3

  Reclining comfortably, a sexy Russian redhead beside him on the bed, Chad gazed out of his hotel window at the creek below. It was 2 a.m., and he had completed his first week in Dubai. The creek was mostly quiet, but on one of the wooden dhows parked three deep in the water, loading still continued. The dhows amazed him. He had learned that they were even now constructed much the same as they had been for centuries, except that they were now driven by diesel instead of wind power, and were extremely sea-worthy and rarely sank. The dhows, looking tiny and over laden, were actual ocean faring vessels, moving cargo from the Persian Gulf to India, Pakistan, Somalia and further.

  The girl had cost him 750 dirhams, the local currency, about $200, but she was worth it. Young, beautiful, and willing to do anything he fancied, he had picked her up at a bar in a nearby 5-star hotel disco packed with fresh young arrivals from ex-Soviet countries. She said this was her first visit to Dubai and that she had never done it for money except after arrival a few days ago. She liked Dubai.

  So did Chad. The weather was great, the city cosmopolitan, humming with activity, and safe. His days passed pleasantly – searching for accommodation, shopping, a bit of sightseeing, a trip into the desert, afternoons at beach and pool, and steamy nights with gorgeous young hookers.

  Chad had been re-employed by Citizenbank. To the amazement of both Warner and Michel, they discovered that Chad had actually resigned his position in the bank before leaving New York. He was to be re-employed as a new, locally found employee, and no one was to know that he had been sent by New York. They had no option but to comply, but George Warner and Michel Chamoun speculated and gossiped late into the night.

  The very day he bought a vehicle, Chad entered Michel’s office, looking distraught. “The owner of the villa has confiscated my deposit, Michel,” he said.

  “How? Confiscated? Forfeit, you mean?”

  “Yes. I gave him twenty-five percent up-front in cash, with the understanding that he would return the money when I handed him Citizenbank’s cheque for the full amount. We agreed to three days. Those three days he dodged me, and now he says he won’t return my money. Matter of fact, he now refuses to rent the villa to me.”

  “Got anything in writing?”

  “No. He’s a big man; this one property alone contains over two hundred villas. He gave me his word.”

  Michel sniggered. “Word?” He slapped his desk. Warner peeped in just then. “George, Chad gave money to a local, and took his word - the word of a local.” Warner entered, hastily shutting the door behind him, as he too began laughing.

  “We shook hands,” said Chad gravely, causing the senior men to guffaw. “He took the name of God; he promised,” persisted Chad, driving the two laughing men hysterical.

  As Chad stood around, shocked, his bosses got hold of themselves. “Chad,” said Warner, still giggling, “you have a lot to learn. These are the world’s greatest liars and its most blatant thieves. They make laws to steal, and when you start regularly reading local newspapers, you’ll find them in open debate daily over new, extremely inventive laws designed exclusively to rob expatriates.”

  “Cheating is their principal defining characteristic,” said Michel. “They’re just dying to convince that their word is good and that they are honourable men, purely to cheat. They love lying and cheating.”

  “And downright stealing and robbing,” added Warner. “You have to be very careful when dealing with these people. They pretend to be insulted when their word is not taken as binding, precisely so that they can avoid paperwork. Paperwork is proof, Chad, otherwise it’s your word against theirs – and they always win. Be very careful in future. Yours is a little pocket money, a deposit against rent, but we can show you hundreds of businesses and dozens of factories stolen from expatriate owners.”

  “But the man swore and took God’s name,” insisted Chad.

  “Ah, Inshallah,” said Warner. “Was it Inshallah?” Chad nodded. “Michel, tell him about Inshallah.”

  “Chad, Inshallah, or to be accurate, Insha-Allah, is to be understood if you are to survive in this part of the world,” said Michel. “Inshallah is, when honestly spoken, the best phrase in all the world’s languages, leave alone Arabic. It means God willing. Muslims, excepting Gulf Arabs, mean it as it translates; it’s quite a powerful oath, and most Muslims consider themselves bound to undertake fulfilment of implied promises when saying Inshallah. Not so these people. Inshallah is a cheating tool, and when one of them invokes it, know for sure he means to cheat you. Nobody here accepts Inshallah as a promise. It is, when uttered by these people, an absolute guarantee of insincerity, and every year thousands of people are cheated in Dubai alone by locals who dupe them into accepting their word. They try very hard to convince people to leave paperwork for later, why bother now? You have my promise and God is my witness, but when it comes to the crunch, they comfortably hold the Quran and lie. Their love of cheating and stealing knows no bounds.”

