Secret Skin (24 page)

He repeated the turning gesture.

‘Slowly, slowly,’ I said. ‘I get it, honestly I do.’

He grinned and placed a friendly hand on my arm. The foreman shouted from the driver’s seat and the tall man leapt into a crouched position behind the little car. The foreman edged the wheels back and forth, widening the groove in the sand until the wheels found traction, with a push from us he was out and away. He made it look effortless.

‘Thanks,’ I said to the men. ‘It’s nothing,’ their casual smiles and relaxed waves replied.

The foreman pulled up and left the car running with the air-con on full. When he got out I thanked him too.

‘Mani,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you sir. For looking after him.’

‘Please not sir, David, just David.’

‘Thank you Mr. David,’ he said.

‘No problem, but listen, you need to do something else for me.’

‘Tell me?’

‘I need you to hide him.’

‘Why,’ he said. ‘He is okay.’

‘What’s your name friend?’

‘Just call me Sunil.’

‘Sunil, for the next day or two Mani is in danger, not from me,’ I said responding to a sudden change in Sunil’s body language. ‘From that man, the one who was with me.’

He nodded understanding.

‘If I don’t do something by tomorrow Sunil…he’ll kill him.’

His shoulders tensed. He blew a sharp breath at me. ‘Then do it. Why must he die for something you must do?’

‘He mustn’t, that is why you must protect him. I will do what I can, but what that man has asked of me, if something goes wrong, if I fail, then you must protect your friend, okay?’

‘I will do that,’ he said. ‘Good bye Mr. David.’

‘Yeah, good bye Sunil, thanks again.’

He called for his men to walk back to site. Reluctantly they moved off, their impromptu break rudely interrupted.

Sunil turned to follow, and then turned quickly back.

‘Mr. David,’ he said, ‘what is it that you must do?’

‘Sell my soul Sunil.’

He gave me a look that said ‘don’t talk in riddles Mr. David.’

I sighed, how do I explain this? ‘He has offered me three million dollars of someone else’s money, if I don’t accept it, Mani will die.’

Sunil’s cheeks swelled and then he erupted with laughter. He bent at the knees to catch his breath and then grabbed me by the hand with stubby fingers that were soft like worn nubuck but tough from wear.

He forced himself to breathe and chuckled again. ‘Mr. David,’ he said, meeting my eyes, ‘Take it.’ He shook his head, ‘Just take it,’ he said again.

He turned for a final time and waved his helmet at me, following the path of his friends, laughing to himself.

What was the problem? Three million dollars of a dead crook’s money?

No problem at all. I drove home through easy traffic, listening to Maria B and feeling like I’d won the lottery.

***

When I got home I fired up my computer and set to work on the Akbar recording, a celebratory beer in hand. I was going to be a dollar millionaire. The Dubai dream come true.

I opened the recording in an illegal copy of Adobe Audition that I’d downloaded from the internet. I was a criminal too it seemed.

Not the same thing I told myself.

Then I thought it through. Akbar would presumably take the victor’s share of what was left of Sunset Height’s and Orsa’s capital to build his legacy. What would happen to the investors’ money? What would Akbar really do? 300 million was an awful lot of power if you were buying guns wholesale. Would he really just hand over three million dollars when I gave him the recordings?

I opened the audio file and changed the format to a workable size. The program visually mapped the recording, identifying the peaks and troughs of bass and treble, sharp spikes indicating where the wind picked up speed or voices were raised.

I clicked play halfway along one of the peaks and heard Akbar’s voice. Loud but not clear, distorted by distance, wind noise and a crappy microphone.

The sound editing software’s adaptive reduction tool filtered out the background noise. I gave the levels a few manual tweaks and then played back what I had. With the wind noise toned down Akbar was audible, slightly higher end than real life but enough for anyone who knew him to make the connection. I heard:

‘You have 24 hours to decide whether you want to take Orsa’s money and write the story of his demise.…’

Then the recording became a garbled electronic mess as a gentle breeze moved against the unprotected microphone. Even that sounded like a hurricane.

I clicked another earlier peak.

‘Why would you want to give me so much money?’

My own voice.

