you, was it? It’s right up your street.”

“Oh,
a mystery present! That sounds exciting!” she replied. “Nope – it wasn’t me, but if you like, I’m sure I could find a surprise or two here to post you! If only they’d actually arrive. Your postal system is awful.”

Blake
smiled.

“
Baby, I’ve been thinking,” Blake said. “How would you feel if I got another job? I want to quit the Journal and work somewhere else.”

“At
last,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that for a year. Do you think you’ll find something back here given the recession? Would you look for journalism or something else?”

And
that was the rub. Jobs in journalism were rare and getting rarer by the day.

“I
would change careers,” he said.

Silence.

“Blake Helliker if you start talking about consulting or a return to...” she said sternly.

“No,
no – not that,” he replied. “How about public relations?”

Silence.

“You are my husband,” she said. “If you’re unhappy, I’m unhappy. I only ever want you to do what you enjoy.”

“So
that’s okay?”

“If
you want to do it, I’m 100 per cent behind you,” she said. “You are a man of infinite talents. You know there’s only one set of them I don’t want to see returning to the surface.”

13

“I’d feel more comfortable if this was coming from Fedor,” Anatoly Anvarin said, placing his red wine glass back on the table. “He is, after all, my boss.”

Aarez
looked wistfully through the window at the panoramic view. He treasured the Skyview restaurant at the Burj Al Arab. He felt like the entirety of the world coalesced on this one spot, near the pinnacle of the sail-shaped, seven-star hotel.

The
azure beauty of the Gulf swept out, all the way to Iran, less than 150 miles away. Face in the other direction and the architectural splendour of the Emirates’ drew the eye towards the shimmering stalagmite of the Burj Khalifa: the world’s tallest building.

It
thrust upwards towards the sky – the striving destiny of man to enter the heavens.

The
restaurant was perfect.

Exclusive,
discreet and they even served excellent crab vol-au-vents.

“Who
made him the head of the Wolves?” Aarez said, picking up his own glass of wine and savouring its rusty bouquet before sipping from it. “Who gets you all your visas? Your access to this land of opportunity?”

“Still,”
Anatoly responded, “Fedor won’t like this. If you want me to do something, I’m sure he will comply – we’re a partnership. You talk to Fedor, Fedor talks to me. That is the way it works.”

Aarez
considered his reply carefully.

“Do
you see what I’m drinking?” he asked.

“Red
wine,” Anatoly replied cautiously.

“I
am an Emirati man, dressed in a dishdasha drinking alcohol in the middle of the day in one of this Islamic country’s most fashionable restaurants,” Aarez said. “No-one is batting an eye lid.”

Aarez
took another sip from his glass.

“We
are not a partnership,” he continued, “and your place is not to tell me what the limits of my power are. Your place is to follow my instructions as they are laid out.”

Anatoly
jumped in his seat as two hands, from nowhere, firmly gripped his shoulders. Thick and powerful. The Russian turned his head uneasily. The hands lifted and grabbed him on either side of his temples, forcibly redirecting his gaze back to Aarez.

“And
now, my lieutenant Oassan is manhandling you,” Aarez hissed. “Pointedly, you will notice that still no-one is interceding.”

There
was a flicker of concern in Anatoly’s eyes.

“So,”
Aarez said, “do we now understand one another?”

Anatoly
said nothing for a moment. Aarez could see him running through his options.

Fight?
Flight? Or submission?

“Yes,”
Anatoly replied, “Fedor is busy working on another project, overseeing it personally. As such, I am to assume control of the Wolves until his return. I will carry out your instructions.”

Oassan,
towering menace, slapped the Russian gently on the cheek.

“Good
man,” Aarez said. “You may go.”

Anatoly
stood with a measure of uncertainty, unaccustomed to being dealt with in this manner. Aarez enjoyed watching the man tread hesitantly away. He knew the Russian’s story well, as he did for all those he’d brought into the Emirates to run their local mafia.

Anatoly
was an excellent sniper, and an able second-in-command.

Unfortunately,
he was still too military, and not yet mercenary. That made dealing with him directly tricky, which was why Aarez had installed Fedor Milanovich as the head of the group.

With
Fedor busy, it left Aarez short on manpower to reclaim the puzzle box and contents.

Oassan
sat opposite his friend and clicked his fingers at the Spanish waiter. He ordered some food and pulled out a napkin, which he stuffed into the gap between his neck and kandura.

“You
think he’ll be trouble?” Oassan asked.

Aarez
narrowed his eyes.

A
large luxury yacht was sailing into the nearby marina. Soon, this project would pay off, perhaps as much as $100 million. A small amount, to be sure, but it was just the beginning. It would allow Aarez the lifestyle he wanted and the seed capital for his grand plan.

