The Devil's Handshake

30

Dubai

Sitting in his villa in the old part of Jumeirah, Navjot set down his secure sat phone having just finished briefing Ali on where the operation was with regard to the seduction of Wasir for the Director’s office. He reflected on their conversation for a moment.

With the hiring of Andrew Martin, he now had all the cornerstones in place. Later today he planned to introduce the future dictator of Adwalland to his new technical advisor, who had impressed him for, as promised, over the last month he had very efficiently delivered the recommended equipment on time and within the budget.

Despite Navjot’s doubts at the time, the refurbished Mil-17 helicopter had been sourced from Ukraine and was about to be refitted in Guinea Bissau by the Ukrainians, complete with its gun pods and rocket launchers.

Then a few days before they were ready to go they would use Wasir’s front-loading Il-76 plane to pick it up and fly it into Adwalland, offload it at the airport and then start the operation to bring into effect a regime change.

The former Guardsman had estimated he needed about two hundred men. At first Navjot thought that was an excessive number but to remain in tune with his cover he had accepted it.

Instead, he had asked. “Why Ukrainians for officers?”

“That is simple, dear boy, Gaddafi had them as officers of Tuareg in his old legion, so there is a natural mechanism of command for the NCOs.”

“That essential?” he had questioned.

“Very much so, I am afraid experience tells me that these things have a habit of getting out of hand, there is no such thing as a bloodless coup. If our friend Wasir is going to get dirty it is better that his Muslim foreigners do it for him rather than his Christian Mamluks,” he had said with sigh, before continuing.

“So if does happen we need to make sure up until that point arrives our orders are being followed,” he had said without emotion.

“Three degrees of separation Mr. Singh,” Tony Wilson had offered in support of his former boss who had sat in on the briefing.

At that precise moment, Navjot despite being an experienced operative, had started to feel incredibly guilty, but he had quickly dispatched it. He had done things in the past in the pursuit of terrorists that in some cases caused innocents to die this, however, with its capacity to be a bloodbath was something very different. It troubled him greatly.

When he was at the Farm, the lecturers had once made the trainees debate the thought process behind Winston Churchill’s decision to not to warn the residents of Coventry that Hitler was planning to level the city as a requiem to the Luftwaffe dead to protect the fact that they had broken the German Enigma Codes used for their coded radio messages. One thousand souls had lost their lives that night. In a war of attrition, terrible decisions had to be made, Churchill did not shirk them, nor would he. He suddenly remembered Jeremy Bentham’s famous quote, “It is the greatest good to the greatest number of people which is the measure of right and wrong.”

That didn’t make it any easier though. On his last operation in Pakistan before he was reassigned he had ordered the death of twenty people, some of them children, just so they could get a high value Al Qaeda operative who happened to be on the bus with them.

“No,” stopping his train of thought in mid flow. “Deal with this later once you get back home with the Langley shrinks,” he had lectured himself as he responded with a single nod of his head without emotion.

“I understand, Gentleman,” he had answered.

With the rest of the weaponry arriving from Thailand, it was not lost on Navjot that Martin deliberately used five brokers to make sure the purchases stayed below the radar.

“Clever,” he had said respectfully nodding his head towards the former Guardsman.

Finally, the ten refurbished Type 63 personnel carriers from North Korea would be delivered to Addis Ababa by way of China and then transported across Ethiopia on Wasir’s trucks to the border ready for deployment. Although he couldn’t show it as he wasn’t supposed to hold any knowledge of military matters and planning nevertheless Navjot was completely satisfied by the proposed plan from Martin.

So much so he had instructed Reza to wire the money through their British Virgin Islands front companies to the relevant lawyers Martin had used in each part of the world in readiness for immediate payment.

All he needed now was the Devil’s handshake with Wasir Osman Hassan.

Navjot picked up his mobile and called his asset in the Burj Al Arab, whom he had recruited when they had met at one of his friend’s Mahesh Tourani’s famous parties when he was establishing the Gourgamangi Singh identity in the early years when he was living in Dubai. Over the years, the asset had become an essential part of the SAD monitoring function on the comings and goings at the famous hotel often making sure Langley received excellent intelligence from the staff, who were always ignored while serving the targets.

It was not though until one particular operation that they realized just how unique he was. On that occasion when having spotted and reported that a senior dealmaker of Hamas was staying at the hotel with no minders as a guest of one of the Sheikh’s of a country sympathetic to the cause, he was asked to take him down in a joint operation with the Israelis.

