Andy McNab: Exit wound

We rattled over the immaculate lawns towards their balls. In the middle distance, yachts sailed past on their way down the Creek. Shiny steel-and-glass monoliths lined the drags like rows of giant dominoes.

Red Ken’s had landed on a decent bit of grass. We parked in the shade of a clump of palm trees and he shaped up to it.

Spag was straight down to business. ‘Red, you got anything new to tell me?’

‘No. Today is about getting Nick up to speed. Same as we would have with Tenny. We then keep our cover going tomorrow morning. Prep in the afternoon, and lift tomorrow night. Make the RV and then back for one more round before flying back to UK.’

Spag pointed a porky finger. ‘Enough with the bullet points – I need to know the plan, in detail.’

Red Ken selected another club. ‘All you’ve got to know is that we’ll be at the RV and we’ll have the doors.’

The plane would be at the airstrip at 0130 hours Friday morning, and would stay on the ground for thirty minutes. Spag said air-traffic control had it logged in as a normal private flight, carrying out a drop-off.

I put my hand up. ‘I have a question.’

Dex was out of his buggy and peering up the fairway like an explorer, throwing up bits of grass in the non-existent wind.

Red Ken and Spag said it together: ‘What?’

‘How do I get my money?’

Dex turned back, swinging a club from the bottom end. ‘It’s all sorted, chappie. Spag has given us all half a bar USD as a down-payment. Tenny wasn’t too keen on having his share in advance, while he was still serving our noble Queen.’

Red Ken motioned him on. ‘Oi, shit for brains. Get on with it.’

Dex enjoyed insults, but only from friends. ‘So I’ve been holding his money, and that’s yours now, of course.’

‘Sounds good – but how and when do we get the rest?’

‘Everything’s organized.’ Dex went to high-five Spag as he sat in his buggy but got nothing in return. ‘This chap is going to transfer the cash into an EBT – employees’ beneficial trust – within three days. It’s the same vehicle those naughty bankers use to move their multi-million-dollar bonuses out of harm’s way. Everything’s good, everything’s legal. And that’s why we love you, isn’t it?’

Red Ken had taken his second shot and it wasn’t much better than his first. He hurled the club back into his bag. ‘Dex is right. It’s all legit, son. You’ll have no funny money to deal with. If you take it into the UK, they’re going to want to tax you – that’s how legal it is. How do you think I got my Merc? The system works.’

‘But where’s that money come from? Like the sirloin here just said, he’s a facilitator. He makes things happen. So who’s the Kobe beef – you know, the banker – coughing up a shed-load of cash just for us to be on the job? Haven’t you bothered to ask? Lads, what the fuck’s going on?’

Dex put his arm round Spag. ‘Our chubby little friend won’t tell us, and I, for one, do not care who our banker is. But this chap here, he knows that if our money isn’t in the EBTs within three days bad things will happen. Don’t you, old chap?’

Red Ken had recovered from his disappointment. ‘He knows we’ll find him.’

I was sure they would, but that didn’t help me know what I wanted to know.

Dex slapped Spag on the shoulder and headed for his buggy. I had expected Spag to do his nut by now, but he kept his cool as we all mounted up and headed for his ball. I even saw him smile a little as he drove.

Once the four buggies were parked up around the ball, Spag was back on the case. ‘Remember, the pilot will keep it on the ground for no more than thirty minutes. If you ain’t there, the deal’s off.’

‘Load of shite. You’ll stay there. Anyway, we’ve never missed an RV.’

My arse was getting sweaty on the PVC. ‘We carrying weapons?’

Spag almost jumped out of his skin. ‘What the fuck? No weapons!’

Dex pulled out a club for him, wanting to get on with the game. ‘He’s right, Nick. If we need them, we won’t be doing the job correctly.’

Red Ken agreed.

Dex handed Spag a club. ‘Here you go, Tiger. Let’s move on. Got another seventeen holes after this one.’

Spag’s shot flew straight and true towards the flag, just as a couple of grass-cutters, Indian lads with bits of cloth wound round their heads and necks against the sun, moved into view. ‘Hey, fore! Get out the fucking way! Jee-sus, these assholes!’

Red Ken shot out an arm and gripped him. ‘Wind your fucking neck in! These people sweat their guts out sixteen hours a day, six days a week – all for eight dollars a day. Dubai is being built by these slaves while all the fucking overweight local babies just whinge and whine.’

Spag pushed past to get to his buggy. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit. You don’t think the Mexicans are treated badly in New York City? And you Brits had slaves living in basements for hundreds of years.’ His tic had kicked off and the moustache started to twitch. ‘Fuck, Red, you people built entire cities on the proceeds of the slave trade, so don’t lecture me. Look at the positives. You have any idea what this country does for its own people?’

He started ticking off the benefits on his fingers. ‘ Free education up to PhD level. Free houses when they get married. Free health care. Even their phone calls are free. Everybody has a maid, a nanny, a driver – you name it, they’ve got it. They don’t even pay taxes. Shit, of course this is a fucking great place for Emiratis. Thirty years ago these people were living in tents, scratching around for water – and now look at the place.’

Red Ken’s face was purple. He took a pace and moved it right into the American’s. ‘It’s Disneyland.’ He pointed at the workers sheltering under some trees. ‘These fuckers’ passports are taken away when they arrive, and some of them don’t get paid for months. They’ve got families back in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, wherever the fuck they come from, starving while they wait for money that was promised but never arrives.

‘And do their embassies help them? They get jack shit from anyone. They can’t even go home because they’re in debt – they had to pay some greedy twat to get the job in the first place. And nobody wants to do anything about it because everybody’s making money. This place is shite, end of story.’

Spag shook his head so hard that sweat flew off it. ‘You self-righteous asshole. You just don’t get what this place is about, do you? Every Arab, Egyptian, Libyan, Iranian, whatever, they all grow up saying, “I want to go to Dubai.” This place is showing the rest of the Arabs how a modern Muslim country works.

‘They’ve got no fundamentalism here. On that basis alone, outsiders like you should shut the fuck up. You should be very worried if this model fails. It’ll end up being run by the fucking Taliban. That’s why the West turns a blind eye to how they treat their workers and all the other shit that happens here. So why don’t you just get on with your job then go back to wherever makes you happy? Or will you be down at the workers’ camps, handing out your share of the profits? I don’t think so.’

Dex had taken his shot and was leaning on his club. ‘Either calm down or go and get a room.’

Red Ken lit a Benson amp; Hedges and turned away.

Spag eased himself into his buggy and pointed the wheels back towards the Bedouin tent. ‘Fuck you.’ The electric motor kicked in and he drove off. ‘Just make sure you’re on time.’

Dex patted Red Ken on the shoulder with his club handle. ‘So when are you up for director of Liberty? That Shami Chakrabarti girl needs to watch out, eh? Can’t wait to see you on Question Time .’