Basim smiled and attempted to make light of it.
“Maybe if you had a chaperone I would feel better about it.”
You mean like a handsome American named Gary? Ramia kept that to herself. She didn’t want to give her cousin a heart attack. But he was asking for it.
“Don’t joke to me if you don’t want me to joke back to you,” she warned him. She then thought about his own dating possibilities. She had not seen her cousin with a lady friend since she arrived there months ago, and he had not introduced her to any.
“Basim, do you like any girls here?” Ramia asked her cousin tentatively.
With that, she got his undivided attention. Basim grilled her from behind the wheel and said, “Of course I like girls or women. What kind of question is that?”
Ramia smiled at his alarm. She said, “I just wanted to ask, because you have not introduced me to anyone or been out on a date since I’ve been here.”
“And nor have you,” he snapped at her absentmindedly. He said it mostly out of defensive irritation. But then he caught himself. “If I were to even allow it.”
Ramia frowned and said, “If you were to allow it? Really?” She was more amused than upset by his comment. Basim was showing her a strong hint of his social immaturity. She did not believe that her cousin knew how to act with a woman or at least not with any confidence. He seemed to be a workaholic who would marry late in life if at all.
“What do you think of the foreign women who enter your store to buy things? Are you attracted to any of them? What kind of girls do you like?”
Ramia quickly became fascinated by the subject, and she knew that it would irk him.
“I do not even think of such things. I like Muslim women, and I will marry when I am able to provide for a wife.”
“A wife? You have not even dated anyone.”
Basim continued to frown. “Dating is not as important as preparation. You can date a woman all you want, but if you are not prepared to offer her a home, a family and safety, then what is the point?”
“Love, romance, surprise,” Ramia answered in order. She had been preparing herself for a relationship conversation with her cousin for weeks. She believed that she needed to express it to him sooner or later, because she was not a virgin and she did not plan to allow him to treat her as such.
Basim shook his head and mocked her. “You have been following too much of Western society. And with your concept of love, romance and surprises, without proper discipline and preparation under the laws of Allah, you are sure to have cheating, heartbreak and then divorce.”
He continued, “Have you followed those trends from Western society?” Basim knew the divorce numbers well. He had studied them to convince himself that the Muslim way of courtship and marriage was correct and much more stable.
“Well, at least it would be more unpredictable and fun,” Ramia countered.
“Unpredictably bad,” her cousin argued. “And then the fun would run out.”
Despite their difference in age of seven years, Basim’s average stature, his studious looks and his clean baby face made him look not much older than she did. Ramia suspected many women could easily view her cousin as too young to take seriously.
“Do you get overlooked by women?” she asked him, almost teasingly. She was not bothered by his traditional Muslim views at all, she just knew that she felt differently.
Basim faced his cousin. “Why are you so curious about my social life? What is this?”
“You are my cousin, and I am only concerned about you. I love you, and I do not want to see you so lonely and overworked.”
Basim held his composure and took a deep breath at the wheel. They were nearing the downtown area and the International Suites, and he was anxious to drop her off. “Why, do you have someone in mind you would like for me to meet?” he finally challenged her.
That stunned Ramia, but she was up for the challenge.
“I could find one for you, easily. But she may not be Muslim. She could be Taiwanese.” She had just the woman in mind who was very attractive and pleasant enough to date an inexperienced man, and Ramia was almost certain that Basim had not had much experience with women. He was far too rigid to let himself go.
Basim nodded and pulled into the loading and valet area at the front of the International Suites. It was a twenty-seven floor building of brown-tinted glass, and he was suddenly happy to get rid of his probing cousin.
“Now make sure to call me whenever you head to a new destination.”
“You mean like, when I leave the mall to have a dinner with a hot German man?” Ramia teased him.
Her cousin was stunned and speechless. He looked as if he would turn into stone any second.
Ramia felt sorry for him. She smacked his arm. “I was only joking.” But Basim remained frozen.
“Are you trying to ruin my day at work?”
By the time Ramia climbed out of her cousin’s car, she was more irritated than sympathetic. Her cousin was being overbearing, and it was no longer sweet. However, her teasing him had not helped the matter.
I will not allow him to make me feel guilty about becoming a woman, she told herself as she marched toward the rotating doors.
Inside the car, Basim continued to watch her, hypnotized, as if wondering if he should allow her to walk alone, until finally, he acquiesced.
“I must leave her safety in the hands of Allah and wish her well today,” he mumbled to himself. Nevertheless, when he drove off, he thought to himself, She better call me!
Chapter 22
Ramia walked into the International Suites, past the eyes of the United Arab Emirates police at the front of the lobby, and headed over to the information desk.
“What times does management review applications today?”
The Indian woman wearing an all-black hotel-staff uniform paused. She sat behind the counter of the information desk in peace, but Ramia’s question stumped her.
“Review applications?”