“He’ll
do what we want,” he said, still staring out of the windows. “He’s ex-Spetnaz and accustomed to taking orders, he just needed reminding of the true chain of command.”

The
waiter placed a plate of oysters on the table and Oassan began hungrily slurping them down.

“It
probably doesn’t hurt,” Oassan said, “that he knows we have his wife and children under guard in Vladivostok until this game is over.”

“Or
that displeasing us would result in him being buried in a Dubai jail for the next thirty years,” Aarez agreed. “Cooperating earns him more a month than he’d see in a year back home.”

“Carrot
and stick.” Oassan said.

“Yes,”
Aarez replied, “I do get the feeling, though that we’re not using enough stick.”

“You’re
not happy with our progress?”

“Losing
the puzzle box to that hooker was an unforgivable, sloppy mistake,” Aarez said. “We’re too deep into the race to change horses now. When this is over, we may need some fresh blood.”

Oassan
nodded.

“Agreed,”
he said.

“Also,”
Aarez continued, “given the Russians’ laxity in recovering the package, I think it might be worthwhile putting in place some back up.”

“What
did you have in mind?” Oassan asked.

Aarez
ran his finger around the rim of the wine glass until it resonated with the high pitched ring.

“Are
you still screwing that contact I set you up with at the Journal?”

“Absolutely,”
Oassan replied. “I knew that little bitch would prove useful eventually.”

“Given
our Russian friends’ tardiness...” Aarez said.

“It
would be my pleasure,” Oassan smiled. “They’ll know who has the box and key.”

“Good.
I want that package before the evening is over,” Aarez said. “And I want anyone who has come into contact with either to bare the calling card of Ash-Shumu’a.”

Aarez
flicked the side of the glass.

It
released an angelic ping.

14

In contrast to the Asian mafia’s hang out in the depths of International City, the Russian mob had its head office in the decidedly corporate Business Central Twin Towers.

Near
identical clones of New York’s Chrysler Tower, the elegant art deco style structures sprung from nowhere and dominated the Media City portion of town. Unlike Dubai’s other super-tall skyscrapers, these graceful spires stood alone among half a mile of low-rise offices. At night their curvaceous, chrome steeples were illuminated, providing a breath-taking landmark often overlooked by tourists.

“It’s
a shame about the bland name,” Asp said.

“I
agree,” Zain replied. “These have got to be the two most under-rated structures in the country.”

“They
also perfectly sum up the mind-set of the Gulf,” Asp said as they crossed the unpaved sand-lot car park that fronted the mall beneath the buildings.

“How
so?”

“You
have one Chrysler Tower,” Asp replied in a deep comedy voice. “We have two! Ha ha! And ours are thirty per cent bigger!”

The
Twin Towers were mostly home to advertising agencies, salesmen and dot-coms. Several of the companies within were clients of Chrome and Asp used this to get two security passes.

Exiting
the elevator on the 43rd floor, they entered a typical bean-bag chairs and funky lamps office that was the double of any other trendy agency they might find around the world.

“White
Wolf Consulting,” Asp noted as he walked past the Perspex sign outside the door. “For all your prostitution and extortion marketing needs.”

A
meeting of ‘pretty, young things’ was happening around a whiteboard in one glass-walled office. Each of the twenty-somethings listened to their boss as they stood around a foosball machine. Another empty room contained a pool table.

“You
really think this is the hangout of the Russians?” Zain asked.

“It’s
brilliant, isn’t it?” Asp replied. “Best money laundering operation ever. They can run anything through the books here that they like and claim it comes from the legit business. Then, with zero corporate tax, it instantly becomes totally useable cash anywhere in the world. Outstanding.”

Zain
silently agreed.

“Half
these girls probably graduated to posts here after working the hotel circuit for their pimps,” Nate added, “that is, if they’re not doing it still while trying to get a permanent post here.”

They
moved through into the jazzy neon lobby area. Asp resisted the urge to put his sunglasses back on. A voluptuous receptionist stood from her immaculate workstation and asked:

“Can
I help you?”

“Sure,”
Asp replied, “I’m looking for an appointment with Fedor.”

The
secretary visibly hesitated.

“Mr
Milanovich doesn’t usually take unsolicited meetings in this office.”

“He’ll
make an exception for me, I’m sure,” Asp replied. “Tell him it’s Nate Aspinal of Chrome and I need to discuss with him the aggressive restructuring of my staffing levels that he’s been making.”

“Er,”
the lady took a step back from her desk. “Sir, I don’t think that will be possible. He leaves the office at this time of day for lunch.”

Zain
looked at his watch.

“It’s
an unusual time of day for eating,” Asp responded.

“Sir,”
the secretary replied, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave...”

“Oh,”
Asp replied, “that sort of eating... well that puts a different spin on things. He’s in a meeting with Carlotta?”

