Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

DUBAI

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

J IM H ALL TOLD THEtaxi driver that waited at the front door of the beachfront hotel to drive him to the Burj Dubai mall. He wanted to buy several pairs of comfortable gloves that would serve until he could have some hand-crafted to disguise his missing finger. The sharp pain of having it severed was only a memory, and he was already exercising as if the digit were still there. He settled back into the soft seat and let the strong air conditioner flow while he watched the passing landscape.

So this is what is going to happen to the entire Middle East when the black gold runs out. Dubai was the second largest of the seven sheikdoms in the United Arab Emirates, but most of its oil wealth was controlled in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the federation. That had compromised the funds needed to pay for Dubai’s grandiose desires, so the city-state had concentrated instead on becoming an international trade and financial center, with the underpinning of real estate development, most of it through companies owned by the government. When the global banking and real estate markets utterly collapsed in the first decade of the twenty-first century, little Dubai was left with billions and billions of dollars’ worth of debt. It had taken years just to stabilize the economy, and even today apartment buildings, office complexes, avenues of private homes, and resort hotels stood unfinished in the desert sun.

In addition, sticking up in the middle of the desolation like a toothpick in the dirt stood the world’s tallest tower, the Burj Dubai, 2,717 feet high. Somehow the billionaires and the state would not let the project fail, as if national survival were at stake. Soon enough, the one being built over in Saudi Arabia would make the Burj Dubai look small in comparison, but Hall did not care.

The taxi let him off at one of the many entrances to the supermall attached to the tower, and Hall spent a couple of pleasant hours wandering around the shops. He found some gloves, watched the skaters gliding along the improbable giant indoor ice rink, visited the aquarium, and then drifted into the tower itself, stopping in the lavish lobby to read the long list of tenants. The energy consulting firm of Baker Harris & Associates occupied the entire seventh floor. It was a CIA front company that posed as a legitimate business, analyzing myriad amounts of energy data and production for clients while also trolling for intelligence nuggets for the Agency. Standing in the lobby, he dialed the business number on his cellular phone.

“Baker Harris and Associates,” came the greeting in English, the universal language of business. “How may I help you?” The answer was bland, giving away nothing.

“Connect me with Margaret Dunston’s office, please.”

“One moment.” A pause, a click, and a ring.

“Margaret Dunston’s office. This is Malia. May I help you?”

“Hello, Malia. I’m Preston James, a reporter for the Wall Street Journal. We’re putting together a story on the Dubai recovery efforts, and I wonder if Ms. Dunston might be able to give me a few minutes right now for an interview. I understand it is inconvenient and short notice, but I just happen to be in the tower and another interview canceled. Could you ask, please?”

“Oh, Mr. James, I’m so sorry. She is just starting an important luncheon meeting, and the rest of the day is packed full. Her schedule is absolutely jammed. I know she will be sorry not to be interviewed for your story, so if you leave me your… Hello? Hello? ”

Jim Hall had hung up in her ear. All he had wanted was confirmation that covert CIA operative Maggie Dunston was in her office today. Which meant she would be returning home tonight. Where he would be waiting, just like in the old days.

A few hours later, in the sluggish dead heat of the afternoon, Hall strolled into her exclusive apartment building and directly to the elevator. The doorman gave him no more than a glance of attention because he looked vaguely familiar and walked as if he belonged in this exclusive enclave of foreigners. In the elevator, he punched twelve and got off on the exact floor of her apartment, making no attempt to cover his approach. He wanted people to remember this visit. Her door was the third on the right along the carpeted corridor and made of shining oak, not more secure metal. He knocked, not expecting an answer because he was sure Maggie still lived alone. He already had the key he had stolen two years ago in his hand, and it fit perfectly. A quick turn and the lock opened and he was inside, with the door closed and locked. Silent but for the hum of the central air-conditioning.

Margaret Dunston had been a project of his for years, starting when he was first assembling his plan of escaping the clutches of the CIA and getting rich. He had mentored her, courted and bedded her, made friends with her gray cat with the blue eyes, Sapphire, and stolen her apartment key.

The place was dim because she kept the blinds and curtains closed to deflect the heat. He peeked through the window coverings and once again saw the impressive view, beautiful if you liked flat land. The Burj Dubai Tower could not be seen from this angle. He let the drapes fall closed again. If she happened to glance up on the way home, they would seem undisturbed.

The furniture was expensive, and the apartment was well kept but not extremely neat. A big flat-screen television on a low black table dominated the main wall, and a built-in cabinet next to it contained a rack of home theater controls. A matched sofa and love seat combination faced it. Fashion magazines lay on a table, and there were plenty of CDs around, mostly light jazz. On the wall were a few pictures of her family back in California.

He found Sapphire sitting in the hallway to his right, head cocked, staring, tail twitching and curious. She seemed to recognize him, and as he went farther into the apartment, she followed and got her ears scratched. Hall turned down the air conditioner as low as it would go. Maggie used a spare bedroom as her office, and Hall went to her desk, sat down, called up the word processing program on her computer, and wrote his confession, printing it out on the laserjet printer and folding it neatly into an envelope, which he licked and sealed. Again, he did not care about leaving fingerprints or DNA samples. The more the better.

Then he went into the main bedroom. The queen-sized bed had not been made that morning, as if Maggie had been in a hurry. A few articles of clothing and a towel were in a pile outside the bathroom door. Jim Hall stripped off his own clothes and laid them neatly over a chair because this job was going to be messy. It was getting colder in the apartment by the time he adjusted the bedspread and settled in for a nap before she got home. Everything he needed was in the kitchen. Before he fell asleep, he felt Sapphire jump onto the bed and fold into a ball behind his knees, purring.

M AGGIE BREEZED IN THROUGHthe front door just a few minutes before eight, locked it, and stood still for a moment, shivering as the chill hit her. From his position beside the kitchen door, Jim Hall saw her plainly: medium height, with a good figure and a face constantly refreshed by makeup. Her hair was dark brown and cut long, swept back over her shoulders. Ah, Maggie, you’ve lost some weight, he thought. Good times.

Sapphire was on the couch, awake and still, the eyes locked on Maggie, who smiled when she saw the cat. “Hey, girl. Cold in here,” she said and walked straight over to the digital thermostat on the wall. She leaned close to read it, and Hall materialized silently behind her, swinging the twelve-inch cast-iron frying pan down hard. It slammed just above her ear, and he drove a shoulder into her spine, smashing her into the wall, breaking her nose on the stiff plastic housing of the thermostat. She collapsed with a whimpering moan, her head feeling like it was exploding.