At the time, Navjot and Ali had both been dead set against it, saying that he wasn’t trained for that kind of operation, but having been overruled by their immediate superiors they reluctantly lent him to the Israelis who had not been able to get a team in place fast enough with strict orders not to reveal his identity. Watching and waiting until the terrorist leader was in the sea with his young Jordanian girlfriend on the hotel’s private beach he coolly took the opportunity to swap his cell phone with a one that had been cloned. This cloned cell phone however contained fifteen grams of RDX explosives that young Israeli Shinbet courier had given him the day before.

Later that evening having followed terrorist out of the hotel and on into Deira, located on the other side of Dubai creek far away from the hotel cameras, the asset had waited. Then as the terrorist walked out of the offices he was visiting answering the call on his mobile phone he coolly and without hesitation remotely detonated the device killing the man instantly before calmly walking away as though nothing had happened, got into his Range Rover, and drove back to the hotel to carry on with his day job.

“Masterful and cool in his approach an absolute credit to your country,” the Shinbet Chief had written when he sent his thanks to the Director.

It was that point Ali and he realized they had recruited a very unusual operative.

The Israelis may have gotten the credit and had the Dubai Police running around trying to trace the steps of a phantom kill team, not to mention trying work out how the Israelis had done it—indeed this was one of reasons why they had gone over the top when they did actually send in a kill team in to take out Mahmoud Al-Mabhouh. One thing was absolutely sure about this operation was nobody suspected it was Sheikh of Dubai’s ‘hotel man,’ as he was known in the Emirate.

Quietly, when the man was on leave after he had traveled to Langley to obtain his Intelligence Star for that operation, he went onto the Farm for special training so they could upgrade his status. They had stood together in the reception room for his private ceremony surrounded by men and women who had never met him nevertheless saluting his bravery.

Asking if he was okay, fearing it was one thing to pass information along another to be asked to kill, for until an agent is faced with an extremely prejudiced situation despite all the best training in the world it stands for nothing until you have processed the baggage that comes with it, he received his answer.

“Never better, G!” he had replied with a smile.

“Because of me, the children on the West Bank get a chance to live whether they’re Arab or Israeli,” he had replied, as if touched by Navjot’s show of concern. “Don’t worry. I sleep like a baby at night,” he had rejoined. Navjot never doubted him after that as could see he meant it.

The click on the end of the line had brought his friend and asset on the line.

“Hi Rob…” he had said letting him know who it was.

“Gourgamangi! Great to hear your voice again,” he had replied with genuine warmth.

“I need favor old chap,” he had asked.

“Don’t you always, G!” he had laughed reverting to his nickname.

In a lightweight dark blue suit with a light blue silk tie, the typical color of hotel managers all over the world sitting in his office of the famous Burj Al Arab awaiting the arrival of Wasir Osman Hassan, was Robin “Rob” Ashley.

British born, single, with no ties he had joined the famous hotel group in early days of early of the Dubai boom at the end of 1990s. Tall with a strong chin and dark brown eyes, he was to all intents and appearances a loyal servant of the Sheikh of the Emirate serving as the organization’s development director and in a less visual role of a ‘fixer’ of deals when required by the Ruler’s Office. Although he hadn’t been originally trained as an intelligence officer, Rob nevertheless had all the natural skills to be one, with his ability to recognize that information was a tradable commodity and being able to act as necessary and coolly under a great deal of stress.

Immensely proud of his Intelligence Star he had earned for the take down a Hamas terrorist in his backyard and was locked up the vault in Langley, along with his freshly minted U.S. passport, and the monthly salary the Agency paid into an account for him that he would receive in full once he became surplus to requirements to the Sheikh or needed to leave immediately, nobody had known about his work outside the Agency not even his closest family.

Although he didn’t even know his friend’s real name who was also his ‘controller,’ their bond over the years had grown into a true friendship, and when he was first approached on a visit to New York in the “mid-noughties,” he did not have a clue that his friend whom he had a met at a party of one of the ‘true’ traders of the Emirate was actually an intelligence asset. Overweight, depressed and drinking too much over some of the things he had been asked to do in his employer’s service all that had changed the minute he went to work for Langley.

They gave him a purpose to his life. Now he was part of the secret battle against the terrorists of the world and was using his black book for something other than the whims of the royal family.