“You’re
going to have to leave right now,” the receptionist blushed.

Asp
turned.

“We’re
going?” Zain asked.

“Yep,”
Asp replied. “I know exactly where he is.”

***

Qasid examined the puzzle box cautiously.

“It’s
beautiful.”

“I
thought you’d appreciate her,” Blake replied, sitting comfortably on the sofa in Qasid’s open plan lounge.

Qasid
Al Ghaf was an athletically built Emirati. His voice was low, dark, and silky. Yet, for all its gentleness it carried the considered weight of one of the greatest intellects Blake had ever met.

Qasid
was always immaculately dressed. His alabaster white kandura was pristine at all hours of the day. Pure cotton, yet somehow never stained or wrinkled. His closely cropped beard seemed never to lengthen or get shorter. There were never bags under his eyes or lines from a bad night’s sleep around his face. At all times, he seemed ready to be called for a cover shoot for GQ.

Despite
having the strong jaw and high-cheekbones of a catwalk model, Qasid ran his own company. He worked as a self-employed cultural ambassador – arguably the best in the country – used by every major multinational to provide lectures to expats from London, Paris or New York when they arrived.

He
probably did more than any other single person in the nation to keep new arrivals from falling foul of the many culturally specific laws that so often seemed to ensnare the unwary. For the British, per capita, more people fall afoul of the law in Dubai than in any other place in the world.

Qasid
taught them how to avoid offending the locals.

He
was the best because he avoided the usual simplistic mechanism of ‘don’t do this’ or ‘make sure you say that’. Qasid had a subtler technique. He taught you why the Emiratis thought and acted the way they did.

While
a single lecture could never reveal the true depth and complexity of a culture as esoteric as the UAE, Qasid correctly assumed that once you had an inkling of how Emiratis thought, you could understand or at the very least appreciate what would be appropriate and what was out of bounds.

On
the whole, Blake had always found Emiratis to be an exceptionally tolerant and forgiving people. If you showed the merest hint of trying to appreciate their customs, they would bend over backwards to accommodate yours in return.

“Now,
if I’m not mistaken, this particular design is Afghan in origin,” Qasid said.

“You
can tell that?”

“Yes
,” the Emirati replied. “The patterning is similar to a Persian device – but the wood, and in particular this decoration here, means...”

He
trailed off as he dug his nail into one of the inlaid panels. There was an audible click that echoed from the walls of his home. A small section of the wood lifted fractionally.

“Aha!
As I suspected,” he exclaimed with triumph.

Blake
leaned forward. The beautiful white and grey tiles of Qasid’s marble floor were cool under his feet. He’d left his shoes beside the door when he entered his friend’s palatial home.

“It’s
open?” Blake asked hopefully.

Qasid
creased with laughter.

“Oh,
goodness me no!” he said as he caught his breath. “But it’s ready to begin the process. The way it works is very simple. Watch.”

Qasid’s
fingers moved dexterously. He rearranged the tiles, shifting stamp-sized panes around each face of the box.

“In
olden times, when you wanted to keep an item safe you’d have a devil of a time – so this is like a safe. Now in early ones you had to reorganize the panels to form a pattern that worked like a combination lock,” he said, as he continued working the mechanism.

“Inside
is a small space – large enough for a photo or a message or a broach. There’s also a phial. Usually it contains a potent acid. Try to break in, the phial breaks and the contents are destroyed.”

“So
you need to be careful?” Blake said.

“Exactly.
Now this one is a later design and incorporates the combination lock theme with the need for a key. You see these holes here? There are five of them. It’s a final safety device. Only one keyhole is real. The others are fake. Put your key in the wrong hole and once again...”

“The
phial shatters,” Blake finished the sentence, “destroying the contents.”

“Right,”
Qasid said.

With
a final snap of his wrist Qasid finished manipulating the panels and showed off the five small keyholes, one in every face except the top.

“You
have the key, right?” he asked.

“Unfortunately
not,” Blake replied.

Qasid
paused. He thought for a few moments, then picked up his phone.

“Well,
let us circumvent the obvious ethical problems of breaking into a locked box. We’ll assume the person who sent it to you didn’t mean you to be unable to open it.”

Qasid
stood and walked across the wide expanse of the room to the back corner. Here a large breakfast bar extended away into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a large glass pitcher, which he filled with water and placed on the side.

“You
think I might have been sent it for safekeeping?” Blake asked, as he appreciatively accepted a glass of iced drink.

“It’s
possible but I don’t believe so.” Qasid said, pulling up a number on his phone. “I think you were meant to have the contents and use them.”

“Why?”
Blake asked.

“
You’re a journalist. Who would send you a locked box and expect you not to look inside? And fortunately for you I know just the gentleman to help us do just that.”