  “Shit, I didn’t know. I reckon I’ve lost my money. And the villa.”

  Warner raised a hand. “Maybe, Chad, and maybe not. Depends on who the guy is. Big man, huh?’

  The crook turned out, appropriately enough, to be a customer of Citizenbank, and Michel sorted it out - though the man swore every oath to prove his entitlement to swallow Chad’s advance.

  Chad soon moved into his villa, in a compound of similar villas, with shared swimming pool, gym and sauna. He had a generous furnishing budget and managed to set the villa up nicely. His vehicle entitlement had allowed him to buy a top-of-the-line 4-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee. His tax free take home pay had been settled at much more than he had been getting in New York, and his electricity, water, fuel and telephone bills would be paid by the bank. Carl Snyder was deftly placing his Man Friday in the theatre of operations.

  The only other anxiety Chad experienced in this period was when he was told to go for a blood test to be conducted at a government hospital. What for, he had asked, a little annoyed. For AIDS, the personnel chap had replied. For AIDS? He had gulped fearfully, thinking of the whores, but had calmed himself down with the reassuring thought that if that was the system, the girls he had taken to bed had obviously also been tested and were therefore clean and AIDS-free. Not at all, said the personnel chap, realising, by the look on his face, that the American had been at the nightlife in Dubai. “Visitors are not tested for AIDS; only residents.”

  Good grief, thought Chad, dismayed, you can import AIDS direct from Africa, but not pass it around locally? But he fretted needlessly. His medical report was ready a day later, and he was okay on the HIV score.

  On his first working day, he again met Michel Chamoun in the latter’s large plush office. Michel welcomed him and enquired how he had been getting on. “Perfect. Everything has been sorted out perfectly,” said Chad.

  “We have a problem about an office for you,” said Michel. “There’s absolutely no room available in this building. Unless you’re okay operating from the credit cards office.”

  “No, I must be separate. My work is extremely confidential and highly sensitive. I don’t mind being in some other building.”

  “Then, no problem. We have many offices, actually many floors of offices, walking distance, one or two minutes only. Best is to go around with someone from properties and see what you like. Want to do it immediately? We can have lunch together later.”

  Chad Durbin found his office in the first building he visited. It was on the top floor, floor-7, and he had a view. The entire floor was Citizenbank’s, but only one other office was occupied; a small brass nameplate on its door read ‘Citizenbank, Loans Department’.

  On the second day, as his office took shape, one of his neighbours looked in. He was a local Arab, about thirty, of medium build and height, sporting a moustache and a close-cropped beard. “You have come to share our private floor,” said he, nodding his head and watching Chad’s furniture being assembled. “You must be with Citizenbank.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Yes, I am. Nameplate’s going on later today. I’m Chad Durbin. You from loans?”

  “Yes, same bank. We’re brothers, ha, ha. I’m Jamal Hareb. You’re American, right? Come sit with us and have some tea or coffee. The carpet glue here will make you sick and dizzy.” Chad agreed. The glue was indeed going to his head, and he had been considering going out to find coffee. He followed Jamal into the loans office.

  Two despondent looking men sat on a sofa, fidgeting. In a far room, which Chad could see into through its open door, a woman waited at a desk with no one behind it. “That’s my room,” said Jamal. “Let’s sit in this room. Hey, Larry,” said he to the room’s occupant, “meet a countryman, Chad. He’s with Citizenbank too, the guy moving into 703.”

  “Hi, Chad,” Larry came around his desk and shook hands. “Sit down, sit down. We’re neighbours, eh? Tea? Coffee? Coke?” Chad noticed that Larry had a pronounced limp.

  Larry Gregg was thirty-two years old, and had been with the bank almost four years. He was single, thin and pale, with a gloomy, slightly seedy look about him, staring at his computer screen while talking. Chad was to discover later that this was, by and large, how Larry spent his working day.

  Suddenly, a male voice started shouting in Arabic, from a room that had its door shut. Chad was startled and peered round out of the door, to see the two men on the sofa at the reception seeming to shrink into their seats, eyes darting nervously here and there. Larry, however, was unperturbed, and behaved as though nothing unusual was happening.

