On the tarmac in front of the terminal building were Russian-built Antonovs and Tupolevs. There was an old Yakovlev single-prop biplane. One airliner bore the livery and logo of Tajikistan Airlines. Dexter went up one floor to the roof café and took a coffee.
The same floor contained the admin offices, including the supremely optimistic Public Relations department. The sole inhabitant was a nervous young lady robed from head to toe in a black chador, with only her hands and pale oval face visible. She had halting English.
Alfred Barnes had now become a development officer for tourism projects with a major US company and wished to enquire about the facilities Ras al-Khaimah could offer to the executives seeking an exotic conference centre; especially he needed to know if they could be offered airport facilities for the executive jets in which they would arrive.
The lady was polite but adamant. All enquiries regarding tourism should be addressed to the Department of Tourism in the Commercial Centre, right next to the Old Town.
A taxi brought him there. It was a small cube of a building on a development site, about 500 yards from the Hilton and right on the edge of the brand-new deep-wat
er harbour. It did not appear to be under siege from those seeking to develop tourism.
Mr Hussein al Khory would have regarded himself, if asked, as a good man. That did not make him a contented man. To justify the first, he would have said he only had one wife but treated her well. He tried to raise his four children as a good father should. He attended mosque every Friday and gave alms to charity according to his ability and according to scripture.
He should have progressed far in life, inshallah. But it seemed Allah did not smile upon him. He remained stuck in the middle ranks of the Tourism Ministry; specifically, he remained stuck in a small brick cube on a development site next to the deep-water harbour, where no one ever called. Then one day the smiling American walked in.
He was delighted. An enquiry at last, and the chance to practise the English over which he had spent so many hundreds of hours. After several minutes of courteous pleasantries – how charming of the American to realize that Arabs do not like to delve straight into business – they agreed that as the air conditioning had broken down and the outside temperature was nudging 100 degrees, they might use the American’s taxi to adjourn to the coffee lounge of the Hilton.
Settled in the pleasant cool of the Hilton bar, Mr al Khory was intrigued that the American seemed in no hurry to proceed to his business. Eventually the Arab said:
‘Now, how can I help you?’
‘You know, my friend,’ said the American with seriousness, ‘my whole life’s philosophy is that we are put upon this earth by our mighty and merciful Creator to help one another. And I believe that it is I who am here to help you.’
Almost absentmindedly the American began to fumble in his jacket pockets for something. Out came his passport, several folded letters of introduction and a block of hundred-dollar bills that took Mr al Khory’s breath away.
‘Let us see if we cannot help each other.’
The civil servant stared at the dollars.
‘If there is anything I can do . . .’ he murmured.
‘I should be very honest with you, Mr al Khory. My real job in life is debt collector. Not a very glamorous job, but necessary. When we buy things, we should pay for them. Not so?’
‘Assuredly.’
‘There is a man who flies into your airport now and again. In his own executive jet. This man.’
Mr al Khory stared at the photo for a few seconds, then shook his head. His gaze returned to the block of dollars. Four thousand? Five? To put Faisal through university . . .
‘Alas, this man did not pay for his aeroplane. In a sense, therefore, he stole it. He paid the deposit, then flew away and was never seen again. Probably changed the registration number. Now, these are expensive things. Twenty million dollars each. So, the true owners would be grateful, in a very practical way, to anyone who could help them to find their aircraft.’
‘But if he is here now, arrest him. Impound the aircraft. We have laws . . .’
‘Alas, he has gone again. But every time he lands here, there is a record. Stored in the files at Ras al-Khaimah airport. Now, a man of your authority could require to see those archives.’
The civil servant dabbed his lips with a clean handkerchief.
‘When was it here, this aeroplane?’
‘Last December.’
Before leaving Block 23 Dexter had learned from Mrs Petrovic that her son had been away from 13 to 20 December. Calculating that Srechko had snatched his photograph, been seen, knew he had been seen, and had left immediately for home, he would have been in Ras al-Khaimah about the 18th. How he had known to come here, Dexter had no idea. He must have been a good, or very lucky, reporter. Kobac should have taken him on.
‘There are many executive jets who come here,’ said Mr al Khory.
‘All I need are the registration numbers and the types of every privately or corporately owned executive jet, specifically owned by Europeans, hopefully this one, parked here between 15 and 19 December last. Now, I would think, in those four days . . . what? . . . Ten?’
He prayed the Arab would not ask how he did not know the make of the jet if he represented the vendors. He began to peel off hundred-dollar bills.