They drove down the al-Shindagha tunnel, which cut under a creek that divided the north of the city from the south, then emerged into the night. To their right was the blackness of the Persian Gulf, dotted with the navigation lights of passing ships. They drove past Port Rashid, then the Dubai dry docks, following the beach road south. Although the city had first-world roads and cars, driving standards were definitely third world, with little attention paid to keeping in lane, and most drivers pounded on their horns to proclaim their right of way.
‘We’re coming up to Jumeirah,’ said Muller. ‘It’s not quite Millionaire’s Row but it’s where the wealthy expats live.’ He unfolded a map and held it up against the dashboard.
Ahead, they could see a huge steel and glass structure shaped like the sail of a ship, on an island three hundred metres or so offshore. A gently curving causeway linked it to the mainland. It was the tallest building for miles, and easily the most impressive. As Shepherd watched, the lights illuminating it gradually changed from green to blue. ‘Wow,’ he said.
‘Yeah, it’s one hell of a thing, isn’t it?’ said Muller. ‘It’s the Burj Al Arab, designed to look like the sail of a dhow. It’s a thousand feet high, the tallest hotel in the world, pretty much the most expensive, and allegedly has seven stars, although that’s really just PR bullshit. But cheap it isn’t. Pretty much everything is gold-plated, they ferry guests from the airport in white Rolls-Royces, and you get your own personal butler.’
‘We’re not staying there, are we?’ asked Shepherd. ‘My credit cards are almost maxed out.’
Muller laughed. ‘I figured we were on a budget,’ he said. ‘We’re in the Hyatt, back near the airport.’
Halim turned away from the beach, past the wall of the city zoo, and headed east along a road lined with huge villas. ‘We’re coming up to it,’ said Muller, running his finger along the map. Halim indicated left, and turned into a side-road. He slowed the Land Cruiser to walking pace. Muller pointed to their right. ‘The white villa with the blue roof,’ he said.
The house was two storeys high, with large balconies on the upper floor. It was surrounded by a white wall, about ten feet high, and through an ornate barred gate they saw a black Mercedes and a green Jaguar XJS parked in front of a fountain.
‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.
‘Two or three million dollars’ worth,’ said Muller. He motioned for Halim to drive faster. ‘Fariq’s in business with a couple of local wheeler-dealers. One of them’s a minor member of the royal family, which opens a lot of doors out here. Locals have to be in partnership with every foreign business that opens up, but having a royal on board makes things a lot easier.’
‘I didn’t see any CCTV,’ said Shepherd.
‘There isn’t any,’ said Muller, settling back in his seat as Halim accelerated down the road. ‘Security’s minimal. There’s almost no crime in Dubai. It’s pretty much a police state. They keep tabs on the entire population, local and expatriate. The locals don’t need to steal and the expats are here to work. There aren’t many muggers or robbers, and those there are get caught pretty quickly. So, no armed guards, no CCTV, just a basic alarm system, and I doubt he even switches it on most of the time.’
Halim drove back towards the airport, and fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Bellboys in long grey jackets rushed over to carry in their bags. Muller insisted on taking the two metal cases himself.
Halim handled registration, then went outside to wait with the SUV while the three men headed for the lifts. The Major and Muller were on the ninth floor, and Shepherd was on the twelfth. ‘I’ve got a suite so let’s do the briefing there,’ said Muller. ‘Say, fifteen minutes?’
‘Fifteen it is,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll ring round and tell the guys.’
Muller and the Major got out of the lift and Shepherd went on up. His room was a decent size with a view over the sea. A coaster-sized metal disc with an arrow pointing to Mecca was stuck to the window sill. It was the only indication that the room was in an Islamic country.
Shepherd had a quick shower and shave, then headed down to Muller’s suite.
Armstrong, O’Brien and Shortt were already there, sitting at a dining-table and watching Muller stick a large satellite photograph on to the wall. A red arrow pointed at a walled villa. ‘This is Fariq’s house,’ said Muller. ‘Eight bedrooms, swimming-pool, servants’ quarters, garaging for four cars.’ He rattled off the details like an estate agent.
‘The servants live in?’ said Shepherd.
‘A man in his sixties drives Fariq around during the day and acts as a watchman when he’s out of town,’ said Muller. ‘The man’s wife does the housework and cooks if needed. According to my guys, the old man has a hearing aid that he takes out when he’s in bed, and the wife’s an early riser so she’s usually asleep by ten.’ Muller ran his finger along a wing that jutted out of the left-hand side of the house. ‘They have three rooms here, above the garage. Their bedroom overlooks the main road so they can’t see the rear garden.’
‘But their wing has access to the main house?’ said Shepherd.
‘A small staircase leads down from their sitting room into a hallway. From there, there’s a door into the garage, then another that leads into the kitchen of the main house.’
Muller took half a dozen photographs from a manila file and stuck them on to the wall in a vertical line beside the first. The top one showed Fariq bin Said al-Hadi. Below that they saw a woman in her mid-thirties, taken with a telephoto lens. Muller tapped it. ‘This is the wife, Fatima. She’s almost always at home.’ The three other photographs were of two teenage boys and a younger girl. ‘These are his children. The two boys are at boarding-school in the UK. The girl is at home. She’s seven.’
‘No guns?’ asked Shepherd.
‘No permits have been requested, so any guns in there would be illegal. But Fariq is just a businessman, no reason to have a gun.’
‘Lucky for us, right enough,’ said O’Brien.
‘What about our weaponry?’ said the Major.
‘I know you Brit special forces prefer the Browning Hi-power but they’re few and far between in Asia,’ said Muller, as he walked to one of the metal cases. He swung it on to the table and clicked open the combination locks to reveal four Glock automatics and a dozen magazines. ‘Are you okay with these?’
‘Glocks are fine,’ said the Major. He pulled one out and checked the mechanism, then looked down the sights. ‘Besides, the idea isn’t to shoot anybody.’
O’Brien took out another and handed it to Shortt, then gave one to Shepherd.
‘So I don’t get one?’ asked Armstrong.
Muller grinned and opened the second case. Inside was a Taser. ‘I figured something non-lethal might be of more use,’ he said. He handed it to Armstrong. ‘Effective up to twenty feet but ideally you make contact at ten. I’m sure you know the drill. Two prongs shoot out and the perp gets enough current to drop like a stone.’
Armstrong weighed the Taser in his hand. ‘I’ve used one before,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ve been hit with one.’
‘Get away,’ said Shepherd.
‘Did a non-lethal weaponry course a year or so back,’ said Armstrong. ‘Part of the deal was that we all had to experience the products on offer.’
‘Did it hurt?’ asked Shortt.
‘What do you think?’ replied Armstrong. ‘It hurt like hell. You just go into spasm and feel like you’re dying, but you’re not, and half an hour later you’re fine. But John’s right – you drop like a stone and you don’t even think about getting up until it’s switched off.’ He grinned and pointed the weapon at Shortt. ‘Wanna give it a go, Jimbo?’