‘Ah, there you go, typical journalist, making assumptions. It’s not my money.’

‘Orsa?’

‘Yes, Orsa.’

‘Let me guess, he won’t be around to spend it?’

‘You are more perceptive than you look.’

‘So you are going to kill him?’

Akbar hadn’t responded, he’d been playing it careful. But a man trying to prove something always says too much. It was dynamite.

God how I loved computers when they worked.

I skimmed through the rest of the recording, lowering the scales and adding more filters to take down the hiss of the cheap microphone. When I finished what I had wasn’t perfect but good enough for an idea that was forming in the back of my mind.

Forget the three mill’.

It was hard enough making rich publishers hand over small sums for the articles they commissioned. Akbar would never do it. The only reason he hadn’t finished me off up there was because he thought I had something on his family.

And did I have anything? Not really, enough for an article but not to work over the captain and his promising career.

Akbar had a good line in smoke and mirrors though – an introducer’s fee indeed, all legal and above board. As if.

Someone was going to die here, that’s what it came down to.

If I fell for his line he’d have a dead Orsa, my recordings, some damn good PR and a scapegoat for the scandal of Sunset Heights. After that I was no use to him anymore. If he’d kill the big Russian, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. But then again he didn’t know I had this recording.

There it was. I had him. I had my three million and maybe more. If I still wanted it. Orsa would go down, the laborer would live, Yasmin would be free and I’d be rich.

Was that what I wanted?

Akbar had been right; the leap from hack to blackmailer was all too easy.

I re-entered the file and pasted a snippet of wind noise wherever I heard my name. Listeners would know who Akbar was but not the other speaker, not unless I told them.

Just in case.

I’d almost forgotten about the camera. I downloaded the mpeg video of Akbar and Orsa having their heated boardroom discussion, then backed up copies of all the files online as an insurance policy, my get out of Dubai free card. Finally I copied the Akbar file to a memory card and put that in my wallet.

Then there was nothing left to do but wait until morning. I cracked open another bottle of beer and imagined how I would have spent millions of dollars somewhere safe with Yasmin by my side.

***

The fantasy didn’t last long.

As Akbar predicted, sleep was never going to happen that night. I was too hyped up and tense running all the angles through my mind. After several hours of uncomfortable darkness the phone rang. No caller ID. Yasmin?

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Mr. David?’ a man replied. ‘Mr. David Bryson?’

‘Yes,’ I said cautiously.

‘Mr. David, I am Sergeant Walid of Dubai Police. You must be at the abra mooring outside the Grand Mosque in 45 minutes.’

My stomach sank. ‘Why?’

I could hear him shrug, ‘Captain Khadim orders it.’

‘It’s four in the morning, tell me why.’

‘I do not know,’ he said impatiently, he obviously didn’t like people asking questions. ‘You identify body. Talk to Captain Khadim.’

‘A body? Wait. What body?’ I said, but he had already hung up.

My mind raced. I swallowed the rising panic and drowned it in disbelief, but the same name kept bobbing to the surface. A dead body and Khadim wanted me to identify it.

Yasmin.

***

I probed the swollen eyelid as tenderly as I could.

‘No,’ I said, relieved, ‘no, it’s not her,’ and then repulsed by the sight of the damaged stranger before me.

‘It is her,’ the captain commanded.

‘It bloody well isn’t,’ I said, ‘and you know it.’ We glared at each other, neither willing to back down. ‘What would you like me to say?’ I said, keeping my voice flat, emotionless.

‘That it is her, Yasmin Souri, a common prostitute, illegal immigrant, and your lover. Cause of death—drowning while intoxicated.’

‘Captain Khadim, I can’t say that because it’s not her, and she hasn’t been out of the water long enough for you to know what caused her death.’ My emotions showed. He seemed pleased. ‘The official line is that there is no prostitution in Dubai. Are you now admitting that there is?’

‘Did you hear me say those words?’

‘What are you hiding Khadim?’ I said dropping the title he was so proud of. ‘Where is Yasmin? And who,’ I said pointing to the woman’s corpse, ‘who the hell is that?’

He scowled at the morning sun and pretended I didn’t exist.