  Jamal, brows furrowed and mouth open, rushed into the room where the action was taking place, slamming its door shut and joining in with raised voice. They shouted together, the unknown shouter and Jamal, and then began coordinating and shouting in turns. Between the bouts of yelling, a small defensive male voice could be heard pleading. The unknown aggressive male began thumping a desk, the tempo rising, and coordination was lost again. The whole thing continued a good five minutes. Then a shaky low voice could be heard, and by the tone, Chad could tell it was surrender.

  Jamal wandered back, grinning. “Motherfucker,” he said.

  “I told you guys to fuck that bastard first and talk sense into him afterwards,” said Larry.

  “We’ve done it, Larry. He’s agreed.”

  Chad saw an unfathomable look pass between the two. It was exchanged in a flash, before Larry half closed his eyes and nodded. “How long?” he asked.

  “Two weeks. Bashir’s sorting it out.”

  “That’s too long, Jamal. Why the delay?”

  “Delivery is immediate.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.”

  A few minutes later, a very shaky thirtyish Arab walked out of the room in which the shouting had taken place. His head hanging low, he walked to the door, to which he was seen patronisingly, an arm around his shoulders, by a very fat black man in an ill-fitting green suit and white sports shoes. A red and white polka dot tie hung loosely from his neck, and his blue shirt’s collar button was undone.

  “He who the lion catches, must buy his way with meat,” said the black man. “An old African saying. Remember it, my friend.” The shaky Arab hung his head ever lower as he walked through the door.

  The fat black man, with an odd British accent, was Ibrahim Bashir, Sudanese, aged forty-seven. He turned from the door and addressed one of the nervous guys on the sofa. “Hey, Gopal, got it?”

  “Sir, I have half in cash with me,” replied the young man, standing up like in front of a school headmaster.

  “Half? Gopal, Gopal, Gopal, you defaulters are all the same. You never learn till you get a good whacking. Spare the boot and spoil the child; an old native saying. But Gopal, half is only half. Didn’t you go to school? Or did you go to some dirty rotten school because dad spent his money on booze and whores? What about the other half?”

  “Sir, my new employer has written a letter for you. Sir, please.” Gopal spoke gaspingly, and proffered a letter in a transparent plastic folder, his hands trembling violently.

  Bashir put an arm around Gopal’s shoulders and walked the few steps to Larry’s office, dragging the fellow with him, stopping at the door. He held the poor bastard tight and glanced through the letter. “His new employer guarantees the balance,” he said.

  “He’s a good boy,” said Larry, without looking up.

  “You’re a good boy, hear that, Gopal?” said Bashir, squeezing the latter’s neck, his arm having slid up from the unresisting man’s shoulders.

  “Yes, sir,” said the hapless Gopal needlessly.

  “He agrees with you,” said Jamal, laughing.

  “He’s okay. Let him go,” said Larry, grinning at Bashir.

  “You heard that, Gopal? You can travel. Pay cash at the counter; do it today. Go.” Bashir withdrew his grip from around the young man’s neck, losing interest.

  “I can go, sir?” asked Gopal hesitantly.

  “You want us to change our mind?” threatened Jamal, coming to stand next to Bashir.

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir.” Gopal left hurriedly.

  “What about him?” asked Bashir, indicating the man on the sofa, who had assumed a most hopeful grin.

  “He’s going to jail,” said Jamal. The man slumped like a bullet had found him. “I’ve told him to go home and enjoy his last moments of freedom before the police pick him up. I’ve returned his papers to legal for action. I don’t know why he’s still here.” He addressed the young man. “Riaz, go away. If I see your thief’s face any more, it’ll become worse. Do you want me to call the police here?”

  The man on the sofa leapt up and threw himself at Bashir’s feet, clinging to a fat leg and pleading. “Please, sir, please, one more month, please. I can do it after one month. Next month, sir, please help me, sir, give me one last chance, please.”

  Bashir grinned at Jamal and Larry. “What’s your problem, Riaz? Think of jail as home. You’ll find all missing family members inside. You Pakistanis are all criminals, no? There’s going to be a family reunion at last. Have you thanked Jamal for that? No? That’s very ungrateful.”

  Riaz now became fairly hysterical, grabbing at Jamal’s legs. “Please, sir, Mr. Jamal, you can do it. Just one chance. One more month and I’ll have enough to repay. As my brother, as Muslim to Muslim, please, I beg of you.”

  “One more month?” said Jamal contemptuously. “So that you can trick me and catch a dhow to Karachi? Up, stand up.” He grabbed Riaz by the arm, forcing him to stand, and pushed him out of the office. “You want to make a fool of me? Fuck off, you crook.”