When the phone rang from the front desk advising him that his guest had just gone through the front gate, he left his office to meet him.

A seasoned pro at avoiding the killing humid heat of Dubai he arrived outside the famous hotel’s volcano fountain just as the black Mercedes Benz S500’s, with the flags of Adwalland on the front, passenger door was being opened by one of the lavishly dressed doorman. Ignoring the two bodyguards, Rob offered his hand to the man.

“Minister, welcome to the Burj Al Arab. I am Rob Ashley from the Hotel,” he said in his crisp public school accent, using the hallmark of the hotel of, “Always greet the guest before they greet you.”

Wearing a white linen shirt and black tailored trousers with sandals with large ‘rapper’ style Gold Gucci Sunglasses over his eyes, making him looking more like a pop star to him than a Minister, Wasir Osman Hassan replied.

“Thank you Mr. Ashley,” he said, firmly taking his outstretched hand in the process.

“Mr. Singh has asked me to look after you, so if you would like to follow me,” he offered as he gestured towards the open front door. Making small talk was something all trained hotel employees of a five-star hotel were taught to do yet sensing Wasir wasn’t someone who engaged in the art Rob instead just smiled politely at him.

Leading the way in silence up the escalator past the fish swimming behind the glass wall of the aquarium, past the indoor water feature, until they reached the lifts on the first floor at the back of the Hotel. Once inside, the lift dropped back down again to the Juna Lounge on the ground floor behind the vast aquarium.

The lounge, rarely used in the daytime was the perfect place; away from eyes, out of sight, and any possible surveillance equipment as there are no cameras on the floor unlike the conference rooms at the top of the hotel and as such that was why Rob had arranged for the lounge to be closed for a private meeting for his controller.

Opening the door, they found the Indian sitting in the seat in the corner smoking a cigar playing the part of a successful, rich Sikh businessman to the “T”.

Immediately on seeing them enter, the Indian got up to shake Wasir’s hand. As he took it, Rob spoke up.

“Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to it, but if you need anything let me know and I will post a Butler to look after you.” Before he left the room he gestured to Wasir’s bodyguards who hadn’t moved to follow him. Initially refusing, they finally did so when Wasir nodded his head for them to go.

Sitting back down, Wasir got right down to business straight away.

“Gourgamangi! I understand from Reza that you have a proposal for me,” he said coolly.

All he knew at that moment came from his friend from the bank while the both of them sat having a drink together in the hotel nightclub in Bur Dubai he liked because it was always stocked with blonde Russians, was that his new wealthy friend whom he had hosted on his recent trip to Borama was interested in exploring some business opportunities.

“A good one Minister,” replied Navjot as he exhaled smoke from his cigar before offering one from his case to Wasir, who took the expensive stick but chose not to light it, because his mind was focused on business.

“I would like to give you the opportunity as we discussed to take your rightful place as the leader of among your people,” Navjot continued.

“No point beating around the bush when offering to back a coup,” he had reasoned.

“I am listening,” answered the pirate cautiously rolling the cigar in his fingers as one would do with worry beads.

“If we become partners I will give you three million U.S. dollars for security provision now and another three per year followed by a undiluted thirty percent stake in any ventures we undertake together in Adwalland and anywhere else,” offered Navjot knowing full well it was higher what he had agreed to with Litchfield a few months ago on his yacht.

The pirate trying hard not to move his position forward so as not to show his delight failed, because old habits die hard. Navjot could see he had grabbed the man’s attention.

“A fair offer,” Wasir replied his composure restored.

“Which areas of our country are you interested in? I am sure the Energy and Resources Minister will be very helpful,” he asked and offered in quick succession with a cruel smile.

“All of it,” Navjot replied as he exhaled the rich smoke again.

“All!” Wasir answered in disappointment.

“That’s not possible. TLH and the Russians have already signed agreements with the Government,” he said as he waved his hand disappointed at the Indian’s lack of understanding of his country.

Ignoring the theatrics while he continued stare at the pirate to drive his statement, Navjot went for the kill.

“I have a solution I would like to put to you,” he said. He was actually thinking if he didn’t go for it then, nearly two months of work would be wasted. “What about if I could bring in technical assistance at my cost to help you to convince the tribal chiefs to support you?”

The ex-pirate’s eyes immediately narrowed taking in the Indian in the process.

“I am listening,” he replied, now clipping the cigar.