“Yes, I handed in an application earlier this week to work here, and I wanted to see if I could get an interview.” She was being very polite but was also assertive in her desire to get a job.
“I see,” the Indian woman responded. “Let me check with management.”
The middle-aged woman was secretly impressed, and she saw no reason why the hotel management would not hire such a beautiful young woman.
“Yes, I have …” She looked up at Ramia to get her name.
“Ramia Farah Aziz,” she added with a radiant smile. The Indian woman repeated her name and made her own pitch, “. and she is very prepared for an interview.”
Then she listened while Ramia waited.
“Okay … Okay … Okay …”
As soon as she tells me something good or bad, I can get ready to head over to the Hilton, Ramia told herself. She remained excited about the prospect of meeting the handsome American man again, if she could be that lucky.
Finally, the woman smiled and nodded. She hung up the phone and said, “The manager pulled your application and said he can speak to you later on today if you are still available around one o’clock.”
Ramia couldn’t believe it. She was using her job quest that morning as an alibi to see if she could find the sexy American. But she had hit pay dirt, or at least a face-to-face to score another job.
“Oh my, thank you. Thank you,” she repeated. Her excitement was genuine.
The older woman asked her, “What position are you applying for?”
Ramia pointed and answered, “Registration.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
As the two excited women made small talk at the information desk, a security guard for the next shift, who was dressed in a black security uniform, walked briskly past them on his way to the basement camera room. The Arab man was right on time for work and walked with a happy bounce in his step. He reached the heavy exit door to the basement and entered the stairwell with no idea what he was walki
ng into.
As soon as he stepped out of the stairwell and turned right toward the camera room, the butt of an assault weapon crashed down on the back of his head.
The security man stumbled forward and fell face down to the floor, knocked out cold.
“That was a good hit, Akil,” one of the invading soldiers told the other. They had both been stationed strategically behind the door, waiting for the security guard.
The two men grabbed up the fallen guard and quickly carried him away to tie him up and lock him with the other security men and hotel staff.
Inside the surveillance room, the assailants continued to watch everything inside the hotel, including Ramia at the information desk.
“She is a beautiful girl,” one of the eager men commented.
“Yes, I wish Heru would allow us to lock up all the doors now instead of later.”
The men laughed, all impressed with the attractive, young Jordanian.
“Nooo, she’s leaving,” the first man whined.
“Habib, I’m sure there will be other attractive women inside the hotel, including Americans and Australians.”
“Americans and Australians?” the man named Habib protested distastefully. “I am much more interested in Spanish and Brazilians.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” another one of the men agreed with him. They continued to watch the many cameras inside the room as their militia of men continued to make it to their stations around the hotel.
But as the men continued to tease and joke about the many foreign guests inside the International Suites, none of them noticed that their leader had appeared inside the room with them.
“Do you all believe this is a joke?” Heru asked his men sternly.
They turned and were startled by his sudden presence.
“No, no,” Habib answered nervously for them all.
They eyed Heru’s lethal blade in the holder at his side and understood how dangerous he was, even while they all held guns.
“In a few more hours you will see how serious we are.”
The men did not deny it. They had all signed up to help carry out the plans, and they knew that some of them might lose their lives for it. But it was the chance they all took to make a historic stand in the tourist haven of Dubai.
Heru monitored the surveillance system to check particularly for the UAE police who guarded the front door and lobby area. He had no idea that his men were already inside the hotel.
Any minute now, and we will make our move, he told himself. And the police have no idea that we are right under their noses.
*****
Across town in the area of Jebel Ali, Mohd finally received the call on his cell phone that he been waiting for all morning. But he did not recognize the number on his screen.
“Hello,” he answered tentatively. He remained upstairs at the warehouse in his private office.
“I’m calling for Mohd Ahmed Nasir,” the gruff voice of Saleem thundered from the line.
“Saleem,” Mohd responded, “this is Mohd.”
“I was told to call you,” Saleem said, cutting to the chase.
“And I am glad you have. Have you settled in downtown with the money you were given?”
“Yes, I have. And thank you.”
“Good, good. Well, I have a very important mission for you. I know you are an excellent military man and highly intelligent. And I need for you to follow your longing for justice.”
There was a silent pause over the line.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, I am here,” Saleem answered.
“I am making sure, because there is not a lot of time,” Mohd commented. “In a life of justice, one must execute swiftly, even against our own when what we choose to do is wrong. Do you understand me?”
“Who is it who has chosen wrong?” Saleem asked.
The question forced a pause from Mohd. He admitted, “It is my only son, Ra-Heru Nasir. He has chosen a mission that has severely troubled me. And I am now too old and too deficient of zeal to deny him. But I cannot deny the pain that he felt in losing his mother when I could not be there for them.”
Mohd told Saleem all about the struggle he had years ago with the young Emirati developer Abdul Khalif Hassan and how it had caused an unforgiving vendetta, not so much from the father, but from the son.