  “Assholes,” Jamal explained to Chad. “They take huge loans, have a good time, and become brothers when they can’t repay. Assholes.”

  Bashir looked at Jamal and enquiringly raised his eyebrows, indicating Chad.

  “Meet Chad,” said Jamal. “The guy setting up office in 703.” Chad and Bashir shook hands.

  “Call the Australian airhostess please, Jamal,” said Bashir. “Tell her to make it tomorrow.”

  “She’s in my room.”

  “Shit, can you see her? I want to leave.”

  “Sure thing, man. I’m going to be here anyway. What do you want me to say or do?”

  “It’s okay. She can change her cheques. Get her to issue post-dated cheques on her new bank account, plus a security cheque. Oh, here’s Gopal’s letter. Ask an office boy to take it across, and tell the legal assholes that Gopal’s matter is closed. I’m leaving. It’s almost lunchtime. Larry, you coming in this afternoon?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Ahmed’s bringing photographs. You choose.”

  “Who Ahmed?”

  “The Algerian fellow in the morning.”

  “We’re getting choice?”

  “It’s about equal,” said Jamal. “I’ve checked it out.”

  “Anyway, let Larry choose,” said Bashir. “Pictures, Larry, pictures can lie, so choose wisely. I’ll call you guys in the evening.”

  The very day Chad settled into his new office, word came that Kerry was visiting soon. He had already commenced his travels, hopping towards Dubai, stopping at a couple of cities along the way.

  “Bob Kerry is arriving in a few days,” said Michel Chamoun, at dinner with Chad in a 5-star hotel. “We’re to meet together – the first meeting of the guidance committee. How’s your office coming along?”

  “It’s done. Two buildings away from HQ. In fact I’m ready to start work, and I’ll be needing you.”

  “Great,” said Michel. “Come and see me tomorrow. I don’t know what exactly you’re here for, but whatever it is, let’s get you started.”

  The next day, Chad was at Michel’s office. “I need to have a survey conducted,” said he, after the usual pleasantries, “to find out how credit card customers use monthly statements.”

  “Use monthly statements?” said Michel disbelievingly. “Toilet paper probably. Who cares what’s done with statements? Use statements? What do you mean?”

  “Precisely that. How many read it, how many study it carefully, how many keep it, how many don’t read it, how many throw it away. Whatever they do, we need to know. Accurately.”

  “Why? It hardly matters as long as they pay up. Or does it?”

  “It matters a lot - it’s the starting point of our new product.”

  “New York’s said you’re to have whatever you want. No big deal. We have a contract with a company, the name escapes me, but it’s no problem, and I’ll instruct that your orders be executed. When do you want it done?”

  “Immediately. The survey needs to cover a large cross-section of cardholders. A big sample is required.”

  “How big?”

  “How many credit card customers do we have in the region?”

  “Region? You want the entire Gulf surveyed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two million, plus minus.”

  “Then the minimum to survey is twenty thousand.”

  “Twenty thousand?” Michel was shocked. “That’s a huge number.”

  “It’s a huge project.”

  “George will go bananas if we spend that much money.”

  “Then he’ll have to go bananas. The second thing is going to cost more, much more.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A promotional offer for customers who’ve held credit cards at least six months.”

  “What promotion?”

  “A discount on minimum payment due, if they pay cash into a special box in our branches.”

  “Discount? George will go crazy.”

  “Better George than Snyder.”

  “Carl Snyder? The program originates from him?”

  “I told you it’s a huge thing.”

  “And how much discount?”

  “Fifteen percent, maybe twenty,” said Chad offhandedly.

  Michel looked heavenwards with a sigh. He sent for his secretary. “Rashmi, Mr. Durbin’s launching a new product. Very secret, spy versus spy stuff, so make sure not a whisper leaks out. He wants to run some surveys and promotions. Get them organised. Highest priority, dear.”

  “I also have to send a letter to a legal firm here,” said Chad. “I’ll need Citizenbank letterheads.”

  “Something wrong?” asked Michel, with an enquiring look. “If it’s Citizenbank work, we have a large legal department. I can ask it to assist.”

  “Nah, simple stuff. Instructions from New York that I can handle alone.”

  “Suit yourself. Take a few letterhead pads with you to keep in your office.”

  Chad followed Rashmi out and gave her his instructions. “I’ll get it organised immediately,” she said.

  That afternoon, he wrote a letter to Cohen & Partners in Dubai. It was time for Mohammed Eida to walk the talk.