‘You don’t give a damn, do you?’

‘Mister Bryson,’ he said, the hint of an English boarding school accent breaking through, ‘Do you see anyone else here?’ He gestured around us. ‘Apart from you, no one is even slightly interested in Miss Souri’s demise.’

‘I’ve already told you, it isn’t her.’

‘Actually I’m afraid that Miss Souri’s death is now a matter of public record and her body will be disposed of immediately. She will then simply cease to be.’ With that he allowed himself a sneer, a swift click of the heels and walked away.

He hadn’t brought me there to identify the body; he had brought me there to make a point. He controlled the truth, his friends controlled Yasmin and they thought I was theirs to control as well.

‘My sympathies are with the bereaved,’ he called back.

He meant me. But then I knew she wasn’t dead. Or maybe I just hoped she wasn’t.

With Khadim gone I stood for a few moments feeling useless and uncertain. I walked back to my car in a daze and watched the men lug the bloated corpse into the back of a medical van emblazoned with red crescents. No stretchers. I tried to get my head around what had just happened.

Was it Akbar’s final warning?

What if it was her?

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

What if I was wrong?

The neck brace was on the passenger seat where I’d left it. I should have been wearing it since I’d left the hospital but I was just too vain. I wondered whether it would really be any easier to drive with it on.

Then my carefully controlled story completely unraveled.

The men on the quay side stopped to stare at the western madman as he smashed his neck brace to pieces on the dashboard, pulled on the steering wheel until it unlocked; punched the roof, windows and seats and screamed at the top of his lungs.

It helped.

If it wasn’t her then who was the dead woman? And where was Yasmin? Was she safe?

I had no expert answers to placate a reader or an editor’s curiosity this time. No one else wanted to know. This was the reason I never went fucking jet-skiing or fell for nice girls. The only person asking questions about this was me. It was a full time job, plenty of overtime, low wages, no holiday pay, and definitely no sick cover. Just little old me, asking awkward questions and making as much noise as humanly possible.

Millions of dollars just didn’t compare.

‘Martin.’

‘Bryson, why do you keep calling me in the middle of the night?’

‘It’s the morning already.’

‘It’s just gone six.’

‘Yeah, well, I need a favor.’

‘Of course you do, why else would you be calling.’

‘I need your contact for Orsa.’

‘Orsa?’ he said waking up. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘You can’t tell me?’

‘No.’

‘Oh well, I can’t give you my contact then.’

‘Martin,’ I said, ‘look, I just need your help. It’s a favor, a big one I know, but this is personal. This isn’t work. I’ll make it up to you.’

‘What do you mean personal? Please tell me it’s not that damned woman.’

‘It’s not. I’ll explain another time, just trust me okay?’

There was a long sigh, followed by silence. ‘Okay Bryson. I’ll give it to you, but if you fuck this up for me….’

‘I won’t.’

‘You’d better not.’

***

I had one more call to make. I dialed in and waited. The phone only rang once.

‘Akbar?’ I said, there was a pause.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve made my decision.’

More silence.

‘I will give you what you need.’

‘As I knew you would,’ he said.

‘I need to give you the files. Can you meet me at the pier on Russian Beach at ten sharp? ‘

‘Yes,’ he said, trying not to gloat, the man who was so tired of winning. ‘I will see you there. Do not be late.’

He hung up first. He was the one in control after all.

***

I told Orsa’s lackey that unless I spoke to him his boss would be dead by the end of the day, he put me on hold. A few moments later the phone was picked up from another room in the house.

‘Who is this?’ Orsa said, gruff and groggy.

‘A friend.’

‘Friend’s don’t wake me with death threats,’ he said.

‘Akbar is going to kill you, not me. Do you want the proof?’

‘What proof?’

‘Audio.’

‘What do you want for this proof?’

I hesitated for a moment, dreaming of money. I could have asked for Yasmin, but then if anything went wrong she would be in harm’s way once again.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Nothing?’

‘Give me an address. In half an hour a taxi will pull up with a package for you. Download it to your computer and listen to it.’

He gave me the details for a villa in an expensive suburb near the beach.