“Initially, Heru’s pain was misdirected, causing him to stray into negligence and anti-social behavior. Then he began to blame me for what he considered a lack of vengeance, until finally, he was able to inspire a following of like-minded men on a mission here in Dubai.”
“May I ask what it is?” Saleem questioned him respectfully.
“Yes, you must ask. You and several other men are my only allies. And it is the International Suites hotel downtown. They are now in position to take hostages. How far are you away from it?”
“I am not far from it at all.”
“Good. Now I must tell you. My son is one of the best in paramilitary combat training. He has learned from instructors in Egypt, Britain and Russia. So he is a very dangerous man, and I would not hold it against you if you were to decide to walk away. But as I now reach out to those who I believe can foil his plans, we must all have courage in times of need to overcome the greatest of our fears.”
There was another long pause over the phone as Mohd waited patiently for a response.
Finally, Saleem answered, “I know what it means to lose loved ones in the constant war of life. But to bring that war against innocent people in our individual designs for vengeance is cowardice. Forgive me for my honesty.”
Mohd nodded with the phone to his ear. “You are forgiven.” Then he added, “It is also cowardice to love your son more than you hate his injustice.”
“Well then,” Saleem responded, “there are a billion cowards all around the world. A father’s love for an only son is natural. But yet, you have now allowed yourself an option to correct the deficiencies of the heart.”
“Indeed, I have,” Mohd uttered. “May Allah be with you to day.”
As Mohd ended the call, one of the several men who remained at the warehouse to protect him quickly turned away from the top of the stairs to the office. It was as if he was confused about coming or going.
Mohd caught him and immediately suspected that the man had eavesdropped. But he was not concerned. He had one of his best protectors there with him. And when the time was right, they planned to dispose of the other man.
*****
When Saleem hung up his cell phone at an inexpensive downtown hotel, he had all of his answers.
So the Egyptian son has used the father to rally sympathy and support from groups of angry and impressionable immigrants, who now seek revenge against the Emirati developer, he told himself. This same Egyptian son was a professional murderer, killing several men in Dubai an evening ago. And now his plan is to take over the International Suites hotel of Abdul Khalif Hassan.
Saleem had to contemplate it all as he paced through his hotel room while looking out at the downtown skyline. It was a view that he had never been able to afford. And since he despised the practices of the Emirati developers, he was conflicted. Although he would never go as far as to take a hotel full of foreign tourists and families hostage to make his point, he acknowledged that the tactic was indeed a radical one.
“If he pulls this off, he will go down in history as one of the biggest terrorists in the world,” he mumbled to himself.
But it seemed almost inhumane to terrorize a tourist hotel in Dubai, a city of peace and grandeur.
“But grandeur for who, only the rich?” Saleem grumbled. The poor can only stare at it, he told himself.
Nevertheless, he considered it an atrocity to involve innocent tourists in the gripes of immigrant workers with the Emirati developers.
“There has to be another way to settle this.” He stopped and spoke toward the window. “But first I must stop Mohd’s son from his insanity.”
He took a deep breath and th
ought about his preparations.
They will have guns and access to all of the surveillance cameras, I am sure. But most of the men will not be as good with their weapons or with combat as Heru, so I can pick them off one by one. However, the cameras will expose me. So I will need to take the cameras out as I go along. I can buy a box of dark trash bags and tape to do just the trick.
But his real challenge was Heru himself.
Saleem started to pace the room again, imagining their battle, and it excited him.
What if I were to wear Mohd’s son’s blood around me like cologne when I greet him again? How would he be able to take that? Then again, what if Heru was to wear my blood? I guess now we will see.
Chapter 23
By the time Gary had showered and gotten himself ready for breakfast that morning, he was far too energized and curious to stay put for room service. Why travel halfway around the world just to eat inside of a small hotel room? So he decided to get dressed for the dining room buffet that was being served downstairs.
I’m in Dubai. Socialize, he told himself as he left out of his room. Gary rode the elevator down into the lobby with the other guests, wearing a tan button-up, short-sleeved shirt, while the tourists all discussed where they were from, how long they had been there, and what they had all experienced so far. And there were fewer children at the Hilton than he imagined; it had more business travelers and older couples.
At the buffet downstairs, the food options were plentiful, including the normal serving of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, potatoes, Belgian waffles, French toast, yogurt, bagels, fruit and pastries that any American would be used to, including orange juice, cranberry juice, apple juice, low-fat milk, tea and coffee. On the side, they had chefs cooking personal omelets.
Wow, this is just like home, Gary thought as he grabbed a large white plate to collect what he knew. He hadn’t eaten yet at the breakfast buffet since he arrived in Dubai on Thursday, but on a Saturday it looked like the thing to do. Everyone was there to eat, the lines long. He found a lone, small table in the corner of the room to people watch.
Different cultures of people but the same ritual of humans eating, meeting and greeting at breakfast, Gary told himself in his chair, watching.